Captain Bontnor was engaged one day in the study of an author called Dickens, to whose works he had not yet found time to devote his full attention, when a strange footstep on the pavement made him look up. It certainly was not Standon’s halting gait, and a lack of iron nail certified to the fact that it was no Somarsh man. The captain looked over his spectacles and saw Cipriani de Lloseta studying the numbers on the doors as he came down the quiet little street.
The sight gave the old sailor rather a shock. He abandoned the study of Mr. Dickens and took off his spectacles. Then he scratched his head--always an ominous sign. His first instinct was to go and open the door; then he remembered that the new-comer was a nobleman who lived in a palace, and that he himself was indirectly a gentleman, inasmuch as he lived in the same house as a lady--his niece. So he sat still and allowed the landlady to open the door.
When Cipriani de Lloseta was ushered into the tiny room he found the captain half-bowing on the hearthrug.
“Captain Bontnor,” he said, with all the charm of manner which was his, “this is a pleasure.”
The captain shook hands, and with the rough hospitality of the cabin drew forward his own armchair, which the Count took at once.
“When last we met,” he said, “I had the privilege of receiving you at my house in Barcelona--a poor dark place in a narrow street. Now here you have a sea-view.”
“But this is not my house,” said Captain Bontnor, feeling unaccountably at ease with this nobleman. “Malabar Cottage is farther up the hill. I’ve got all my bits of things up there.”
“Indeed. It would have given me pleasure to see them. I learnt from a mutual--friend, Mrs. Harrington, of your change of address.”
Captain Bontnor looked at him keenly; and who shall say that the rough old man did not appreciate the refined tact of his visitor?
“I’ve had losses,” he said.