Jordan got up, descended the steps, swung away down the street and quickly vanished around a corner.
The scenery was all new and strange to Matt, and he allowed his eyes to wander up and down the street. The houses were white bungalows, some of them surrounded by high white fences, and with tufted palms nodding over their roofs.
Negro women passed by with baskets on their heads, dark-skinned laborers in bell-crowned straw hats slouched up and down, and a group of tawny soldiers from a West India regiment, wearing smart Zouave uniforms and turbans, jogged past.
As soon as Matt had exhausted the sights in his immediate vicinity, he lay back in the chair and gave his thoughts to the captain.
He had always liked Nemo, Jr. The captain had been a good friend to Motor Matt and his chums, and the young motorist hoped in his heart that his present illness would not take a serious turn.
While Matt was turning the subject over in his mind, two men came along the walk and started for the steps leading to the veranda of the consulate.
Matt, suddenly lifting his eyes, was surprised to note that one of the men was Cassidy. The other was a white, sandy-whiskered individual in a dingy blue coat and cap and much-worn dungaree trousers.
Both were plainly under the influence of liquor. They came unsteadily up the steps and Cassidy made a bee-line for Matt.
Cassidy's weather-beaten face was flushed and there was an angry, unreasoning light in his eyes.
"I'm next to you, Matt King," growled the mate, posting himself in front of the youth and clinching his big fists. "You've pulled the wool over the old man's eyes in great shape, but you can't fool me!"