Monkhouse winked his red lashless lids, and meditated the while, as he pressed the juice of an orange into the third of a cup of white rum, and stirred in a handful of soggy brown sugar.
"Hark to you, boy—come closer," he whispered presently. "Nothin' that sails in these par-rts can scrape the paint of the Savonarola. At the same time, you can do nothin' by stayin' ashore. What's the puzzle? 'Tis this, lad: you must get one of thim gasolin' launches that move like the divil and smell like the sleepin' sickness! You can get one at the Leeward Isles betchune here an' sun-down…. Listen now, come back in good time, standin' on your own deck, with old Monkhouse for a mate, and three or four clane-eyed American boys lookin' for adventures—an' hang out at sea waitin' for the Savonarola. God save the day whin he comes! We'll meet him on the honest seaboard in the natural way, where he can't spring the tricks of The Pleiad, nor use the slather of yellow naygurs that live off the cold sweat of him——"
Hereupon Monkhouse drained his already empty cup, the sign that another sirocco was sweeping his throat. His mind wandered until it was brought: "Many a man's soul has filtered up through salt-water off these shores, lad, because he talked less of his memories than his troubles—but you won't betray me, boy!… My Gawd, lad, to have C'lestin' in the hold under 'me feet—as he wanst had me—but let that pass—or lyin' deeper still under the Savonarola with the fishes tuggin' at his carcass. Ah, 'tis deep fathims under the Savonarola, me lad——"
Bedient had not been listening for a moment. A carometa was moving slowly toward him, down the Calle Real, and he fancied the flutter of a handkerchief from its side window. It was nearly noon. The dazzle of sunlight upon the glass of the carometa was in his eyes, so he could not see the face within, but a slim hand signaled again. The vehicle approached with torturing slowness until the dazzle nickered out and he hurried forward to greet Miss Mallory, whose face blanched at the sight of him.
"You look as if you would fall!" she whispered. "But I'm so glad to see you again——"
"I was just going to say it…. It's been dull—and I haven't done——"
He opened the door of the carometa.
"Quickly, they're watching from your house," she managed to say between commonplaces, "pick up that crumpled letter at my foot!… But it won't do for you to follow the suggestion in it—you're not able!"
"If there's anything to do, I'm able," he declared, tucking the paper into the hollow of his hand.
"We miss you at The Pleiad," she said with her usual animation. "I wish I had time for a good talk now, but I'm actually rushed to-day. I'll see you again, though——"
Bedient sauntered back smiling, and sat down with Monkhouse for a little space. The eyes he saw were large, red-rimmed and troubled; tales and conspiracies flagged miserably. Bedient chaffed him for having become incoherent, and left shortly for his own room, where he pressed out two of the thinnest possible sheets of paper, closely written on both sides, and made them his own to the least detail: