It was twenty-five minutes past eight when he concluded his leisurely
toilet; so he stepped out of his room, passed round two sides of the
porched patio, and entered the dining-room. The long dining-table, hewed
by hand from fir logs by the first of the Noriagas, had its rough defects
of manufacture mercifully hidden by a snow-white cloth, and he noted with
satisfaction that places had been set for five persons. He hung his hat
on a wall-peg and waited with his glance on the door.

Promptly at eight-thirty, Carolina, smiling, happy, resplendent in a
clean starched calico dress of variegated colors, stepped outside the
door and rang vigorously a dinner-bell that had called three generations
of Noriagas and an equal number of generations of Farrels to their meals.
As its musical notes echoed through the dewy patio, Murray, the butler,
appeared from the kitchen. At sight of Farrel, he halted, puzzled, but
recognized in him almost instantly the soldier who had so mysteriously
appeared at the house the night before. _El Mono_ was red of face and
obviously controlling with difficulty a cosmic cataclysm.

"Sir," he announced, respectfully, "that Indian of yours has announced
that he will shoot me if I attempt to serve breakfast."

Farrel grinned wanly.

"In that event, Murray," he replied, "if I were you, I should not attempt
to serve breakfast. You might be interested to know that I am now master
here and that, for the present, my own servants will minister to the
appetites of my guests. Thank you for your desire to serve, but, for the
present, you will not be needed here. If you will kindly step into the
kitchen, Carolina will later serve breakfast to you and the maids."