here, and my fear of outstaying a most courteous welcome?"

"I understand," said the doctor, and departed.

At four o'clock Whittaker had packed his portmanteau. He took up
his position at the window and waited. Before long he heard the
sound of a horse's feet. Miss Cheyne's visitor presently appeared,
and swung off his hat with the usual deferential pride. The horse
was led away. The usual murmured conversation followed. Whittaker
rose and walked to the door. He paused on the threshold, and looked
slowly round the room as if conscious then that the moment was to be
one of the indelible memories of his life.

On the stairs he needed the support of the balustrade. When he
reached the verandah his face was colourless, with shining eyes.
Miss Cheyne was sitting with her back turned towards him, but her
companion saw him at once and rose to his feet, lifting his hat with
a politely inquiring air. From long habit acquired among a
naturally polite people, Whittaker returned the salutation.

"You do not recognise me, Senor?" he said, in English.

And the other shook his head, still polite and rather surprised.

"I was known in Cuba by the name of Mateo."

The Spaniard's handsome, sunburnt face slowly turned to the colour
of ashes. His eyes looked into Whittaker's, not in anger, but with
a pathetic mingling of reproach and despair.