The innkeeper laughed gaily and deprecatingly, as if between persons
of their station business was a word only to be mentioned as a sort
of jest.

"I am the owner of a small property in the island--over in that
direction--towards Soller. It is held on the 'rotas' system by a
good farmer, who has frequently come to see me where I live at
Monistrol, near Barcelona. He has often begged me to come to
Majorca to see the property, and now I have come. I am staying a
few days at Palma."

"Farming is good in Majorca," said the man, shrewdly. "You should
receive a large sum for your share of the harvest. I, too, shall
buy land presently when I see my chance, for I have the money. Ah,
yes: I was not always an innkeeper!"

He sipped his coffee pensively.

"That reminds me again of my friend," he said, after a pause. "Why
do I think of him this afternoon? It is a strange story; shall I
tell it?"

"I shall be glad to hear it," replied Miss Cheyne, in her energetic
way. She was stirring her coffee slowly and thoughtfully.

"I knew him in his own country--in America; and then in Cuba--"

Miss Cheyne ceased stirring her coffee suddenly, as if she had come
against some object in the cup. A keen observer might have guessed
that she had become interested at that moment in this idle tale.