Part 22 (1/2)

Fitz paused. The Count had been kind to Eve. Fitz had noticed his manner towards the girl. He liked Cipriani de Lloseta--as many did- -without knowing why.

”Thanks,” he said, ”I should like to.”

The Count's club was a small and a very select one. It was a club with a literary tendency. The porter who took charge of their coats had the air of a person who read the heavier monthly reviews. He looked upon Fitz, as a man of outdoor tastes, with some misgiving.

The Count led the way up to the luxurious silent smoking-room, where a few foreign novels and a host of newspapers littered the tables.

As they entered the room a man looked up from his paper with some interest. He was a peculiar-looking man, with a keen face, streaked by suffering--a face that was always ready to wince. This man was a humorist, but he looked as if his own life had been a tragedy. He continued to look at De Lloseta and Fitz with a quiet scrutiny which was somewhat remarkable. It suggested the scrutiny of a woman who is taking notes of another's dress.

More particularly perhaps he watched the Count, and the keen eyes had a reflective look, as if they were handing that which they saw, back to the brain behind them for purpose of storage.

The Count met his eyes and nodded gravely. With a little nod and a sudden pleasant smile the other returned to the perusal of his evening paper.

Cipriani de Lloseta drew forward a deep chair, and with a courteous gesture invited Fitz to be seated. He took a similar chair himself, and then leant forward, cigar-case in hand.

”You know Mallorca,” he said.

Fitz took a cigar.

”Yes,” he answered, turning and looking into the Count's face with a certain honest interest. He was thinking of what Eve had said about this man. ”Yes--I know Mallorca.”

The Count struck a match and lighted his cigar with the air of a connoisseur.

”I am always glad,” he said conversationally, ”to meet any one who knows Mallorca. It--was my home. Perhaps you knew?”

And through the blue smoke the quick dark eyes flashed a glance.

”I saw your name--on the map,” returned Fitz.

The Count gave a little Spanish deprecatory nod and wave of the hand, indicating that it was no fault of his that an historical name should have attached itself to him.

”Do you take whisky--and soda?” inquired the Count.

”Thanks.”

De Lloseta called the waiter and gave the order with a slight touch of imperiousness which was one of the few attributes that stamped him as a Spaniard. The feudal taint was still running in his veins.

”Tell me,” he went on, turning to Fitz again, ”what you know of the island--what parts of it--and what you did there.”

In some ways Fitz was rather a simple person.

”Oh!” he answered unconsciously. ”I went to D'Erraha mostly. I used to sail across from Ciudadela to Soller--along the coast, you know.”

”And from Soller?”

”From Soller I rode by the Valdemosa road, and then across the mountain and through that narrow valley up to the Val d'Erraha.”

The Count was smoking thoughtfully.

”And you were happy there?” he said.

Fitz looked pensively into his long tumbler.