had undertaken to provide that Count
Samoval's visits to Monsanto should be discontinued. About this task
he had gone with all the tact of which he had boasted himself master to
Colquhoun Grant. You shall judge of the tact for yourself. No sooner had
the colonel left for Lisbon, and Carruthers to return to his work, than,
finding himself alone with the Count, Sir Terence considered the moment
a choice one in which to broach the matter.

"I take it ye're fond of walking, Count," had been his singular opening
move. They had left the table by now, and were sauntering together on
the terrace.

"Walking?" said Samoval. "I detest it."

"And is that so? Well, well! Of course it's not so very far from your
place at Bispo."

"Not more than half-a-league, I should say."

"Just so," said O'Moy. "Half-a-league there, and half-a-league back: a
league. It's nothing at all, of course; yet for a gentleman who detests
walking it's a devilish long tramp for nothing."

"For nothing?" Samoval checked and looked at his host in faint surprise.
Then he smiled very affably. "But you must not say that, Sir Terence. I
assure you that the pleasure of seeing yourself and Lady O'Moy cannot be
spoken of as nothing."

"You are very good." Sir Terence was the very quintessence of
courtliness, of concern for the other. "But if there were not that
pleasure?"

"Then, of course, it would be different." Samoval was beginning to be
slightly intrigued.

"That's it," said Sir Terence. "That's just what I'm meaning."

"Just what you're meaning? But, my dear General, you are assuming
circumstances which fortunately do not exist."

"Not at present, perhaps. But they might."

Again Samoval stood still and looked at O'Moy. He found something in the
bronzed, rugged face that was unusually sardonic. The blue eyes seemed
to have become hard, and yet there were wrinkles about their corners
suggestive of humour that might be mockery. The Count stiffened; but
beyond that he preserved his outward calm whilst confessing that he did
not understand Sir Terence's meaning.

"It's this way," said Sir Terence. "I've noticed that ye're not looking
so very well lately, Count."

"Really? You think that?" The words were mechanical. The dark eyes
continued to scrutinise that bronzed face suspiciously.

"I do, and it's sorry I am to see it. But I know what it is. It's this
walking backwards and forwards between here and Bispo that's doing the
mischief. Better give