aside all ceremony. "What are you hammering that unfortunate boy for? Can't you find a man your own size to hammer?"
The Italian flung a fierce glance over his shoulder at his crouching victim. "He is worthless!" he declared. "I give him a trial—bueno, but he is worthless. Milord will pardon me, he is—English. And the English are—no good for work—no good at all."
"Oh, rotten to the core!" agreed Saltash, with a humorous lift of the brows. "But you needn't murder him for that, Antonio. It's his misfortune—not his fault."
"Milord, I have not murdered him," the manager protested with nervous vehemence. "I have only punished him. I have not hurt him. I have done him good."
"Oh!" said Saltash, and looked down at the small, trembling figure in the corner. "It's medicine, is it? But a bit strong for a child of that size. I should try a milder dose next time."
Antonio laughed harshly. "The next time, milord, I shall take him—so—and wring his neck!" His laugh became a snarl as he turned. "Get up now, you—you son of a pig, and go back to your work!"
"Easy! Easy!" said Saltash, with a smile. "We don't talk to the English like that, Antonio—not even the smallest and weakest of them. Let's have a look at this specimen—with your permission!" He bent over the huddled figure. "Hold up your head, boy! Let me see you!"
There was no movement to obey, and he laid a hand upon the quivering shoulder and felt it shrink away convulsively.
"I believe you've damaged him," he said, bending lower. "Here, Tommy!
Hold up your head! Don't be afraid! It's a friend."
But the narrow figure only sank down a little lower under his hand.
"His name is Toby," said Antonio with acidity. "A dog's name, milord, and it fits him well. He is what you would call a lazy hound."
Saltash paid not the slightest attention to him. He was bending low, his dark face in shadow.
"Don't be afraid!" he said again. "No one is going to hurt you. Come along! Let's look at you!"
His hold tightened upon the shrinking form. He began to lift it up.
And then suddenly there came a sharp struggle between his hands as lacking in science as the fight of a wild animal for freedom, and as effectual. With a gasping effort the boy wrenched himself free and was gone. He went like a streak of lightning, and the two men were left facing one another.
"What a slippery little devil!" commented Saltash.
"Yes," said Antonio vindictively, "a devil indeed, milord! And I will have no more of him. I will have no more. I hope he will starve!"
"How awfully nice of you, Antonio!" said Saltash lightly. "Being the end of the season, he probably will."
Antonio smacked his red lips with relish. "Ah, probably! Probably!" he said.
CHAPTER II
ADIEU
It was growing late and the fête was in full swing when Saltash sauntered down again under the cypress-trees to the water's edge. The sea was breaking with a murmurous splashing; it was a night for dreams.
In the flower-decked bandstand an orchestra of stringed instruments was playing very softly—fairy-music that seemed to fill the world with magic to the brim. It was like a drug to the senses, alluring, intoxicating, maddeningly sweet.
Saltash wandered along with his face to the water on which a myriad coloured lights rocked and swam. And still his features wore that monkeyish look of unrest, of discontent and quizzical irony oddly mingled. He felt the lure, but it was not strong enough. Its influence had lost its potency.
He need not have been alone. He had left the hotel with friends, but he had drifted away from them in the crowd. One of them—a girl—had sought somewhat palpably to keep him near her, and he had responded with some show of ardour for a time, and then something about her had struck a note of discord within him and the glamour had faded.
"Little fool!" he murmured to himself. "She'd give me her heart to break if I'd have it."
And then he laughed in sheer ridicule of his own jaded senses. He recognized the indifference of satiety. An easy conquest no longer attracted him.
He began to stroll towards the quay, loitering here and there as if to give to Fates a chance to keep him if they would. Yes, Sheila Melrose was a little idiot. Why couldn't she realize that she was but one of the hundreds with whom he flirted day by day? She was nothing to him but a pastime—a toy to amuse his wayward mood. He had outgrown his earlier propensity to break his toys when he had done with them. The sight of a broken toy revolted him now.
He was impatiently aware that the girl was watching him from the midst of the shifting crowd. What did she expect, he asked himself irritably? She knew him. She knew his reputation. Did she imagine herself the sort of woman to hold a man of his stamp for more than the passing moment? Save for his title and estates, was he worth the holding?
A group of laughing Italian girls with kerchiefs on their heads surrounded him suddenly and he became the centre of a shower—a storm—of confetti. His mood changed in a second. He would show her what to expect! Without an instant's pause he turned upon his assailants, caught the one nearest to him, snatching her off her feet; and, gripping her without mercy, he kissed her fierily and shamelessly till she gasped with delicious fright; then dropped her and seized another.
The girls of Valrosa spoke of the ugly Englishman with bated breath and shining eyes long after Saltash had gone his unheeding way, for the blood was hot in his veins before the game was over. If the magic had been slow to work, its spell was all the more compelling when it gripped him. Characteristically, he tossed aside all considerations beyond the gratification of the moment's desire. The sinking fire of youth blazed up afresh. He would get the utmost out of this last night of revelry. Wherever he went, a spirit of wild daring, of fevered gaiety, surrounded him. He was no longer alone, whichever way he turned. Once in his mad progress he met Sheila Melrose face to face, and she drew back from him in open disgust. He laughed at her maliciously, mockingly, as his royal forefather might have laughed long ago, and passed on with the throng.
Hours later, when the fête was over and the shore quite silent under the stars, he came alone along the quay, moving with his own peculiar arrogance of bearing, a cigarette between his lips, a deep gleam in his eyes. It had been an amusing night after all.
Crossing the gangway to his yacht—The Night Moth—that rocked softly on the glimmering ripples, he paused for a moment and turned his face as if in farewell towards the little town that lay sleeping among its cypress-trees. So standing, he heard again the tinkle of a lute from some hidden garden of delight. It was as if the magic were still calling to him, luring him, reaching out white arms to hold him. He made a brief bow towards the sound.
"Adieu, most exquisite and most wicked!" he said. "I return—no more!"
The cigarette fell from his lips into the dark water and there came a faint sound like the hiss of a serpent in the stillness.
