The Count swore softly in Spanish.

"I am sorry for that," he said aloud. "I am superst.i.tious. I have a theory that Mrs. Harrington's money is apt to be a curse to those upon whom it is bestowed."

"Mrs. Harrington's no friend of mine," said Captain Bontnor; and De Lloseta, who was looking out of the window, smiled somewhat grimly.

"Perhaps," he said after a little pause, "perhaps you will allow me to claim the privilege which you deny to her?"

"Yes," answered Captain Bontnor awkwardly; "yes, if you care to."

"Thanks. I see Miss Challoner--Eve--coming. I count on your a.s.sistance."

Eve paused on the threshold in astonishment at the sight of the Count de Lloseta and her uncle in grave discourse over a gla.s.s of sherry.

"You!" she said. "You here!"

And he wondered why she suddenly lost colour.

"I," he answered, "I--here to pay my respects."

Eve gave a little gasp of relief. For a moment she was off her guard--with a dangerous man watching her.

"I thought you had bad news," she said.

And Cipriani de Lloseta knew that this was a woman whose heart was at sea.

"No," he answered; "I merely came to quarrel."

He drew forward a chair, and Eve sat down.

"We shall always quarrel," he went on, "unless you are kind. Let us begin at once and get it over, because I want to stay to lunch.

Will you reconsider your decision with respect to the Val d'Erraha?"

Eve shook her head and looked at her uncle.

"No," she answered; "I cannot do that. Not now."

"Some day?" he suggested.

"Not now," repeated the girl; and, looking up, her face suddenly became grave, as if reflecting the expression in the dark Spanish eyes bent upon her.

"You are cruel!" he said.

"I am young--"

"Is it not the same thing?"

"And I can work," added Eve.

"Yes," he said. "But in my old-fashioned way I am prejudiced against a lady working. In the days of women's rights ladies are apt to forget the charm of white hands."

Eve made no answer.

"Then it is not peace?"

"No," she answered, with a smile; "not yet."

She was standing beside Captain Bontnor, with her hand on his shoulder.

"Uncle and I," she added, "are not beaten yet."

Cipriani de Lloseta smiled darkly.

"Will you promise me one thing," he said; "that when you are beaten you will come to me before you go to any one else?"

"Yes," answered Eve, "I think we can promise that."

CHAPTER III. BAFFLED.

He conquers who awaits the end.

Fortune fixed her wayward fancy on the first sketch that Eve contributed to the Commentator. Wayward, indeed, for Eve herself knew that it was not good, and in the lettered quiet of the editorial sanctum John Craik smiled querulously to himself. John Craik had a supreme contempt for the public taste, but he knew exactly what it wanted. He was like a chef smiling over his made dishes. He did not care for the flavour himself, but his palate was subtle enough to detect the sweet or bitter that tickled his master's tongue. He served the public faithfully, with a twisted, cynic smile behind his spectacles--for John Craik had a family to feed. He knew that Eve's work was only partially good--true woman's work that might cease to flow at any moment. But he detected the undeniable originality of it, and the public palate likes a novel flavour.

So deeply versed was he in worldly knowledge, so thoroughly had he gauged the critic, the journalist, and the public, that before he unfolded a newspaper he could usually foresee the length, the nature, and the literary merit of the criticism. He knew that the tendency of the age is to acquire as much knowledge as possible in a short time. He looked upon the world as a huge kindergarten, and the Commentator as its school-book. It was good that the world's knowledge of its own geography should be extended, but the world must not be allowed to detect the authority of the usher's voice.

There are a lot of people who, like women at a remnant sale, go about the paths of literature picking up sc.r.a.ps which do not match, and never can be of the slightest use. It was John Craik's business to set out his remnant counter to catch these wandering gleaners, and Eve sent him her wares by a lucky chance at the moment when he wanted them.

The editor of the Commentator was sitting in his deep chair before the fire one morning about eleven o'clock, when the clerk, whose business it was to tell glib lies about his chief, brought him a card.

"Lloseta," said Craik aloud to himself. "Ask him to come up."

"The man who ought to have written the Spanish sketches," he commented, when the clerk had left.

The Count came into the room with a certain ease of manner subtly indicative of the fact that it was not the first time that he had visited it. He shook hands and waited until the clerk had closed the door.

There was a copy of the month's Commentator on the table. De Lloseta took it up and opened it at the first page.

"Who wrote that?" he asked, holding out the magazine.

Craik laughed--a sudden boyish laugh--but he held his sides the while.

"You not only beard the lion in his den, but you ask him to tell you the tricks of his trade," he said. "Sit down, all the same. You don't mind my pipe, do you?"

The Spaniard sat down and sought a cigarette-case in his waistcoat pocket with a deliberation that made his companion fidget in his chair.

"You asked me to write those sketches," said the Count pleasantly.

"I delayed and you gave the order to some one else. a.s.suredly I have a certain right to ask who my supplanter is."

"None whatever, my dear Lloseta. I did not give the order for those sketches--they came."