"Yes. I did not speak to him, as he seemed in a rather unsociable mood; but the German told me he was a remarkable sort of character. It seems he has spent most of his life away in Africa, somewhere in the neighbourhood of the Desert of Sahara, I think."

"What led him to come here?"

"Heaven only knows. Why did the German and the Frenchman come? I suppose they heard of the presiding genius of the home, of its beautiful surroundings, and its healthful climate. Besides, in addition to its cheapness, all sorts of stories are afloat about the place. You know that."

Olive laughed.

"I heard only yesterday," went on Briarfield, "that you built it on account of a dream you had when a child; while some time ago some one told me that you had loved some youth some years ago, who had died of consumption, because of the want of a home of rest like this."

Olive laughed again.

"I have been there very little lately," she said. "I've had so many other things to do."

"Yes, but I think they all hope to see you. This German told me that the man with the fez is a fatalist, and does not believe in right or wrong.

He's a striking-looking fellow, and would be noticed in any crowd. He's only been there two days, but is quite a centre of interest."

"Indeed," said Olive; "what is he like?"

"I did not see him standing, but I should judge he's of more than ordinary height. He has an intensely black beard, which he allows to grow long. His face is very much tanned, and thus he has quite an Oriental appearance."

"How old is he?"

"Oh, I should think quite forty-five. But, for that matter, he might be any age. As I said, I did not hear him speak, but the fellow suggests all sorts of mysteries. There's a look in his eyes which tells wonderful things. He might be an esoteric Buddhist, or a Mohammedan who has dwelt much in Mecca. The fellow makes one think of reincarnation, and spirit wanderings, and magic--in fact, anything that is mysterious. The German told me he had a conversation with him."

"In what language?"

"In German. It seems that he speaks all the languages. The Frenchman told me he spoke French like a Parisian, while the German says his knowledge of German literature is profound. He talks to the waiters in English, and reads the newspapers of several countries. When I saw him he was writing in Arabic."

"Do you know Arabic?"

"No; but from what I could judge from the distance, he was writing in Arabic characters. But it might have been in Chinese, or any other language; I don't know."

"Do you know his name?"

"Yes; the fellow so interested me that I inquired."

"What was it?"

"Signor Ricordo."

"Ricordo? That sounds Italian."

"He may be Italian. I suppose lots of Italians go across to Tunis from Genoa. He might be anything, in fact--Russian, Spaniard, Italian, or Arab."

"I suppose he is a gentleman?"

"As I told you, I never spoke to him; but the German told me that there could be no doubt but that he was a man of considerable position. He thinks him a count, or something of that sort; but, as I told him, Italian counts are cheap. Be that as it may, he speaks of himself as a simple 'Signore,' and makes no parade of his greatness whatever."

"That may be because he has none."

"But I should gather that he has. This German is a man who knows things, and he tells me that there can be no doubt but that Signor Ricordo has moved in the most influential circles. Oh, I can a.s.sure you there is no difficulty in believing it. You cannot look at his face without feeling that he is a man who has lived at the heart of things."

"You make me quite curious. I must visit the home, and make his acquaintance."

"It will be very interesting to know what you think of him."

"Of course he is not rich? He would not go to The Homestead if he were."

"The question did not come up. The truth is, he is not the kind of man who suggests such things. You are impressed by the personality of the man, not by his belongings."

"I wonder you did not try and make his acquaintance."

"I wanted to badly; but, as I said, he seemed to be in an unsociable mood."

"I daresay you will speak to him some time."

"Oh, yes. I am going in there to-night to dine with my German acquaintance."

Olive raised her eyebrows.

"Oh, yes, I know of what you are thinking. You are saying to yourself that I am false to my creed by dining with a stranger, in order to see a man who may have been a donkey-boy in Cairo; but if I have made you curious by talking about him, what must I be, who have seen him?"

"You have accepted the invitation of the German, then, in order to get an introduction to Signor Ricordo?"

"Exactly. I know I am not courteous to my German host, but it is the truth. Besides, to give your Home of Rest its due, they do things very well there."

"Thank you," said Olive, with a laugh. "I am always pleased when I give my customers satisfaction."

A little later Herbert Briarfield left Vale Linden and rode back to his home.

"How much she must have loved the fellow after all!" he said to himself.

"It must be six years at least since he threw up the sponge, and yet she remains true to his memory. I cannot understand it. Of course one doesn't know all that happened; yet how could she give the fellow up because he was such a cur, and then refuse to marry any one else because he committed suicide?"

During the afternoon he rode out to see some off-farms, and then came back to dress for dinner. "What an idea to build such a place!" he said as the carriage rolled along. "Still, I suppose a wilful woman must have her way."

Herr Trubner, the German, met him with a great show of politeness, and did the honours of the dinner with much effusion.

"You know the patroness of this establishment?" he said presently.

"Yes, I know her," replied Briarfield, rather ungraciously.

"I have hoped to see her," said Herr Trubner, "but up to now I have been unsuccessful. And yet I was told she came here constantly. It was one of the things which induced me to come. So beautiful, so generous, so pious, I could not resist the desire to see her."

"It is possible you may be disappointed," said Briarfield. He was rather angry that the woman he hoped to marry should be talked about in such a way.

"Oh, no, I shall not be disappointed," replied the German. "Only half an hour ago I was told that while I was out walking with Signor Ricordo she was down here, and that she had arranged for a concert to be held in two evenings from now. Ah, and I love music! I who am from the country of Handel and Strauss, and Schubert and Wagner, I love it! I may be a poor, broken-down old German, but I love it, as I love all things beautiful."

"Is it not rather strange that your friend Signor Ricordo, who is a rich man, should have come to a place which was built--well, not as a money-making concern?" said Briarfield rather brutally.