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He was beginning to torture his mind with conjecture, when the door
opened, and to Don Diego's increasing mystification he beheld his
best suit of clothes step into the cabin. It was a singularly
elegant and characteristically Spanish suit of black taffetas with
silver lace that had been made for him a year ago in Cadiz, and he
knew each detail of it so well that it was impossible he could now
be mistaken.
The suit paused to close the door, then advanced towards the couch
on which Don Diego was extended, and inside the suit came a tall,
slender gentleman of about Don Diego's own height and shape. Seeing
the wide, startled eyes of the Spaniard upon him, the gentleman
lengthened his stride.
"Awake, eh?" said he in Spanish.
The recumbent man looked up bewildered into a pair of light-blue
eyes that regarded him out of a tawny, sardonic face set in a
cluster of black ringlets. But he was too bewildered to make any
answer.
The stranger's fingers touched the top of Don Diego's head,
whereupon Don Diego winced and cried out in pain.


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