A breakfast such as I had eaten is particularly conducive to meditation, and it was scarcely surprising that my thought turned at once to the spirited events of the previous evening. Through the curling smoke of my cigar the beautiful, sorrowful face of my amazing visitor seemed to rise up again before my eyes. I repeated her name to myself with a kind of luxurious enjoyment. "Mercia Solano." It fitted her admirably. A name of music and colour, shot through with a certain indefinite sadness. Who could she be, and what red chapter in Northcote's past had led up to the events of last night? That he had not this girl only to fear was evident from her own words. Besides, I could not imagine Northcote running away from a woman, however foully he had wronged her. I racked my memory for any clues which last evening's adventure might suggest. There was her reference to Guarez--whoever Guarez might be. I wondered again whether he was the gentleman who had been skulking under the trees opposite, and if so, why he had not taken such a favorable chance of putting a bullet into me? And what was that complimentary term she had called me? The Satyr of something or other--Culebra, if I remembered right. Where the devil was Culebra? The name seemed to be familiar to me, but, think as I would, I was quite unable to place it. The only thing I felt certain about was that it was somewhere or other in South America. I began to wonder if the key to the mystery lay there. The names Guarez and Solano certainly suggested that troubled continent, while the abrupt end of Mercia's father also seemed thoroughly in keeping with the same cheerful environment. I decided that I would hunt up Culebra on the map without any waste of time. I had reached this point in my meditations when there came a knock at the door, and my nice-looking parlour-maid again entered. "I wonder, sir," she began apologetically, "whether you would care to see Mr. Milford now. He seems a little better for the moment, so I thought, perhaps--" "You were quite right," I interrupted, getting up from the chair and putting down my cigar. "I'll come with you at once." I felt rather ashamed of myself, but for the time poor Milford's sudden illness had gone clean out of my head. I followed her through the door at the back of the hall, and then down a big, winding stone staircase that led to the basement. Milford's room was in front, just under the dining-room. When I entered I found him sitting propped up in bed. He was breathing with evident difficulty, and his face, which was a nasty grey colour, was covered with small beads of perspiration. "Hullo, Milford," I said, "what have you been doing to yourself?" He gave me a wan smile. "I don't know, sir," he answered feebly. "I felt rather queer last night, sir, and when I woke up this morning I was like this." I felt his pulse, which was about as faint and irregular as a pulse could very well be.