“The Colonel’s visitor has left him,” he murmured. “Unless something quite unforeseen occurs, I shall throw up the case to-morrow.” CHAPTER XII MORNING MISTS The man known as Manoel awakened me in the morning. Although characteristically Spanish, he belonged to a more sanguine type than the butler and spoke much better English than Pedro. He placed upon the table beside me a tray containing a small pot of China tea, an apple, a peach, and three slices of toast. “How soon would you like your bath, sir?” he enquired. “In about half an hour,” I replied. “Breakfast is served at 9.30 if you wish, sir,” continued Manoel, “but the ladies rarely come down. Would you prefer to breakfast in your room?” “What is Mr. Harley doing?” “He tells me that he does not take breakfast, sir. Colonel Don Juan Menendez will be unable to ride with you this morning, but a groom will accompany you to the heath if you wish, which is the best place for a gallop. Breakfast on the south veranda is very pleasant, sir, if you are riding first.” “Good,” I replied, for indeed I felt strangely heavy; “it shall be the heath, then, and breakfast on the veranda.” Having drunk a cup of tea and dressed I went into Harley’s room, to find him propped up in bed reading the _Daily Telegraph_ and smoking a cigarette. “I am off for a ride,” I said. “Won’t you join me?” He fixed his pillows more comfortably, and slowly shook his head. “Not a bit of it, Knox,” he replied, “I find exercise to be fatal to concentration.” “I know you have weird theories on the subject, but this is a beautiful morning.” “I grant you the beautiful morning, Knox, but here you will find me when you return.” I knew him too well to debate the point, and accordingly I left him to his newspaper and cigarette, and made my way downstairs. A housemaid was busy in the hall, and in the courtyard before the monastic porch a negro groom awaited me with two fine mounts. He touched his hat and grinned expansively as I appeared. A spirited young chestnut was saddled for my use, and the groom, who informed me that his name was Jim, rode a smaller, Spanish horse, a beautiful but rather wicked-looking creature. We proceeded down the drive. Pedro was standing at the door of the lodge, talking to his surly-looking daughter. He saluted me very ceremoniously as I passed. Pursuing an easterly route for a quarter of a mile or so, we came to a narrow lane which branched off to the left in a tremendous declivity. Indeed it presented the appearance of the dry bed of a mountain torrent, and in wet weather a torrent this lane became, so I was informed by Jim. It was very rugged and dangerous, and here we dismounted, the groom leading the horses.