“I’ll step across to Blandy’s with you,” said the consul, standing up and reaching for his hat. “We can get you transferred to a later boat. Leave the finding of private accommodation to me, too.” “Do you know of any one associated with Da Cunha?” “No. Da Cunha has property in Madeira, but he’s rarely here. Nearly all I know about him I have learned officially.” We settled our business at the Union Castle agent’s, thanks to consular aid, and, the morning growing insufferably hot, my friend agreed that something icy through a straw was indicated. When we arrived at the Golden Gate this theory proved to be popular. A party from Reid’s that included Nanette’s mother had arrived, and Jack was sharing Nanette with a stranger whose ancestors had known more about how the Pyramid was built than you or I can ever hope to learn. He reminded me of my London stockbroker until he was introduced as Macalister. He had a real-estate smile that was not unattractive, and my first, natural impression was that he had recently purchased the island from the Portuguese and was running his eye over the property. Presently, however: “And how is our friend, Gabriel?” Nanette asked. Then, turning to me: “I met Mr. Macalister with Gabriel da Cunha,” she explained. I forget how Macalister replied, for I was exchanging significant glances with the consul. A few moments later that competent official took the floor. “So you are leaving Madeira, Mr. Macalister?” he asked. “No,” the other replied, sharing an appreciative look between the cigar that he had just lighted and Nanette. “I had hoped to sail in the _Arundel Castle_, but I have been delayed.” The consul put several more leading questions to Macalister, in a chatty way, but I rather lost track of the conversation. Nanette was in a mood of feverish animation, which I knew, from experience, meant mischief. The party had been over to Blandy’s apparently, and had learned that accommodation in the _Arundel Castle_ was limited. Nanette and Jack talked happy nonsense about camping out in boats and what not. Then I made an announcement. “Somebody is lucky,” I said. “My berth will be vacant.” This statement was received with gratifying consternation. “You surely can’t mean that you are not coming with us?” Nanette’s mother exclaimed. Two pairs of eyes I particularly noted at this moment--the heavy-lidded brown eyes of Mr. Macalister and the wide-open blue eyes of Nanette. “Unhappily, yes,” I replied. “Unfortunate, very; but I must wait for the Royal Mail boat.” There was a sort of farewell dance at Reid’s that night. Quite a number of people were leaving in the _Arundel_. Nanette persistently avoided me; and I doubled-up with Jack in a scowling competition having for target Mr. Julian Macalister, who had dropped in after dinner and monopolized Nanette. Once, pausing near me: “Do you know what they call the crescent moon here?” she asked. “No.” “Moon of Madness.”