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“Better go see him,” advised Alex.

“You don’t aspire to be a grandee of Spain, do you?” asked Don Servando of Manuel, with a smile blended of irony and kindliness.

“No, nor you, either,” retorted Manuel, ill-humouredly.

Don Servando burst into laughter.

“If you’re willing, we’ll see this Mingote. Shall we go this very moment?”

“Come along, if you wish.”

They went down to the third floor, knocked at a door, and were bidden into a narrow dining-room. They asked for the agent and a slovenly servant-girl pointed to a door. Don Servando rapped with his knuckles, and in response to a “Come in!” from some one inside, they both entered the room.

A corpulent man with thick, dyed moustaches, wrapped in a woman’s cloak, was pacing up and down, declaiming and gesticulating with a cane in his right hand. He stopped, and opening wide his arms, in theatrical tones exclaimed: “Ah, my dear Señor Don Servando! Welcome, welcome!” Then he gazed at the ceiling, and in the same affected manner, added: “What brings to this poor habitation at such an early hour the illustrious writer, the inveterate night-owl?”