A few hours later Myra was one of a fashionable and interested crowd
watching the polo at Hurlingham. An exciting match was in progress,
and Myra cried out enthusiastically as one of the players, after a
thrilling mêlée, made a splendid shot, followed up, beat the defence,
and scored a magnificent goal.

"Oh, well played, sir, well played!" Myra exclaimed enthusiastically,
clapping her hands. "Who is he, Jimmy?" she added, turning to her
escort, who was also applauding. "Do you know him?"

"I was introduced to him at a dinner at the Spanish Legation the other
evening," her friend answered. "He's Governor of a Province, or
something of the sort, in Spain, and a most interesting chap. Told me
he spends most of his time out there hunting brigands and outlaws.
Speaks English perfectly, and is good-looking enough to be a film star.
Mentioned that he played polo and hoped to get a game to-day, but
didn't hint that he was a star performer. I've got a rotten memory for
names, but he's called Don Carlos de something-or-other." He consulted
his programme. "Ah! here we are! Don Carlos de Ruiz.... Look! he's
on the ball again. Well hit indeed, sir!"

At the end of the game Myra, at her own request, was introduced to Don
Carlos de Ruiz, who was smilingly receiving the congratulations of
English friends on his splendid play. At close quarters she found him
to be a man of about thirty-five, very handsome, with clean-cut
features, pale complexion, jet-black hair with a natural crinkle in it,
and dark, inscrutable eyes that gleamed like black diamonds.