The doctor brought out another chair to the sidewalkfor his new acquaintance. The two seated themselves.
“You are a man of the world，” said Doctor Gregg； “aman of travel and experience. Your decision in a matter ofethics and， no doubt， on the points of equity， ability andprofessional probity should be of value. I would be glad ifyou will listen to the history of a case that I think standsunique in medical annals.
“About nine years ago， while I was engaged in thepractice of medicine in my native city， I was called to treata case of contusion of the skull. I made the diagnosis thata splinter of bone was pressing upon the brain， and thatthe surgical operation known as trepanning was required.
However， as the patient was a gentleman of wealth andposition， I called in for consultation Doctor—”
Smith rose from his chair， and laid a hand， soft withapology， upon the doctor’s shirt sleeve.
“Say， Doc，” he said， solemnly， “I want to hear that story.
You’ve got me interrested； and I don’t want to miss therest of it. I know it’s a loola by the way it begins； and Iwant to tell it at the next meeting of the Barney O’FlynnAssociation， if you don’t mind. But I’ve got one or twomatters to attend to first. If I get ’em attended to in timeI’ll come right back and hear you spiel the rest beforebedtime—is that right？”
“By all means，” said the doctor， “get your businessattended to， and then return. I shall wait up for you.
You see， one of the most prominent physicians at theconsultation diagnosed the trouble as a blood clot；another said it was an abscess， but I—”
“Don’t tell me now， Doc. Don’t spoil the story. Wait till Icome back. I want to hear it as it runs off the reel—is thatright？”
The mountains reached up their bulky shoulders toreceive the level gallop of Apollo’s homing steeds， the daydied in the lagoons and in the shadowed banana grovesand in the mangrove swamps， where the great blue crabswere beginning to crawl to land for their nightly ramble.
And it died， at last， upon the highest peaks. Then thebrief twilight， ephemeral as the flight of a moth， came andwent； the Southern Cross peeped with its topmost eyeabove a row of palms， and the fire-flies heralded with theirtorches and approach of soft-footed night.
In the offing the Karlesfin swayed at anchor， her lightsseeming to penetrate the water to countless fathoms withtheir shimmering， lanceolate reflections. The Caribs werebusy loading her by means of the great lighters heaped fullfrom the piles of fruit ranged upon the shore.
On the sandy beach， with his back against a coconuttreeand the stubs of many cigars lying around him， Smithsat waiting， never relaxing his sharp gaze in the directionof the steamer.
The incongruous yachtsman had concentrated hisinterest upon the innocent fruiter. Twice had he beenassured that no passengers had come to Coralio on boardof her. And yet， with a persistence not to be attributed toan idling voyager， he had appealed the case to the highercourt of his own eyesight. Surprisingly like some gaycoatedlizard， he crouched at the foot of the coconutpalm， and with the beady， shifting eyes of the selfsamereptile， sustained his espionage on the Karlesfin.
On the white sands a whiter gig belonging to the yachtwas drawn up， guarded by one of the white-ducked crew.
Not far away in a pulperia on the shore-following CalleGrande three other sailors swaggerred with their cuesaround Coralio’s solitary billiard-table. The boat lay thereas if under orders to be ready for use at any moment.
There was in the atmosphere a hint of expectation， ofwaiting for something to occur， which was foreign to theair of Coralio.
Like some passing bird of brilliant plumage， Smithalights on this palmy shore but to preen his wings for aninstant and then to fly away upon silent pinions. Whenmorning dawned there was no Smith， no waiting gig， noyacht in the offing， Smith left no intimation of his missionthere， no footprints to show where he had followed thetrail of his mystery on the sands of Coralio that night. Hecame； he spake his strange jargon of the asphalt and thecafes； he sat under the coconut-tree， and vanished. Thenext morning Coralio， Smithless， ate its fried plantain andsaid： “The man of pictured clothing went himself away.”
With the siesta the incident passed， yawning， into history.
So， for a time， must Smith pass behind the scenes of theplay. He comes no more to Coralio， nor to Doctor Gregg，who sits in vain， wagging his redundant beard， waitingto enrich his derelict audience with his moving tale oftrepanning and jealousy.
But prosperously to the lucidity of these loose pages，Smith shall flutter among them again. In the nick of timehe shall come to tell us why he strewed so many anxiouscigar stumps around the coconut palm that night. This hemust do； for， when he sailed away before the dawn in hisyacht Rambler， he carried with him the answer to a riddleso big and preposterous that few in Anchuria had venturedeven to propound it.
