Goodwin glanced swiftly at the woman， and saw， withsurprise and a thrill of pleasure that he wondered at， thatshe had experienced an unmistakeable shock. Her eyesgrew wide， she gasped， and leaned heavily against thetable. She had been ignorant， then， he inferred， that hercompanion had looted the government treasury. But why，he angrily asked himself， should he be so well pleased tothink this wandering and unscrupulous singer not so blackas report had painted her？
A noise in the other room startled them both. The doorswung open， and a tall， elderly， dark complexioned man，recently shaven， hurried into the room.
All the pictures of President Miraflores represent himas the possessor of a luxuriant supply of dark and carefullytended whiskers； but the story of the barber， Esteban， hadprepared Goodwin for the change.
The man stumbled in from the dark room， his eyesblinking at the lamplight， and heavy from sleep.
“What does this mean？” he demanded in excellentEnglish， with a keen and perturbed look at the American—“robbery？”
“Very near it，” answered Goodwin. “But I rather thinkI’m in time to prevent it. I represent the people to whomthis money belongs， and I have come to convey it back tothem.” He thrust his hand into a pocket of his loose， linencoat.
The other man’s hand went quickly behind him.
“Don’t draw，” called Goodwin， sharply； “I’ve got youcovered from my pocket.”
The lady stepped forward， and laid one hand upon theshoulder of her hesitating companion. She pointed to thetable. “Tell me the truth—the truth，” she said， in a lowvoice. “Whose money is that？”
The man did not answer. He gave a deep， long-drawnsigh， leaned and kissed her on the forehead， stepped backinto the other room and closed the door.
Goodwin foresaw his purpose， and jumped for the door，but the report of the pistol echoed as his hand touchedthe knob. A heavy fall followed， and some one swept himaside and struggled into the room of the fallen man.
A desolation， thought Goodwin， greater than thatderived from the loss of cavalier and gold must have beenin the heart of the enchantress to have wrung from her， inthat moment， the cry of one turning to the all-forgiving，all-comforting earthly consoler—to have made her call outfrom that bloody and dishonored room— “Oh， mother，mother， mother！”
But there was an alarm outside. The barber， Esteban，at the sound of the shot， had raised his voice； and theshot itself had aroused half the town. A pattering of feetcame up the street， and official orders rang out on the stillair. Goodwin had a duty to perform. Circumstances hadmade him the custodian of his adopted country’s treasure.
Swiftly cramming the money into the valise， he closed it，leaned far out of the window and dropped it into a thickorange-tree in the little inclosure below.
They will tell you in Coralio， as they delight in tellingthe stranger， of the conclusion of that tragic flight. Theywill tell you how the upholders of the law came apacewhen the alarm was sounded—the Comandante in redslippers and a jacket like a head waiter’s and girded sword，the soldiers with their interminable guns， followed byoutnumbering officers struggling into their gold andlace epaulettes； the bare-footed policemen （the onlycapables in the lot）， and ruffled citizens of every hue anddescription.
They say that the countenance of the dead man was marredsadly by the effects of the shot； but he was identified asthe fallen president by both Goodwin and the barberEsteban. On the next morning messages began to comeover the mended telegraph wire； and the story of theflight from the capital was given out to the public. In SanMateo the revolutionary party had seized the sceptre ofgovernment， without opposition， and the vivas of themercurial populace quickly effaced the interest belongingto the unfortunate Miraflores.
They will relate to you how the new government siftedthe towns and raked the roads to find the valise containingAnchuria’s surplus capital， which the president was knownto have carried with him， but all in vain. In Coralio SenorGoodwin himself led the searching party which combedthat town as carefully as a woman combs her hair； but themoney was not found.
So they buried the dead man， without honors， back ofthe town near the little bridge that spans the mangroveswamp； and for a real a boy will show you his grave. Theysay that the old woman in whose hut the barber shavedthe president placed the wooden slab at his head， andburned the inscription upon it with a hot iron.
You will hear also that Senor Goodwin， like a towerof strength， shielded Dona Isabel Guilbert throughthose subsequent distressful days； and that his scruplesas to her past career （if he had any） vanished； and heradventuresome waywardness （if she had any） left her， andthey were wedded and were happy.
The American built a home on a little foothill nearthe town. It is a conglomerate structure of native woodsthat， exported， would be worth a fortune， and of brick，palm， glass， bamboo and adobe. There is a paradise ofnature about it； and something of the same sort within.
The natives speak of its interior with hands uplifted inadmiration. There are floors polished like mirrors andcovered with hand-woven Indian rugs of silk fibre， tallornaments and pictures， musical instruments and paperedwalls— “figure-it-to-yourself！” they exclaim.
But they cannot tell you in Coralio （as you shall learn）what became of the money that Frank Goodwin droppedinto the orange-tree. But that shall come later； for thepalms are fluttering in the breeze， bidding us to sport andgaiety.
