name is Raimonda. Fitzhugh knows him. By the way, where on earth is Fitzhugh?” 

 “Trying to fit a kind and gentlemanly expression over a swollen sense of injury, for a guess,” replied the girl carelessly. “I left him in sweet and lone communion with nature three hours ago.” 

 “Polly, I wish—” 

 “Oh, dad, dear, don’t! You’ll get your wish, I suppose, and Fitz, too. Only I don’t want to be hurried. Here he is, now. Look at that smile! A sculptor couldn’t have done any better. Now, as soon as he comes, I’m going to be quite nice and kind.” 

 But Mr. Fairfax Preston Fitzhugh Carroll did not come direct to the Brewster table. Instead, he stopped to greet the elderly man in the near-by group, and presently drew up a chair. At first, their conversation was low-toned, but presently the young native added his more vivacious accents. 

 “Who can tell?” the Brewsters heard him say, and marked the fatalistic gesture of the upturned hands. “They disappear. One does not ask questions too much.” 

 “Not here,” confirmed the big man. “Always room for a few more in the undersea jails, eh?” 

 “Always. But I think it was not that with Basurdo. I think it was underground, not undersea.” He brushed his neck with his finger tips. 

 “Is it dangerous for foreigners?” asked Carroll quickly. 

 “For every one,” answered Sherwen; adding significantly: “But the Caracuñan Government does not approve of loose fostering of rumors.” 

 Carroll rose and came over to the Brewsters. 

 “May I bring Mr. Graydon Sherwen over and present him?” he asked. “I can vouch for him, having known his family at home, and—” 

 “Oh, bring them all, Fitzhugh,” commanded the girl. 

 The exponent of Southern aristocracy looked uncomfortable. 

 “As to the others,” he said, “Mr. Raimonda is a native—” 

 “With the manners of a prince. I’ve quite fallen in love with him already,” she said wickedly. 

 “Of course, if you wish it. But the other American is an ex-professional baseball player, named Cluff.” 

 Prev. P 23/148 next