The tall American who stepped from the little boat and came at once to them to show his papers, easily satisfied their curiosity, for many tourists of the millionaire class dropped anchor in Cartagena’s wonderful harbor, and came ashore to wander among the decaying mementos of her glorious past. And this boat was not a stranger to these waters. On the yacht itself, as they glanced again toward it, there was no sign of life. Even the diminishing volume of smoke that rose from its funnels evidenced the owner’s intention of spending some time in that romantic spot.
From the dock, Hitt passed through the old gateway in the massive wall, quickly crossed the Plaza de Coches, and lost himself in the gay throngs that were entering upon the day’s 250 festivities. Occasionally he dropped into wine shops and little stores, and lingered about to catch stray bits of gossip. Then he slowly made his way up past the Cathedral and into the Plaza de Simón Bolívar.
For a while, sitting on a bench in front of the equestrian statue of the famous Libertador, he watched the passing crowds. From time to time his glance strayed over toward the Cathedral. Once he rose, and started in that direction; then came back and resumed his seat. It was evident that he was driven hard, and yet knew not just what course to pursue.
Finally he jumped to his feet and went over to a little cigar store which had caught his eye. He bent over the soiled glass case and selected several cigars from the shabby stock. Putting one of them into his mouth, he lighted it, and then casually nodded to a powerfully built man standing near.
The latter turned to the proprietor and made some comment in Spanish. Hitt immediately replied to it in the same tongue. The man flushed with embarrassment; then doffed his hat and offered an apology. “I forget, señor,” he said, “that so many Americans speak our language.”
Hitt held out his hand and laughed heartily at the incident. Then his eye was attracted by a chain which the man wore.
“May I examine it?” he asked, bending toward it.
“Cierto, señor,” returned the man cordially. “It came from an Indian grave up in Guamocó. I am a guaquero––grave digger––by profession; Jorge Costal, by name.”
Hitt glanced up at the man. Somehow he seemed to be familiar with that name. Somewhere he seemed to have heard it. But on whose lips? Carmen’s? “Suppose,” he said, in his excellent Spanish, “that we cross the Plaza to yonder wine shop. You may be able to tell me some of the history of this interesting old town. And––it would be a great favor, señor.”
The man bowed courteously and accepted the invitation. A few moments later they sat at a little table, with a bottle between them, commenting on the animated scene in the street without.