“You say the mine is likely to close down?” Mr. Livingston questioned.
“Any day now. Then the workers will drift off to find work elsewhere. Once a mine shuts down, vegetation takes over. That’s how so many once-rich veins have been lost.”
“Mr. Corning didn’t tell you we were coming?”
“Not a word.”
“Our cables I think, came through here. Or perhaps they were sent by way of Santa Marta.”
“That’s the big banana shipping port. Corning has friends there. Your message to him still may be there uncollected.”
“But he knew we were coming,” Mr. Livingston said in a worried voice. “He promised to meet us here at Cartagena.”
“Sure it wasn’t Santa Marta or Bogota?”
“Of course not. We wouldn’t make a mistake as stupid as that. How can we get word to him?”
“No way,” the agent replied indifferently. “When Corning gets around to it, if he ain’t too busy, he may drop down to Santa Marta. Or maybe to Bogota. Lately, he’s been sending his emeralds to the office there—when he has any to send, which ain’t often.”