“Yah, so!” beamed Carl. “You know her?”
“Indeed, yes. But she does not live in the next house, señor. An English captain lives there—-an officer in charge of the constabulary. Miss Sixty is staying with friends a block farther down the street, and around the corner.”
“Vell, I t’ought I had made some misdakes,” said Carl, vastly relieved. “Blease, haf you some patches and some neetles and t’read? I vouldt like to be respectable vonce more.”
The man got to his feet slowly, and then, his eyes gleaming ominously, caught Carl’s arm in both hands.
“Let us not think so much of ourselves now, señor,” he said thickly, “but of others.”
Carl began to wonder whether the released gentleman was crazy or excited.
“I am Don Ramon Ortega,” explained the man.
This was another surprise. Carl had heard of Don Ramon Ortega. He was the Spanish consul in Belize, a man of high lineage and of much importance.
“How keveer dot I shouldt come py your house like dis!” muttered Carl. “I hope,” he added, in a tremor, “dot der laties von’t come——”