“He may refuse me if I ask him about going,” he mused. “I’d better go and say nothing.” And off he started, bent on seeing Dan Markel and learning what the man from Baltimore had to say for himself.
The Hotel Ziroda was an ancient hostelry, square in shape, with a small arched doorway leading to the inevitable court inside. It had seen better days and was far from prosperous. A greasy landlord sat in a wicker chair, half asleep, and with a lighted cigar hanging from his teeth.
“Hullo, are you the proprietor?” asked Hockley, touching him on the arm.
“What do you want?” asked the man, in Spanish, as he tried to rouse up.
“I say, are you the proprietor?”
“Si, señor.”
“Is there a man here by the name of Markel—Daniel Markel? He came from Willemstad yesterday?”
“Si, señor. Markel, señor, he ees here. Come, I show you.”
With a profound sigh the hotel man arose and conducted Hockley through the dirty court to a room in one corner of the building. He knocked and a voice inside called out: “Who’s there?”
“It’s me,” answered Hockley, without regard to grammar.