“It is nothing, señor,” he said. “I did not sleep well, and saw the man creep into the veranda from my bed, which is near the window. In not sending him to the Alcalde you were wise.”
“I am not sure that I was,” said Appleby.
Pancho made a little gesture. “It is a turbulent country, and the man who escapes trouble is the one who lives the most quietly.”
He turned away, as though to avoid further questions, while Appleby went back to bed, and, contrary to his expectations, slept until the morning.
It was some days later when he rode over to Santa Marta and, leaving the mule at the “Four Nations,” called at the banker’s house, where he found Nettie Harding sitting with her host and hostess on the flat roof. It was, though still early in the evening, dark, and the after-dinner coffee, the choicest product of Costa Rica, was set out in very little cups on the table before them; while the banker, who was stout and elderly, lay drowsily in a big chair. His wife had also little to say, and Appleby drew his chair up to Nettie Harding’s side. The lamp on the table burned without a flicker in the still air, and a cloudless vault of indigo stretched above the sun-scorched town. Beyond the rows of roofs a band was playing in the plaza, and a hum of voices rose from the shadowy streets beneath. It was a little cooler now, and a pleasant scent of heliotrope came up from the patio.
Nettie Harding raised her head as though to listen to the music, and then glanced at the stars above. “All this,” she said, “is distinctly Cuban, isn’t it?”
Appleby nodded. “It’s Spanish, which is the same thing. They’re a consistent people,” he said. “Still, I’m not sure that I quite catch your meaning.”
Nettie laughed, and turned so that the lamplight touched her face. “Oh, I talk quite casually now and then. I meant that being Cuban it couldn’t be English.”
“That is apparent.”
“Well, I was wondering if, bearing in mind the difference you were content with it.”