Nonsense, to imagine plots of revenge and murder just because a man was a South American and had a few drinks in him! It was true enough that Colonel Fajardo looked the part. To incur his dislike and then encounter him in a dark street might possibly be unhealthy. Apparently, however, he had thought discretion the better part of valor. It was off with the old love and on with the new.
“You will stay in the Tarragona?” inquired the colonel, with an air of friendly solicitude. “You are fond of the ship and the trip to Colombian ports?”
“Yes, thank you. It is a pleasant change after the North Atlantic. I hope to stay in the ship, if only to see Cartagena again.”
“Ah, ha, there is no other reason, Mr. Cary? Pardon me, I do not intend to be personal,” murmured Colonel Fajardo. He laughed, without mirth. The leathery cheek was flushed. Richard Cary ignored the implication. He was not one to invite trouble. Let the other man show his hand.
Colonel Fajardo smothered a yawn. It had been a fatiguing day. Cary found little to say. At his leisure he finished the glass of cognac. Colonel Fajardo declined another. He had an engagement to wait for a friend. Cary therefore bade him good-night. A courtly bow from the waist, a graceful phrase, and the colonel sat himself down again.
Rather fortunate, reflected Richard Cary as he resumed his promenade through the streets of Cartagena. He would have to meet this man on shipboard every voyage. It might have been disagreeable, also awkward, a personal row with the Comandante of the Port.
Into a sleeping square hemmed in by houses rambled Richard Cary and came to the massive church of San Pedro Clavér whose bells had jangled in the squat tower through long centuries. At its altar the Spanish conquerors had knelt in ornate armor before invading the fetid jungles and daring the unknown mountains to seek the fabled El Dorado.
Crossing the square and halting to gaze at the church, Cary happened to notice, from the tail of his eye, several men loitering on a corner underneath a balcony. The shadows somewhat obscured them. He thought nothing of it. One thrummed a guitar. They were singing some plaintive, long-drawn love song with many minor chords.
The second mate of the Tarragona glanced at his watch. He ought to be retracing his course, in the direction of the waterfront. He walked along one side of the square. The group of serenaders beneath the balcony strolled in the same direction. They were still singing. It was agreeable to listen to them.
Richard Cary turned into a street which was no more than a gash between shuttered walls of stone. No lights were visible. The musicians, care-free and idle, drifted into the same street and followed along behind him. They were in no haste. The night was still young. Cary felt like loitering until they finished a song whose refrain carried a cadence sweet and wistful.