"Those 'eartless Spiggoties would not h'allow it. Oh, you will h'assist the poor mon! Say it. Praise be to God, he is bleeding in the prison—"
"Yes, yes, certainly."
Allan reached clumsily this time to kiss the hem of her skirt, but she stepped aside quickly, fumbling meanwhile in her purse for a bank-note, while he exclaimed:
"God bless you, good mistress. He told me to find you and present his recital."
"Here, take this money and go back to Colon by the first train. We may need you. Now go! I'll be there ahead of you."
She picked up her white skirts and ran up the hotel stairs as if pursued, bursting in upon her husband so impetuously that he rose in surprise, inquiring:
"What is it?"
"Young Anthony is in jail in Colon," she panted. "He's been locked up for three days, and they won't let him out."
"The devil! You said he'd gone back to New York. What is it about?"
"I thought he had. They arrested him for some silly thing, and he's hurt." She hurriedly recounted Allan's story, adding, in conclusion, "That black boy came all the way across the Isthmus to tell us!"