The next day Brainard entered the City of Mexico, lean and brown and hard, with a very much travel-stained valise. So far as he could learn from the few American newspapers he had come across, there had been no further excitement over Krutzmacht’s death, and the robbery of his safe. If a pursuit had been undertaken, the fact had been carefully kept from the press; and he felt confident that by this time either it had been given up, or the persons interested were watching the wrong places.
There was a steamer sailing for Havre from Vera Cruz sometime towards the end of the month, and he resolved to take it, meanwhile resting and making a few preparations for his voyage. It was the first time in his life that he had been outside his own country, and every sight and sound in this bastard Spanish metropolis filled him with curiosity and pleasure. He secured his cabin on the Toulouse, and then set out to do the sights.
The second evening, as he was resting after a busy day in the cool courtyard of the old Hotel Iturbide, a little man in a bedraggled linen duster hitched his chair across the stones toward Brainard.
“Just come down from the States?” he inquired. Brainard nodded.
With this slight encouragement, the stranger launched forth upon a rambling talk about himself. He had come to Mexico, several years before, to manage a rubber-planting enterprise, and the “dirty dagoes” had done him out of his last cent. Soon he proposed having a drink with his compatriot, “in honor of the greatest country in God’s world.” When Brainard refused, saying that he was tired and was going to bed, the American shambled along by his side through the corridors.
Judging that his fellow countryman was a harmless dead-beat, Brainard put his hand into his pocket, and drew forth a bill, as the easiest way of ridding himself of an unwelcome companion. At sight of the money, the man’s eyes filled with tears. Taking his benefactor’s arm, he poured forth a flood of personal confession and thanks that lasted until they were at the door of Brainard’s room.
“Let me come in and talk to you a minute,” the stranger begged. “Ain’t often I see a decent man from God’s country, and I get lonely down here,” he whimpered.
“All right,” Brainard replied reluctantly, wondering how he could rid himself of the fellow.
When he turned on the electric light, the stranger’s eyes roamed carelessly over the room. It seemed to Brainard that his guest exhibited much more keenness than his forlorn and lachrymose state warranted.
As Brainard turned to the wardrobe to fetch a box of cigars, he caught the man’s eyes fastened on the valise which was shoved under the bed. Brainard gave him a cigar, but did not invite him to sit down, and after a little while he left, thanking Brainard profusely for his hospitality. As he went out of the door, his eyes rested once more on the bag beneath the bed.