The porter handed them both candles, and by way of ingratiating himself with his generous patrons announced that two more gringos had arrived late that afternoon. Brainard, who was smarting under the fight-trust magnate’s moral advice, paid little attention to the servant’s chatter and went directly to his room. He undressed slowly, thinking of the charming girl at the Haçienda di Rosas and the happy day he had spent with her. Hollinger’s frank warning to get to his “job” and let women alone rankled all the more because he felt the good sense of it. But something within him tempted him to rebel at good sense. He was young, and he had been through a series of strenuous weeks, living a lonely, rough life. There seemed nothing unpardonably weak in allowing himself a bit of good time here in this lovely place. Of course Hollinger’s idea that he would straightway marry the embezzler’s daughter and settle down in Jalapa for life was needlessly exaggerated. Probably there would be another steamer in less than a month. And so forth, as youth under such circumstances reasons with itself!
Continuing this debate he went out to the balcony for a last look at the beautiful moonlight night. He lingered there, charmed by the stillness of the deserted streets, by the soft scented air, by the beauty of the white peak towering into the southern heavens. The pleasant murmur of the girl’s voice sounded in his ears. He was not in love, he said to himself,—that would be quite ridiculous! But he was, without knowing it, in a state where a young man soon thinks himself into love.
All his experience since leaving New York led up, as a matter of fact, to this very state. Señorita Marie need not be so extraordinarily fascinating, nor Jalapa so wonderfully picturesque, to set the stage for the eternal drama. He was just repeating to himself one of the girl’s naïve remarks when he became conscious of low voices above him. English was being spoken, and by a woman. He remembered what the porter had said about new arrivals at the hotel, and strained his ears to hear what was said. But the speaker was evidently seated within the room overhead, and her voice was too low to reach out and down with any distinctness. There was something in the timbre of it, or the accent, that seemed to Brainard familiar,—perhaps nothing more than its Americanism. A man’s voice, rather guttural and entirely unfamiliar, broke in on the woman’s speech. The man must be standing nearer the balcony, for Brainard could hear distinctly what he said.
“I don’t see how Mossy let him slip through his fingers in Mexico City, do you?”
An unintelligible answer came from within the room.
“Anyway, it was clear luck our stopping off here to send that wire.”
And then suddenly in perfectly distinct though low tones came the sentence:
“You didn’t see the grip?”
Brainard knew that voice! The pert, crisp twist to the words might resemble a thousand other stenographers in style, but he knew only one that hissed her final words slightly. He held his breath and listened. The woman came out on the balcony, and Brainard noiselessly glided back into the shadow of his dark room. He had seen the profile of the figure above and knew beyond doubt that she was Krutzmacht’s former stenographer. The man said:
“I wish I knew which way he meant to jump next. He’s just fool enough to go back North.”