"May the Holy Virgin guard you, señor!"
The sick man got out a centavo, but to his surprise the crone did not extend her palm.
"Señor Americano" she whispered, "when do I get my Josefa back!"
The question sounded so pointless that Strawbridge thought she must be slightly unbalanced.
"Your Josefa, señora?"
She pointed with a trembling hand.
"The poor joven you sent to La Fortuna, señor."
The drummer was nonplussed. She seemed to be rational; indeed, she had shrewd wrinkled eyes and a high-bridged, aristocratic nose. She might have been a kind of dowdy dowager.
"I sent a youth to La Fortuna, señora!"