A Filipino walked up with mincing gait. He thrust out a dance ticket. With a shrug of her thin shoulders Mary Casey went on the floor and abandoned herself to his arms.
Angier turned a sober face to Kirwin.
“You win!” he said.
Kirwin twisted his wrist around until he could see the face of the watch strapped there.
“No use to wait for Mayhew. It’s two o’clock.”
He clapped his hands together sharply. He settled their score with the muchacho who came in response to that summons. The two men arose from the table of empty glasses.
Fresh air came in to them as they opened the door. Seeming a part of that fresh air was the tall and lean man whom they encountered on the narrow sidewalk. A man in white linen of unmilitary cut, on his close-cropped head a slouched panama that had seen better days. As the three hailed a passing calesa and took refuge within its cramped depths from the downpour, the man took off the battered panama and carefully drained the water from its brim. The little horse attached to the calesa by casual harness ambled down the street.
Above the sloshing sound made by the little horse’s feet as he wandered through the puddles, the tall man lifted up his voice and spoke:
“Hard time getting away from the dames at the hotel,” he announced grimly. “Those women would chew over a bit of heaven itself until it was as pallid and unappetizing as an over-masticated piece of bacon! I fled for my life, finally. Healthier down in the bowels of the earth, surrounded by gold that doesn’t belong to me, and that I am merely passing on for the chaps who are buying up Masbate.”
“Does it never make you want some gold of your own, Mayhew?” inquired the curious Angier. “I’d not be able to stand the strain of being a mining expert. Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink. That sort of stuff.”