Paula smiled at Bell, and he saw that she felt utterly safe and wholly at peace. Something was hammering at Bell's brain, warning him, and he could not understand what it was. But he exchanged the decorous limp handshake which is conventional south of Panama, and followed his unsmiling host to rooms where a servant laid out a bewildering assortment of garments. They were all rather formal, the sort of clothing that is held to be fitting for a man of position where Spanish is the official if not the common tongue.
His host retired, without words, and Bell came out later to find him sipping moodily at a drink, waiting for him. He wiped his forehead.
"Be seated, Señor," he said heavily, "until the ladies join us."
He wiped his forehead again and watched somberly while Bell poured out a drink.
"Isabella...." He seemed to find it difficult to speak. "She has told me a little, but there has been no time for more than a little: I do not wish to have her tell me too much. She does not understand. She was educated in North America, where customs are different. She demands that I assist you and the senorita—it is the senorita?"
Bell stiffened. In all Spanish America the conventions are strict. For a man and woman to travel together, even perforce and for a short distance, automatically damns the woman.
"Go on," said Bell grimly.
His host was very pale indeed.
"She demands that I assist you and the senorita to escape the police and the government. Provided that you do not tell me who you are, I will attempt it. But—"
"I wonder," said Bell quietly, "if you have ever seen red spots dancing before your eyes."