“A Spanish onza,” Adam remarked.  “Worth nearly five pounds in English money, but a collector might give you more if it’s as old as it looks.  One used to see onzas in Cuba, and native merchants in Central America, who hadn’t much use for banks, liked to get them.  Now, however, they’re getting scarce.”

“In this country, all gold coins are scarce,” Alvarez said dryly.  “I agree with the shopkeeper that Don Cristoval is fortunate, and expect he feels that my people are honester than he thought.”

“I was puzzled—­” said Kit and stopped, for he saw the president’s smile and began to understand.

“You are shrewd, senor; but that was to be expected from my old friend’s nephew.  To begin with, the man who keeps the shop is not a supporter of the Government.”

“Ah,” said Kit, “I think I see!”

Alvarez bowed.  “One can trust your intelligence, and you can keep the coin.  It looks as if my antagonists were curious about your character—­the honor of a man who would take money that does not belong to him is open to doubt.  The experiment was cheap.”

Kit said nothing and the president filled a little glass with scented liquor.  “I know my friends, Don Cristoval, and your uncle has stood much harder tests.”

He touched Kit’s glass with his.  “Well, I am lucky, because I may need friends soon.”

He got up and when he went down the long arcade Adam looked at Kit with a smile.

“When I was your age I wouldn’t have taken the onza back.  I’d have kept the money and my faith with the president; in fact, in those days, I kept anything I could get.  Now the other fellow knows what you’re like, I reckon he’ll find the owner of the coin.”

Adam went off after the president, and Kit pondered.  A few days later, he sat one evening at a small table outside the cafe Bolivar.  The cafe was badly lighted, hot, and full of flies.  There was no door or window, and a few wooden pillars divided the low room from the pavement, which was strewn with cigarette ends and cardboard matches.  In front, small palms, and eucalyptus lined the dusty alameda, where groups of citizens walked up and down.  Inside the cafe somebody sang a Spanish song and played a guitar.  It was not cool on the pavement, although a faint breeze made the palms rustle.  The air was heavy and a smell of aniseed and new rum hung about the spot.

Presently a man who had been playing dominos got up and came to Kit’s table.  He was a white man, with pale blue eyes and yellow hair, and although rather fat he carried himself well.  Kit had met Olsen before, and he nodded when he sat down.

“Nothing doing at the casino and the place was very hot,” he said.  “Besides, I don’t quite trust the man who runs the bank.  Taking them all round, these folks are clever crooks.”

Kit agreed languidly and noted the order Olsen gave the half-breed landlord.  The fellow did not look as if he indulged much, but Kit thought a large glass of the strong liquor was not often asked for.  As a rule, the Americans he had met on the Caribbean coast were abstemious, while the half-breeds and Spaniards were satisfied with small copitas of fiery spirits distilled from the sugar cane.  The English, German, and Scandinavian adventurers consumed them freely, and perhaps the Germans drank the most.