Mlle. Giraud’s eyes were shining with a joy that could not have existed under the chaperonage of the mountain-tops.  There were other spirits calling to her—­nymphs of the orange groves, pixies from the chattering surf, imps, born of the music, the perfumes, colours and the insinuating presence of humanity.  She laughed aloud, musically, at a sudden thought.

“Won’t there be a sensation?” she called to Armstrong.  “Don’t I wish I had an engagement just now, though!  What a picnic the press agent would have!  ’Held a prisoner by a band of savage Indians subdued by the spell of her wonderful voice’—­wouldn’t that make great stuff?  But I guess I quit the game winner, anyhow—­there ought to be a couple of thousand dollars in that sack of gold dust I collected as encores, don’t you think?”

He left her at the door of the little Hotel de Buen Descansar, where she had stopped before.  Two hours later he returned to the hotel.  He glanced in at the open door of the little combined reception room and cafe.

Half a dozen of Macuto’s representative social and official caballeros were distributed about the room.  Senor Villablanca, the wealthy rubber concessionist, reposed his fat figure on two chairs, with an emollient smile beaming upon his chocolate-coloured face.  Guilbert, the French mining engineer, leered through his polished nose-glasses.  Colonel Mendez, of the regular army, in gold-laced uniform and fatuous grin, was busily extracting corks from champagne bottles.  Other patterns of Macutian gallantry and fashion pranced and posed.  The air was hazy with cigarette smoke.  Wine dripped upon the floor.

Perched upon a table in the centre of the room in an attitude of easy preeminence was Mlle. Giraud.  A chic costume of white lawn and cherry ribbons supplanted her travelling garb.  There was a suggestion of lace, and a frill or two, with a discreet, small implication of hand-embroidered pink hosiery.  Upon her lap rested a guitar.  In her face was the light of resurrection, the peace of elysium attained through fire and suffering.  She was singing to a lively accompaniment a little song: 

         “When you see de big round moon
          Comin’ up like a balloon,
          Dis nigger skips fur to kiss de lips
          Ob his stylish, black-faced coon.”

The singer caught sight of Armstrong.

“Hi! there, Johnny,” she called; “I’ve been expecting you for an hour.  What kept you?  Gee! but these smoked guys are the slowest you ever saw.  They ain’t on, at all.  Come along in, and I’ll make this coffee-coloured old sport with the gold epaulettes open one for you right off the ice.”

“Thank you,” said Armstrong; “not just now, I believe.  I’ve several things to attend to.”

He walked out and down the street, and met Rucker coming up from the Consulate.

“Play you a game of billiards,” said Armstrong.  “I want something to take the taste of the sea level out of my mouth.”