“But I haven’t begun on the story I was going to tell you yet.

“One day I took a long ride in the hot sunshine, and then took a bath in the cold waters of a lagoon on the edge of the town before I’d cooled off.

“That evening after dark I called at the alcalde’s to see Anabela.  I was calling regular every evening then, and we were to be married in a month.  She was looking like a bulbul, a gazelle, and a tea-rose, and her eyes were as soft and bright as two quarts of cream skimmed off from the Milky Way.  She looked at my rugged features without any expression of fear or repugnance.  Indeed, I fancied that I saw a look of deep admiration and affection, such as she had cast at Fergus on the plaza.

“I sat down, and opened my mouth to tell Anabela what she loved to hear—­that she was a trust, monopolizing all the loveliness of earth.  I opened my mouth, and instead of the usual vibrating words of love and compliment, there came forth a faint wheeze such as a baby with croup might emit.  Not a word—­not a syllable—­not an intelligible sound.  I had caught cold in my laryngeal regions when I took my injudicious bath.

“For two hours I sat trying to entertain Anabela.  She talked a certain amount, but it was perfunctory and diluted.  The nearest approach I made to speech was to formulate a sound like a clam trying to sing ‘A Life on the Ocean Wave’ at low tide.  It seemed that Anabela’s eyes did not rest upon me as often as usual.  I had nothing with which to charm her ears.  We looked at pictures and she played the guitar occasionally, very badly.  When I left, her parting manner seemed cool—­or at least thoughtful.

“This happened for five evenings consecutively.

“On the sixth day she ran away with Fergus McMahan.

“It was known that they fled in a sailing yacht bound for Belize.  I was only eight hours behind them in a small steam launch belonging to the Revenue Department.

“Before I sailed, I rushed into the botica of old Manuel Iquito, a half-breed Indian druggist.  I could not speak, but I pointed to my throat and made a sound like escaping steam.  He began to yawn.  In an hour, according to the customs of the country, I would have been waited on.  I reached across the counter, seized him by the throat, and pointed again to my own.  He yawned once more, and thrust into my hand a small bottle containing a black liquid.

“‘Take one small spoonful every two hours,’ says he.

“I threw him a dollar and skinned for the steamer.

“I steamed into the harbour at Belize thirteen seconds behind the yacht that Anabela and Fergus were on.  They started for the shore in a dory just as my skiff was lowered over the side.  I tried to order my sailormen to row faster, but the sounds died in my larynx before they came to the light.  Then I thought of old Iquito’s medicine, and I got out his bottle and took a swallow of it.