O’Reilly raised his hat and turned away.

Doctor Alvarado’s dentist’s chair faced a full-length window, one of several which, after the Cuban fashion, opened directly upon the sidewalk, rendering both the waiting-room and the office almost as public as the street itself.  Every one of these windows was wide open when Johnnie arrived; but it seemed that the dentist knew what he was about, for when his patient had taken his seat and he had begun an examination of the troublesome tooth, he said, under his breath: 

“I, too, am watched.  Talk to me in English.  When I press, thus, upon your gum, you will know that some one is passing.  Now then, what is the meaning of your amazing message from Felipe?”

While Doctor Alvarado pretended to treat a perfectly sound molar, Johnnie managed, despite frequent interruptions, to make known the reason and circumstances of his presence.

“But there are no rebels around here,” Alvarado told him.  “You could escape to the country, perhaps, but what then?  Where would you go?  How would they know who you are?”

“That’s what I want to find out.”

The Cuban pondered.  “You’ll have to go to Puerto Principe,” he said, at length.  “Our men are operating in that neighborhood, and my brother Ignacio will know how to reach them.  I’ll give you a message to him, similar to the one you brought me from Felipe.”  Then he smiled.  “I’ve just thought of the very thing.  Years ago I lent him a book which I particularly prized, and one of his children damaged it.  I was furious.  I declared I would never lend him another, and I never have.  Now then, I’ll give you that very volume; hand it to him and say that I asked you to return it to him.  I’d like to see his face when he receives it.”

O’Reilly thanked him, promising to use every precaution in delivering the message.  The very care necessary in communicating between brother and brother made him realize more clearly than hitherto that he was among enemies.

The next morning he paid Carbajal’s score and took the train to the interior.  In his bag was Tomas Alvarado’s precious volume, and in the same coach with him rode the Secret Service man.

In its general features Puerto Principe differed little from the other Cuban cities O’Reilly knew.  It was compactly built, it was very old and it looked its centuries.  Its streets were particularly narrow and crooked, having been purposely laid out in labyrinthian mazes, so the story goes, in order to fool the pirates.  In some ways it was quaint and unusual.  For instance, here and there were queer tinajones, vast venerable earthen jars for holding rain-water, each inscribed with the date when it left the potter’s wheel; then, too, there was a remarkable number of churches—­massive structures, grayed by time—­and in the northern distance, blue against the sky, O’Reilly had a glimpse of the Cubitas range, where he knew the insurrectos were in camp.  That was his goal:  it seemed