“Oh, I don’t know that it was his fault—­altogether,” replied Kenmore.  “There’s a young lady here in the city, the daughter of a pilot, Dolores Guiteras.  She had been a friend of some one in the expedition, I believe.  I suppose that’s how Gage met her.  I don’t think either of them really cared for each other.  Perhaps she was a bit jealous of the ladies of the party.  I don’t know anything much about it, only I remember one night in the cafe of the Palace Hotel, I thought Gage and another fellow would fight a duel—­ almost—­until Everson dropped in and patched the affair up and the next day his yacht left for Golden Key.”

“I wish I’d been here to go with them,” I considered.  “How do you suppose I’ll be able to get out there, now?”

“You might be able to hire a tug,” shrugged Kenmore.  “The only one I know is that of Captain Guiteras.  He’s the father of this Dolores I told you about.”

The suggestion seemed good, and after a few moments more of conversation, absorbing what little Kenmore knew, we threaded our way across the city to the home of the redoubtable Guiteras and his pretty daughter.

Guiteras proved to be a man of about fifty, a sturdy, muscular fellow, his face bronzed by the tropical sun.

I had scarcely broached the purpose of my visit when his restless brown eyes seemed literally to flash.  “No, sir,” he exclaimed, emphatically.  “You cannot get me to go on any such expedition.  Mr. Everson came here first and tried to hire my tug.  I wouldn’t do it.  No, sir—­he had to get one from Havana.  Why, the whole thing is unlucky—­hoodooed, you call it.  I will not touch it.”

“But,” I remonstrated, surprised at his unexpected vehemence, “I am not asking you to join the expedition.  We are only going to—­”

“No, no,” he interrupted.  “I will not consider it.  I—­”

He cut short his remarks as a young woman, radiant in her Latin-American beauty, opened the door, hesitated at sight of us, then entered at a nod from him.  We did not need to be told that this was the Dolores whom Kenmore’s rumor had credited with almost wrecking Everson’s expedition at the start.  She was a striking type, her face, full of animation and fire, betraying more of passion than of intellect.

A keen glance of inquiry from her wonderful eyes at her father was followed by a momentary faraway look, and she remained silent, while Guiteras paused, as if considering something.

“They say,” he continued, slowly, his features drawn sharply, “that there was loot of Mexican churches on that ship—­the jewels of Our Lady of the Rosary at Puebla....  That ship was cursed, I tell you!” he added, scowling darkly.

“No one was lost on it, though,” I ventured at random.

“I suppose you never heard the story of the Antilles?” he inquired, turning swiftly toward me.  Then, without stopping:  “She had just sailed from San Juan before she was wrecked—­on her way to New York from Vera Cruz with several hundred Mexican refugees.  Treasure?  Yes; perhaps millions, money that belonged to wealthy families in Mexico—­and some that had the curse on it.