“That’s considered genuine flattery, I believe.”

“Would you do me a favor, Master h’Auntony?”

“Surest thing you know.”

“I shall be waiting in the street to-night.  Could you h’arrange to h’ahsk those fatal questions h’adjoining the window so that I might h’overhear?”

“No!  And I don’t want you prowling around outside, either.  You’re not to follow me, understand!  I have enough on my mind as it is.”

The residence of Senor Garavel is considered one of the show places of Panama.  It is of Spanish architecture, built of brick and stucco, and embellished with highly ornamental iron balconies.  It stands upon a corner overlooking one of the several public squares, guarded from the street by a breast-high stone wall crowned with a stout iron fence.  Diagonally opposite and running the full length of the block is a huge weather-stained cathedral, the front of which is decorated with holy figures, each standing by itself in a separate niche.  In the open church tower are great chimes which flood the city with melody, and in the corner fronting upon the intersecting street is a tiny shrine with an image of the Madonna smiling downward.  It is only a little recess in the wall, with barely room for a few kneeling figures, but at night its bright radiance illumines the darkness round about and lends the spot a certain sanctity.

Contrary to the usual custom, the Garavel mansion has a narrow yard, almost smothered in tropical plants that crowd one another through the iron bars and nod at the passers-by.  Riotous vines half screen the balconies:  great overhanging red-tiled eaves give the place an air of coziness which the verdure enhances.  A subdued light was glowing from the lower windows when Anthony mounted the steps and rang.

An Indian woman, clad in barbarous colors, her bare feet encased in sandals, admitted him, and the banker himself met him in the hall.  He led the way into a great barren parlor, where, to Kirk’s embarrassment, he found quite a company gathered.  His host formally presented him to them, one after another.  There were Senor Pedro Garavel, a brother of Andres; Senora Garavel, his wife, who was fat and short of wind; the two Misses Garavel, their daughters; then a little, wrinkled, brown old lady in stiff black silk who spoke no English.  Kirk gathered that she was somebody’s aunt or grandmother.  Last of all, Gertrudis came shyly forward and put her hand in his, then glided back to a seat behind the old lady.  Just as they were seating themselves another member of the family appeared—­this time a second cousin from Guatemala.  Like the grandmother, he was as ignorant of English as Kirk was of Spanish, but he had a pair of frightfully intense black eyes with which he devoured the American.  These orbs exercised an unusual effect upon the caller; they were unwinking, the lids were wide open, and the brilliance of the pupils was heightened by the startling whiteness surrounding them.  They were like the eyes of a frightened horse.