“Now, now!  I can’t understand a word.  Who are you?”

“H’Allan, mistress.”

“You say some one is ill?”

“Oh yes, he is very h’ill h’indeed, mistress—­h’all covered with blood and his poor ’ands h’all cut.”

“Who—?”

“And his ’ead—­oh, Lard!  His ’ead is cut, too, and he suffers a fever.”

“Who is it?”

“Mr. h’Auntony—­”

“Anthony!” Mrs. Cortlandt started.  “What has happened?  Quick!”

Seeing that at last he had found a friend, the Jamaican began to sob with relief, wailing extravagant praises to God and apparently endeavoring to kiss Mrs. Cortlandt’s hand, whereat she seized him by the shoulders and shook him, crying: 

“Stop that!  Behave yourself and tell me what is the trouble, quickly now, from the beginning.”

Without drying his tears, Allan launched himself into the full violence of his recital, stumbling recklessly over his figures of speech, lapsing into idioms that it taxed his hearer to follow.  Had she been less acquainted with the Caribbean dialects she would have missed much of the story, but, as it was, she followed him closely, urging him on with sharp expressions of amazement and nods of understanding.  Rapidly she gathered the facts of the case, while her cheeks whitened and her eyes grew dark with indignation.  The sight renewed Allan’s emotion.  His voice broke, his black hands shook, he began to sob once more, and great tears stole down his ebony cheeks.  But he managed to answer her terse, shocked questions with some degree of intelligence, calling upon his vivid imagination for such details as his memory had lost.

“I wait an’ wait for him to h’emerge, but he does not come.  Perhaps they ’ave killed the poor mon once more.”

“How did you get here?”

“With my feet, mistress.  Sometimes rode I on the train, but the train people are very common; they h’addressed me rudely and threw me by the wayside.”

“Couldn’t you telephone?”

“I do not h’understand ’ow.”

“Why didn’t he notify me at once?  If I had only known—­”

“Those ’eartless Spiggoties would not h’allow it.  Oh, you will h’assist the poor mon!  Say it.  Praise be to God, he is bleeding in the prison—­”

“Yes, yes, certainly.”

Allan reached clumsily this time to kiss the hem of her skirt, but she stepped aside quickly, fumbling meanwhile in her purse for a bank-note, while he exclaimed: 

“God bless you, good mistress.  He told me to find you and present his recital.”

“Here, take this money and go back to Colon by the first train.  We may need you.  Now go!  I’ll be there ahead of you.”

She picked up her white skirts and ran up the hotel stairs as if pursued, bursting in upon her husband so impetuously that he rose in surprise, inquiring: 

“What is it?”

“Young Anthony is in jail in Colon,” she panted.  “He’s been locked up for three days, and they won’t let him out.”