he observed, "why did you make this
appointment with me? May I have the pleasure of taking him a note from
you? he is very fond of intrigues."

Leaning forward she laid a firm square palm on his knee. "You have
told me all that I wanted--this Tirso, who was killed, he was your
dear friend and his death an agony; the smaller, the coffee berry, you
are devoted to his goodness and simplicity; beneath Quintara's
waistcoats you find a heart of gold. But Escobar--is it Andres?--you
love better than your life. They care nothing for your American
dollars; it is evident they all have much more than you. What is it,
then, you are united by? I shall tell you--Cuba. You are patriots,
insurrectionists; Santacilla was right. And neither is your rebellion
crushed, not with Agramonte alive." She leaned back with glimmering
eyes and the cruel paint of her mouth smiling at him.

* * * * *

She was, then, Charles Abbott reflected, an agent of Spain's; calmly
he rehearsed all they had said to each other, he examined every
sentence, every inflection of voice. He could not have been more
circumspect; the position he had taken, of a pleasure-loving young
American, was so natural that it was inevitable. No, La Clavel knew
nothing, she was simply adopting another method in her task of getting
information for Santacilla. At this, remembering the adoration of his
circle for her, he was brushed by a swift sorrow. For them she had
been the symbol, the embodiment, of beauty; the fire and grace of her
dancing had intensified, made richer, their sense of life. She had
been the utmost flashing peak of their desire; and now it was clear to
him that she was rotten at the core, La Clavel was merely a spy; what
had engaged them was nothing more than a brilliant flowery surface, a
bright shawl.

"You are wasting your efforts," he assured her, with an appearance of
complete comfort. "Even if you were right, I mean about the others,
what, do you think, would make them confide in me, almost a stranger?
You understand this so much better than I that, instead of questioning
me, you ought to explain the whole Cuban situation. Women like
yourself, with genius, know everything."

She utterly disconcerted Charles by enveloping him in a rapid gesture,
her odorous lips were pressed against his cheek. "You are as sweet as
a lime flower," La Clavel declared. "After the others--" her
expression of disgust was singularly valid. "That