aws the bolts, and our interpreter asks for
"Senora Baldwin." We follow the picturesque little maid through a
tiled vestibule into a starlight patio. The usual ground veranda
encloses this fragrant court, the various rooms opening on it.

We are ushered into one brilliantly lit and luxuriously furnished, and
the hostess and her sister make us welcome. The French consul is there
with his secretary, and the conversation is mostly in their tongue.
Mrs. Baldwin shows us an album of enchanting views of Guatemala and
the abandoned city of Antigua, so beautifully situated and so
earthquake-cursed.

"More than ever," says Mrs. Steele, "I regret we did not omit
something else, and take time to get photographs."

"It's not too late," our hostess says.

"Oh, no," the Baron interposes. "I go now to get dthem. I vas
dthinking if Madame vould like Senorita to choose them."

"No; Blanche does seem a little tired. I couldn't let her go. I think
we must trust your taste, Baron; I can hardly spare the time and
strength for any more exploring tonight."

"No, indeed, you mustn't go," says Mrs. Baldwin. "I've some wonderful
antiquities from a buried Aztec city to show you. When you finish
those views"--she glances at me--"you'll find us in the next room. I
won't say good-bye to you, Baron; of course, you'll be back. Come,
Mrs. Steele"--and they go into an adjoining room.

"If you air not too tire, Senorita, you better come to dthe gallery
and choose dthe pictures. Dthe Consul say it ees near here."

"Oh, really? Yes, I'll go; I know just the ones Mrs. Steele wants. You
will tell her where we've gone, won't you?--we won't be long," I say
to Mrs. Baldwin's young sister, who is chattering French to the
consul.

"Yes," she answers. "It's my opinion you won't find the gallery open
so late as this; but, of course, you can try."

"Oh, I hope it won't be shut. Good-bye."

"Good-bye."

The small servant nodding on the veranda takes us past the palm-shaded
_patio_, and through the dark vestibule.

"_Gracias!_" I say to the dusky little servitor as the huge door
opens.

"_Si! Si!_ Dthousand thanks," mutters the Baron as the bolts fall
behind us, and we are out in the moonlit street. He draws my hand
through his arm.

"What makes your heart beat so?" I say.

"Come on the right side;" he changes me quickly to the other arm, and
I laugh at my acuteness, little dreaming what the Baron's
well-disguised excitement foreboded. We turn do