me daughter. It is nod
possib' dad you s'all spick him! I cannot pearmid thad."

While the old man was speaking these vehement words, the Cuban was
emphatically nodding approval.

"Co-rect-a, co-rect-a, Senor," he replied. "Senor, you' r-r-right-a;
escuse-a me, Senor, escuse-a me. Senor D'Hemecourt, Mayor Shanghness',
when he talkin' wi' me he usin' hore-a name o the t-thime-a!"

"My fren'," said M. D'Hemecourt, rising and speaking with labored
control, "I muz tell you good nighd. You 'ave sooprise me a verry gred
deal. I s'all _in_vestigade doze ting; an', Manuel Mazaro, h-I am a hole
man; bud I will requez you, iv dad wad you say is nod de true, my God!
not to h-ever ritturn again ad de Cafe des Exiles."

Mazaro smiled and nodded. His host opened the door into the garden, and,
as the young man stepped out, noticed even then how handsome was his
face and figure, and how the odor of the night jasmine was filling the
air with an almost insupportable sweetness. The Cuban paused a moment,
as if to speak, but checked himself, lifted his girlish face, and looked
up to where the daggers of the palmetto-tree were crossed upon the face
of the moon, dropped his glance, touched his Panama, and silently
followed by the bare-headed old man, drew open the little garden-gate,
looked cautiously out, said good-night, and stepped into the street.

As M. D'Hemecourt returned to the door through which he had come, he
uttered an ejaculation of astonishment. Pauline stood before him. She
spoke hurriedly in French.

"Papa, papa, it is not true."

"No, my child," he responded, "I am sure it is not true: I am sure it is
all false; but why do I find you out of bed so late, little bird? The
night is nearly gone."

He laid his hand upon her cheek.

"Ah, papa, I cannot deceive you. I thought Manuel would tell you
something of this kind, and I listened."

The father's face immediately betrayed a new and deeper distress.

"Pauline, my child," he said with tremulous voice, "if Manuel's story is
all false, in the name of Heaven how could you think he was going to
tell it?"

He unconsciously clasped his hands. The good child had one trait which
she could not have inherited from her father; she was quick-witted and
discerning; yet now she stood confounded.

"Speak, my child," cried the alarmed old man; "speak! let me live, and
not die."

"Oh, papa," she cried, "I do not know!"

The old man groaned.

"Papa, papa," she cried again, "I