in her: I have a feeling she is not coming
back."

"Perhaps she has been murdered in one of the brujos cabildos," Charles
suggested. "It is impossible to say where that frenzy stops." A
happening quite different, the dancer told him, was in her mind.

"I could never get into the thoughts of Jobaba," she admitted. "And
there is very little I miss. I suppose it's the negro. She is like
cream, smooth and beautiful to look at, but turned by thunder." If she
were going away, Charles reminded her, there were a number of things
to be discussed and closed. And she told Charles how a Cuban,
ostensibly attached to the national party, but in reality a Spanish
secret agent, had been sent into Camagueey. His name was Rimblas.

Charles Abbott repeated that, and memorized such characteristics as La
Clavel knew. There was an indefinite stir at the door, a short knock,
and he moved to the window as Santacilla entered unceremoniously.

The Spaniard was a model of politeness, of consideration, and he
listened, seated with his hands folded about the head of his officer's
cane, to La Clavel's determination to go to South America. It was an
excellent plan, he agreed; they would welcome her rapturously in
Buenos Aires; but hadn't she put off her intention a little too long?
It was on account of the climate, the season, he hastened to add.
Although, of course, they would open the opera house for her, the
smart world would come in from their estancias.

"But what will our young American do?" he demanded. "How will he live
without his delight? But perhaps he is going to the Argentine with
you. He will have a busy time, and a hatful of challenges there, where
beauty is appreciated to the full."

Charles said, with an appearance of sullenness, that he hadn't been
invited to go farther south; and Santacilla replied that, as a matter
of fact, it might be necessary for him to remain, perhaps forever, in
Havana. He spoke cheerfully, gazing amiably upon them, but a vague
quality of his bearing, his voice, was disturbing, mocking. His words
had the air of an underlying meaning different from their sound. An
uneasiness, as well, was communicated to La Clavel: she watched
Santacilla with an indirect puzzled gaze.

"Jobaba has gone," she announced abruptly.

The trace of a smile hovered about the officer's expression of regret.
"A personable clip of hell," was his opinion of the strayed maid. "Do
you remember the major who composed music?" he add