r of hostility that had
been thrown between them and as quickly withdrawn. The next moment, he
was shaking the extended hand, and hearing the commonplace:

"Much pleased, senor."

Ribero felt a momentary flash of shame for the betrayal of such
undiplomatic surprise, and made amends with added courtesy when he
spoke.

The artist, dropping into his seat at the side of Miss Filson, felt a
flush of pleasure at his position. For the instant, the other man's
conduct became a matter of negligible importance, and, when she turned
to him with a friendly nod and smile, he forgot Ribero's existence.

"Mr. Ribero," announced Mr. Bellton, "was just about to tell us an
interesting story when you two delinquents came in. I'm sure he still
has the floor."

The diplomat had forgotten what he had been saying. He was covertly
studying the features of the man just beyond Miss Filson. The face was
turned toward the girl, giving him a full view, and it was a steady,
imperturbable face. Now, introduced as raconteur, he realized that he
must say something, and at the moment, with a flash of inspiration, he
determined to relate a bit of history that would be of interest at
least to the narrator. It was not at all the story he might have told
had he been uninterrupted, but it was a story that appealed to his
diplomatic taste, because he could watch the other face as he told it
and see what the other face might betray. This newcomer had jarred him
from his usual poise. Now, he fancied it was the other's turn to be
startled.

"It was," he said casually, "the narrowest escape from death that I
have seen--and the man who escaped was an American."

As Saxon raised his eyes, with polite interest, to those of the
speaker, he became aware that they held for him a message of almost
sardonic challenge. He felt that the story-teller was only ostensibly
addressing the table; that the man was talking at him, as a prosecutor
talks at the defendant though he may direct himself to the jury. The
sense that brought this realization was perhaps telepathic. To the
other eyes and ears, there were only the manner of the raconteur and
the impersonal tone of generality.

"It occurred in Puerto Frio," said the South American, reminiscently.
He paused for a moment, and smiled at Saxon, as though expecting a
sign of confusion upon the mention of the name, but he read only
courteous interest and impenetrability.

"This countryman of yours," he went on smoothly,