alect, but, despite his desire to act the part, feeling
awkward in receiving charity.

Manuel watched him closely, then, abruptly, bade him go on ahead. The
scrutiny had increased his uneasiness.

This self-appointed guide was no negro, no mulatto, of that Manuel was
sure. The money had been received without that wide answering grin of
pleasure characteristic in almost all negro types. Moreover, the palms
of the boy's hands were the same color as the rest of his skin. The
Cuban knew well that a certain dirty pallor is always evident on the
palms of the hands of even the blackest negroes.

The boy's reference to the "Citadel of the Black Emperor" showed that he
was aware of this secret meeting of conspirators.

This was grave.

More, he was disguised.

This was graver still.

Was this boy, too, afraid of Haiti, that savage land at the doors of
America; that abode where magic, superstition and even cannibalism still
lurk in the forests; that barbarous republic where the white man is
despised and hated, and the black man dominates? That land where the
only civilizing force for a century has been a handful of American
marines!

That this boy was disguised suggested that he was in fear for his life;
but, if so, why was he there? How did he come to know the pass-word of
the conspiracy? For what mysterious reason did he offer himself as a
guide to the haunted place of meeting?

Who was this boy?

Manuel turned into the Cafe de l'Opera, a tumble-down frame shack with a
corrugated iron roof, to order a cooling drink and to puzzle out this
utterly baffling mystery.

The Cuban's first impulse was to flee. Had anything less imperious than
this all-important meeting been before him, Manuel would have made his
escape without a moment's delay.

Cap Haitien is no place for a white man who has fallen under suspicion.
Of the four gateways into Haiti it is the most dangerous. In Jacamal, a
white man may be left alone, so long as he does not incur the enmity of
the blacks; in Gonaive the foreign holders of concessions may protect
him; in Port-au-Prince, the capital, he is safeguarded by the potent arm
of the American marines; but, in the country districts back of Cap
Haitien, the carrion buzzards may be the only witnesses of his fate.
And, to that back country, the Cuban must go. All this, Manuel knew, and
he was a shrewd enough man to dare to be afraid.

Stuart squatted in the shadow of the building while the Cuban sipped