“What think you, Don Frank!” he cried, in the universal tone of the conspirator. “I have to-night shaved _la barba_—what you call the ‘weeskers’ of the _Presidente_ himself, of this countree! Consider! He sent for me to come. In the poor _casita_ of an old woman he awaited me—in a verree leetle house in a dark place. _Carramba!_—el Señor Presidente to make himself thus secret and obscured! I think he desired not to be known—but, _carajo!_ can you shave a man and not see his face? This gold piece he gave me, and said it was to be all quite still. I think, Don Frank, there is what you call a chip over the bug.” “Have you ever seen President Miraflores before?” asked Goodwin. “But once,” answered Estebán. “He is tall; and he had weeskers, verree black and sufficient.” “Was anyone else present when you shaved him?” “An old Indian woman, Señor, that belonged with the _casa_, and one señorita—a ladee of so much beautee!—_ah, Dios!_” “All right, Estebán,” said Goodwin. “It’s very lucky that you happened along with your tonsorial information. The new administration will be likely to remember you for this.” Then in a few words he made the barber acquainted with the crisis into which the affairs of the nation had culminated, and instructed him to remain outside, keeping watch upon the two sides of the hotel that looked upon the street, and observing whether anyone should attempt to leave the house by any door or window. Goodwin himself went to the door through which the guests had entered, opened it and stepped inside. Madama had returned downstairs from her journey above to see after the comfort of her lodgers. Her candle stood upon the bar. She was about to take a thimbleful of rum as a solace for having her rest disturbed. She looked up without surprise or alarm as her third caller entered. “Ah! it is the Señor Goodwin. Not often does he honour my poor house by his presence.” “I must come oftener,” said Goodwin, with the Goodwin smile. “I hear that your cognac is the best between Belize to the north and Rio to the south. Set out the bottle, Madama, and let us have the proof in _un vasito_ for each of us.” “My _aguardiente_,” said Madama, with pride, “is the best. It grows, in beautiful bottles, in the dark places among the banana-trees. _Si, Señor._ Only at midnight can they be picked by sailor-men who bring them, before daylight comes, to your back door. Good _aguardiente_ is a verree difficult fruit to handle, Señor Goodwin.” Smuggling, in Coralio, was much nearer than competition to being the life of trade. One spoke of it slyly, yet with a certain conceit, when it had been well accomplished. “You have guests in the house to-night,” said Goodwin, laying a silver dollar upon the counter.