It was a dirty little square by the harborside, thronged with boatmen, sailors of all nations ashore for a day’s outing, picturesque cigarette-smoking loafers, fruit-sellers, negroes, uniformed police and open-shirted porters. The shops facing it were dingy, the stones of the quay awry in places, and the filth was more than is usual even in Rio de Janeiro. Tawdry like every populous quarter there, it had yet that pictorial air which all semi-tropical scenes, however much defaced by man, never quite lose. To a stranger its most salient feature was the clutter of six-sided, gaily-hued kiosques, which are scattered all through the streets of Rio, many decorated with flags and each selling lottery tickets, whatever else it might have for sale. By one, which dispensed coffee in steaming cups and cognac in tiny thin-stemmed glasses, stood an American talking to a Portuguese. The noticeable thing about the Brazilian was that he was usual and commonplace in every way. There was nothing in his form, features or dress which could possibly have served to remember him by. One might have conned him for an hour and after he was out of sight it would have been impossible to recall anything by which to describe him so as to distinguish him from any one of hundreds in the crowds of the capital. Not even his age could have been specified or approximated to. He was deliberate in his movements, watched his environment without appearing to do so and attracted no attention. Now he sipped his brandy while his interlocutor drank coffee, and the two talked in subdued tones. Discussing a purchase of ship stores, one would say. A boatman in a suit of soiled white duck was loitering near, looking over the harbor. He sidled up to the American and cut in between speech and reply, in a deprecating voice: “You wan’ Macedo see you talkin’ at Guimaraens, senhor Hen’son?” “Where’s Macedo?” the other demanded. The boatman pointed and the two men followed his hand. A boat was approaching across the sparkling water, and they saw the peculiar stroke of the navy and police-boats, in which the men pull and then rest so long with their oars poised that they seem hypnotized in mid-stroke and a novice expects them to stay so forever. “There Macedo now, comin’ from Nictheroy,” said the fellow meaningly. “What do you want me to do, Joao?” the American asked. “Oh, Guimaraens he wait anywhere, come back when Macedo gone. You get in my boat, I row you roun’ pas’ those docks. Then Macedo won’ see you ’tall.” The Portuguese disappeared softly into the crowd. The boat unobtrusively threaded the swarm of small craft, whipped behind a lighter, doubled the nose of the nearest pier, and drifted imperceptibly on while Joao reconnoitred. “I guess we get behin’ that Lamport and Holt lighter. I don’ know wha’ Macedo goin’ to do.”