There was no reason, Brainard said to himself, why this dead-beat should not spend the night in the courtyard of the Hotel Iturbide. Turning out the light, he got into bed; but he could not sleep, and presently he rose and peered cautiously out into the dark. The courtyard, faintly lighted by the lamps in the office, was empty. This disturbed him rather more than the skulking presence of the American, although he could give no reason for his suspicion beyond the stranger’s apparent interest in his valise. He got back into bed, but not to sleep. After tossing restlessly for another hour, he rose and dressed. As soon as the first light appeared, he took his bag and groped his way through the dark corridors to the office. He inquired of the night porter about trains and found that there was an early morning train to the North. Saying that he had had a bad night and thought he would go to the railroad station and wait there for the train, he paid his bill, not forgetting to add a good tip. The man offered to get him a cab, but he refused, saying that he could easily pick up one in the street. As the porter who had been roused to something like animation by his _pour boire_ unbarred the great door, Brainard asked him casually: “Do you know that _Gringo_ who was talking to me last evening—the one who was hanging about here all the evening?” “No, _señor_,” the man replied. “He’s been in and out at the hotel for a week. Just come from the States, and lost all his money at cards so soon. A bad lot!” with a final shrug of the shoulders. “He told me he had been here several years!” Brainard exclaimed. “No, _señor_, that cannot be. He knows no Spanish. Probably he wished money from you to go back to the States.” “Very likely—well, he didn’t get much!”