If there was a spot on the round earth where a somewhat weary fugitive might spend a few quiet days in absolute retirement, undisturbed by inquisitive intruders, it must surely be the little Mexican town of Jalapa. Situated on a gentle hill not far from the snowy dome of Orizaba, about midway between the hot coast and the lofty central plateau, Jalapa is a mass of green verdure and possesses a delightful climate. All about on the slopes of Orizaba and in the green valleys are extensive coffee plantations, watered by delightful streams. Everywhere great umbrageous trees, tropical in their luxuriance, shade the approaches to the old town. Jalapa itself consists of a few streets of white buildings with irregular tile roofs, a squat cathedral of the Spanish-American type, fertile green gardens carefully walled in, and of course a plaza, which at this season of the year was abloom with fragrant lilies. To Brainard, after a week of circuitous wandering through Mexican villages, sleeping and eating in filthy places, it seemed a veritable oasis. As the mule cart in which he had completed the last part of his erratic journey slowly dragged him up the shady hill, he had visions of a good bath and a day or two of complete idleness before moving on to Vera Cruz, to take the boat for Havre. His clothes sadly needed attention, and he was uncomfortably aware that in addition to a useful acquaintance with the Spanish language he had also acquired a miscellaneous assortment of vermin from his recent wandering. The somnolent streets in the hot May afternoon were nearly deserted, so that his arrival in the town aroused little attention. As the mule cart drew up in the courtyard of a clean-looking hotel next to the cathedral and opposite the pretty plaza, he congratulated himself thoroughly on his luck. Having seen his bag deposited carefully in one of the enormous bedrooms that faced the plaza, and accomplished the desired bath, he descended to the patio on an exploring expedition. Near the trickling fountain in the center of the _patio_ a well-dressed man was seated, reading a book. Brainard instinctively felt that he must be an American from the appearance of his clothes, although his face was hidden by the book. On the small iron table by his side an iced drink was standing. The stranger reached for this and dropped his book long enough to perceive Brainard. “Hello!” he said calmly, “when did you arrive?” Brainard recognized the fight-trust magnate whom he had met on the Overland Limited. “You here too!” he exclaimed. “What brings you down here?” Hollinger sipped his drink and eyed the young man as though to say,—“we don’t ask that sort of question in these parts—it is very crude of you.” “Oh, business and pleasure,—that combination which carries us mortals most everywhere,” he observed and with a slight stress added,—“the same I judge that brought you to Mexico.”