She was gone now--gone amid the palms of that gorgeous hotel courtyard. And out of the roar that enveloped him Minot heard a voice: "Thirty-five dollars, mister." So promptly did he pay this grievous overcharge that the chauffeur asked hopefully: "Now could I take you anywhere, sir?" "Yes," said Minot bitterly. "Take me back to New York." "Well--if I had a new front tire I might try it." Two eager black boys were moving inside with Minot's bags, and he followed. As he passed the fountain tinkling gaily in the courtyard: "What was it I promised Thacker?" he said to himself. "'Miss Cynthia Meyrick changes her mind only over my dead body.' Ah, well--the good die young." CHAPTER IV MR. TRIMMER LIMBERS UP At the desk of the De la Pax Mr. Minot learned that for fifteen dollars a day he might board and lodge amid the splendors of that hotel. Gratefully he signed his name. One of the negro boys--who had matched coins for him with the other boy while he registered--led the way to his room. It proved a long and devious journey. The Hotel de la Pax was a series of afterthoughts on the part of its builders. Up hill and down dale the boy led, through dark passageways, over narrow bridges, until at length they arrived at the door of 389. "My boy," muttered Minot feelingly, "I congratulate you. Henry M. Stanley in the flower of his youth couldn't have done any better." "Yes, suh." The boy threw open the door of a narrow cell, at the farther end of which a solitary window admitted the well-known Florida sunshine. Minot stepped over and glanced out. Where the gay courtyard with its green palms waving, its fountain tinkling? Not visible from 389. Instead Minot saw a narrow street, its ancient cobblestones partly obscured by flourishing grass, and bordered by quaint, top-heavy Spanish houses, their plaster walls a hundred colors from the indignities of the years. "We seem to have strayed over into Spain," he remarked. The bell-boy giggled. "Yes, suh. We one block and a half from de hotel office." "I didn't notice any taxis in the corridors," smiled Minot. "Here--wait a minute." He tossed the boy a coin. "Your fare back home. If you get stranded on the way, telegraph." The boy departed, and Minot continued to gaze out. Directly across from his window, looking strangely out of place in that dead and buried street, stood a great stone house that bore on its front the sign "Manhattan Club and Grill." On the veranda, flush with the sidewalk and barely fifteen feet away, a huge red-faced man sat deep in slumber.