He turned to see what had become of them when he had gone down the side street some distance. As they were not in sight, he decided that they had kept along the main avenue, to enjoy the breeze from the sea that swept gustily across the thoroughfare at intervals. In all cities, no matter how well regulated, there are drinking resorts that have not the entire approval of the police. It was into one of these that Nick Carter stepped at last. The place was not far from the water front, but the patrons were not of the rough class one so often finds in saloons near the wharves in larger cities. It is doubtful whether they were so good at heart, however. There was a porch in front of the place. Several men were sitting there, lazily tilted back in their chairs, with cigarettes in their teeth and a cool drink at their elbows on the small tables. Nick seated himself on the porch, and told the waiter to bring him a lemonade. In the absence of the serving man to get the drink, Nick looked about him casually. The half dozen men on the porch beside himself all appeared to be giving themselves up to the enjoyment of the hour. Tobacco and drinks kept them mildly amused, it seemed. Every lounger looked as if he might be in fairly comfortable circumstances. The detective put them down as storekeepers, mechanics--cigarmakers, probably--and men connected with the shipping of the harbor. Next to him was a dark-complexioned individual, who looked like a Cuban, with a mixture of West Indian negro blood. Such persons are rather frequent in Porto Rico. He was dressed in a linen suit, with a panama hat and white shoes. There was a diamond ring on one of his brown fingers, and another diamond sparkled in the bosom of his narrow-plaited, soft, white shirt bosom. Prosperity oozed from him. He had just lighted a long cigar as Nick Carter sat down by his side. The Cuban did not look up. As he smoked, he seemed to have enough affairs of his own to occupy his mind, without wasting any time on a stranger. Nick Carter took one of his own favorite perfectos from a cigar case and bit off the end with a snap of his even, white teeth. Then he felt in his pockets for a match. He brought out a silver match box first, and, finding it empty, explored his clothing with what appeared to be rapidly increasing vexation. Not a match could he find. He looked on the tables, but no matches were there. “Deuce take it! I wish I had a match!” he muttered, in a carefully disguised tone. “Where’s that confounded waiter?” The Cuban turned and looked Nick Carter over with a gaze that took him in from head to foot. Then, moved by a sudden impulse, he said, in a voice with a strong Spanish accent: “May I give you a light?” “Thanks!” answered Nick. “I am sorry I have no match,” went on the Cuban. “Will you honor me by taking a light from my cigarro?” “If you will favor me.”