The carriage drew up before the hotel door, which appeared deserted as, indeed, it was, for with money and food both scarce in Havana, the hotels stand but a poor show of patronage. “Your three fares, peon,” said Hal, dropping a few coins in the driver’s hand. “Four pesetas more,” insisted the driver. Hal paid it, without protest, and disappeared inside. He was quickly shown to a room, and requested that his trunk be sent up. “Although I ordered that sent here from the interior,” he smiled, as he bent over the box, “I expected to leave it behind.” Unlocking the lid, he examined the articles in the trunk for some moments, until a warning “Ss-sst!” reached his ear. Rising quickly, Hal saw from whence the signal had come. In the aperture made by an open skylight overhead appeared the head of a dark-skinned young man. His bright, restless eyes took in everything in the room, our hero included. “You are an American?” he asked, as Hal stepped under the skylight. “Yes.” “Then I am your friend. But have you an enemy?” “I--I fear I have.” “Look out of the window toward the harbor. Then come back.” Hal quickly obeyed, returning with a perturbed face. “You saw Senor Vasquez approaching, with two officers and a squad of soldiers?” “Just that!” affirmed Hal. “The officers have a pretense, but Vasquez will really seek your money. If you have it not with you, or know a safe hiding place, you will fool him, but if the money is in your possession, it will surely be taken from you.” Hal hesitated, regarding the speaker with a look full of penetration. What he saw was the frank, pleasing face of a youth of eighteen. Somehow, Hal’s heart went out to the stranger. “If,” said the other, “you have the money, and wish to save it, you can trust it with me, senor.” “What could you do with it?” projected Hal. “Drop it into one of my pockets,” added the other, adding with a laugh: “No one would search such a thin, ragged Cuban as I for the possession of so much money. But think quickly, senor, for Vasquez will be here in another moment. Juan Ramirez is my name.” “A Cuban?” asked Hal. “See!” And Juan drew from a pocket what could easily become his death-warrant--a small Cuban flag. This he kissed with a simple, unaffected air of devotion. “By Jove, I’ll trust you,” murmured Hal. “I’ve yet to meet a Cuban thief!” R-rip! In a second he began to unbutton his clothing, bringing out to view from under his shirt a long, thin bag. “This contains two thousand dollars,” he whispered. “And if anything happens to you, to whom does the money belong?” “Henry Richardson, at Key West.” “He shall have it,” promised the Cuban. “Hush! There are steps on the stairs.” Like a flash, Ramirez vanished. “Have I been duped?” wondered Hal, with a quick thrill of apprehension.