Zandt, "A might not have had a dollar in the bank. He might have put a worthless check upon the table, knowing, as he thought he knew, that there was not one chance in a thousand of a necessity for its payment arising. That being the case, what mattered it whose name was on the check, his own or—well, say his father's? I am only theorizing on what might naturally occur some time, you know."
Cyrus Felton's face has become ghastly and he appears to be on the verge of collapse. Miss Hathaway regards Van Zandt with wonder and apprehension. The latter seems unconscious of the effect his words have produced, and he remarks carelessly: "But I will not discuss the matter further, as I suspect it bores you."
At this instant the clatter of hoof-beats sounds from the road, as a detachment of Spanish caballeria ride up, tether their horses and hurry boisterously into the cafe. The Americans are established on a quiet veranda at the rear of the building, where they may be free from just such interruptions.
"Are you ready to depart?" says Van Zandt to his companions.
"I am anxious to return to Santiago as soon as possible," declares Mr. Felton.
Van Zandt raps upon the table for the waiter, but no response is made. Host and helpers are busily occupied with their noisy guests.
"Pardon me a moment. I will step within and settle the account," says Van Zandt, as he rises and enters the cafe.
The drinking-room is crowded with the boisterous soldiery, disporting themselves as if war were an amusement and the curtain nearly down on the farce of revolution.
The presumptive leader of the troopers is a tall, rather handsome young fellow, who sits with his back against the wall and a glass in his hand. There is no one within a dozen or twenty feet of him except one caballero, with a scar across his forehead, who sits by himself at a table.
