the exchange of salutations is made, fails and sinks passively into the bottom of the boat.
The sun is gilding Maro castle as the little craft enters the harbor of Havana.
"A remarkably quick passage," says the captain in Spanish, as the sloop is being moored to a dilapidated wharf in an obscure portion of the water front.
Barker struggles to his feet. "Are we in Havana?" he inquires in Spanish, a trifle rusty, but still intelligible.
"Si, senor."
"Thank heaven!" is the pious ejaculation of the detective. "I'll live and die in Cuba before I'll every trust myself in a cockleshell like that again."
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
A SOLDIER OF CASTILE.
"Heavens! They have just sized up my condition and
sent an ambulance," Barker grunts, as his eyes rest for
the first time on that marvel of vehicular construction, a
Cuban volante, which the good-natured captain of the
sloop has secured for his late passenger.
But before he clambers into the conveyance the detective, whose professional instincts are now awakening, ascertains from the driver that the American steamer City of Havana has not yet arrived, although due that morning.
Barker begins to feel better. "Things seem to be coming my way at last," he thinks complacently. "I'll take no chances this time. John Barker, detective, will be the first to greet Cyrus Felton when that gentleman steps on Cuban soil. Now for the hotel and a bath, a visit to the American consul and then to the wharf of the Red Star Line, wherever that is."
It is a very different individual from the woebegone passenger on the little smuggler that three hours later
