The incongruous yachtsman had concentrated his interest upon the
innocent fruiter. Twice had he been assured that no passengers had
come to Coralio on board of her. And yet, with a persistence not to
be attributed to an idling voyager, he had appealed the case to the
higher court of his own eyesight. Surprisingly like some gay-coated
lizard, he crouched at the foot of the coconut palm, and with the
beady, shifting eyes of the selfsame reptile, sustained his espionage
on the ~Karlesfin~.

On the white sands a whiter gig belonging to the yacht was drawn up,
guarded by one of the white-ducked crew. Not far away in a ~pulperia~
on the shore-following Calle Grande three other sailors swaggerred
with their cues around Coralio's solitary billiard-table. The boat
lay there as if under orders to be ready for use at any moment.
There was in the atmosphere a hint of expectation, of waiting for
something to occur, which was foreign to the air of Coralio.

Like some passing bird of brilliant plumage, Smith alights on this
palmy shore but to preen his wings for an instant and then to fly
away upon silent pinions. When morning dawned there was no Smith,
no waiting gig, no yacht in the offing, Smith left no intimation of
his mission there, no footprints to show where he had followed the
trail of his mystery on the sands of Coralio that night. He came;
he spake his strange jargon of the asphalt and the cafes; he sat
under the coconut-tree, and vanished. The next morning Coralio,
Smithless, ate its fried plantain and said: "The man of pictured
clothing went himself away." With the ~siesta~ the incident passed,
yawning, into history.

So, for a time, must Smith pass behind the scenes of the play.