Madama had returned downstairs from her journey above to see after
the comfort of her lodgers. Her candle stood upon the bar. She was
about to take a thimbleful of rum as a solace for having her rest
disturbed. She looked up without surprise or alarm as her third
caller entered.

"Ah! it is the Senor Goodwin. Not often does he honor my poor house
with his presence."

"I must come oftener," said Goodwin, with a Goodwin smile. "I hear
that your cognac is the best between Belize to the north and Rio to
the south. Set out the bottle, Madama, and let us have the proof in
~un vasito~ for each of us."

"My ~aguardiente~," said Madama, with pride, "is the best. It grows,
in beautiful bottles, in the dark places among the banana-trees.
~Si, Senor~. Only at midnight can they be picked by sailor-men
who bring them, before daylight comes, to your back door. Good
~aguardiente~ is a verree difficult fruit to handle, Senor Goodwin."

Smuggling, in Coralio, was much nearer than competition to being the
life of trade. One spoke of it slyly, yet with a certain conceit,
when it had been well accomplished.

"You have guests in the house tonight," said Goodwin, laying a silver
dollar upon the counter.

"Why not?" said Madama, counting the change. "Two; but the smallest
while finished to arrive. One senor, not quite old, and one senorita