They will relate to you how the new government sifted the towns
and raked the roads to find the valise containing Anchuria's surplus
capital, which the president was known to have carried with him,
but all in vain. In Coralio Senor Goodwin himself led the searching
party which combed that town as carefully as a woman combs her hair;
but the money was not found.

So they buried the dead man, without honors, back of the town near
the little bridge that spans the mangrove swamp; and for a ~real~
a boy will show you his grave. They say that the old woman in whose
hut the barber shaved the president placed the wooden slab at his
head, and burned the inscription upon it with a hot iron.

You will hear also that Senor Goodwin, like a tower of strength,
shielded Dona Isabel Guilbert through those subsequent distressful
days; and that his scruples as to her past career (if he had any)
vanished; and her adventuresome waywardness (if she had any) left
her, and they were wedded and were happy.

The American built a home on a little foothill near the town. It is
a conglomerate structure of native woods that, exported, would be
worth a fortune, and of brick, palm, glass, bamboo and adobe. There
is a paradise of nature about it; and something of the same sort
within. The natives speak of its interior with hands uplifted in
admiration. There are floors polished like mirrors and covered with
hand-woven Indian rugs of silk fibre, tall ornaments and pictures,
musical instruments and papered walls--"figure-it-to-yourself!"
they exclaim.

But they cannot tell you in Coralio (as you shall learn) what became