The plans for the detention of the flying PresidentMiraflores and his companion at the coast line seemedhardly likely to fail. Doctor Zavalla himself had gone tothe port of Alazan to establish a guard at that point. AtSolitas the Liberal patriot Varras could be depended uponto keep close watch. Goodwin held himself responsible forthe district about Coralio.
The news of the president’s flight had been disclosedto no one in the coast towns save trusted members of theambitious political party that was desirous of succeedingto power. The telegraph wire running from San Mateo tothe coast had been cut far up on the mountain trail by anemissary of Zavalla’s. Long before this could be repairedand word received along it from the capital the fugitiveswould have reached the coast and the question of escapeor capture been solved.
Goodwin had stationed armed sentinels at frequentintervals along the shore for a mile in each direction fromCoralio. They were instructed to keep a vigilant lookoutduring the night to prevent Miraflores from attempting toembark stealthily by means of some boat or sloop foundby chance at the water’s edge. A dozen patrols walkedthe streets of Coralio unsuspected， ready to intercept thetruant official should he show himself there.
Goodwin was very well convinced that no precautionshad been overlooked. He strolled about the streets thatbore such high-sounding names and were but narrow，grass-covered lanes， lending his own aid to the vigil thathad been intrusted to him by Bob Englehart.
The town had begun the tepid round of its nightlydiversions. A few leisurely dandies， cald in white duck，with flowing neckties， and swinging slim bamboo canes，threaded the grassy by-ways toward the houses of theirfavored senoritas. Those who wooed the art of musicdragged tirelessly at whining concertinas， or fingeredlugubrious guitars at doors and windows. An occasionalsoldier from the cuartel， with flapping straw hat， withoutcoat or shoes， hurried by， balancing his long gun like alance in one hand. From every density of the foliage thegiant tree frogs sounded their loud and irritating clatter.
Further out， the guttural cries of marauding baboonsand the coughing of the alligators in the black estuariesfractured the vain silence of the wood.
By ten o’clock the streets were deserted. The oil lampsthat had burned， a sickly yellow， at random corners，had been extinguished by some economical civic agent.
Coralio lay sleeping calmly between toppling mountainsand encroaching sea like a stolen babe in the arms of itsabductors. Somewhere over in that tropical darkness—perhaps already threading the profundities of the alluviallowlands—the high adventurer and his mate were movingtoward land’s end. The game of Fox-in-the-Morningshould be coming soon to its close.
Goodwin， at his deliberate gait， passed the long， lowcuartel where Coralio’s contingent of Anchuria’s militaryforce slumbered， with its bare toes pointed heavenward.
There was a law that no civilian might come so near theheadquarters of that citadel of war after nine o’clock， butGoodwin was always forgetting the minor statutes.
“Quien vive，” shrieked the sentinel， wrestling prodigiouslywith his lengthy musket.
“Americano，” growled Goodwin， without turning hishead， and passed on， unhalted.
To the right he turned， and to the left up the street thatultimately reached the Plaza Nacional. When within thetoss of a cigar stump from the intersecting Street of theHoly Sepulchre， he stopped suddenly in the pathway.
He saw the form of a tall man， clothed in black andcarrying a large valise， hurry down the cross-street in thedirection of the beach. And Goodwin’s second glancemade him aware of a woman at the man’s elbow on thefarther side， who seemed to urge forward， if not even toassist， her companion in their swift but silent progress.
They were no Coralians， those two.
Goodwin followed at increased speed， but without anyof the artful tactics that are so dear to the heart of thesleuth. The American was too broad to feel the instinctof the detective. He stood as an agent for the people ofAnchuria， and but for political reasons he would havedemanded then and there the money. It was the designof his party to secure the imperilled fund， to restore it tothe treasury of the country， and to declare itself in powerwithout bloodshed or resistance.
The couple halted at the door of the Hotel de losExtranjeros， and the man struck upon the wood withthe impatience of one unused to his entry being stayed.
Madama was long in response， but after a time her lightshowed， the door was opened， and the guests housed.
Goodwin stoodin the quiet street， lighting another cigar.
In two minutes， a faint gleam began to show between theslats of the jalousies in the upper story of the hotel. “Theyhave engaged rooms，” said Goodwin to himself. “So， then，their arrangements for sailing have yet to be made.”
At the moment there came along one Esteban Delgado，a barber， an enemy to existing government， a jovial plotteragainst stagnation in any form. This barber was one ofCoralio’s saddest dogs， often remaining out of doors aslate as eleven， post meridian. He was a partisan Liberal；and he greeted Goodwin with flatulent importance as abrother in the cause. But he had something important totell.
“What think you， Don Frank！” he cried， in the universaltone of the conspirator. “I have tonight shaved la barba—what you call the ‘weeskers’ of the Presidente himself，of this countree！ Consider！ He sent for me to come. Inthe poor casita of an old woman he awaited me—in averree leetle house in a dark place. Carramba！ —el SenorPresidente to make himself thus secret and obscured！ Ishave a man and not see his face？ This gold piece he gaveme， and said it was to be all quite still. I think， Don Frank，there is what you call a chip over the bug.”
“Have you ever seen President Miraflores before？” askedGoodwin.