The man he wanted did not come, and by and by he determined to look for
him in the hotel. He went up an outside staircase from the patio, round
which the building ran, and had reached a balcony when he met Ida Fuller
coming down. She stopped with a smile.
"I am rather glad to see you," she said. "My father, who went on board
the American boat, has not come back as he promised, and the French lady
he left me with has gone."
"I'm going off to a cargo vessel to ask when they'll land our cement, and
we might find out what is keeping Mr. Fuller, if you don't mind walking
to the mole."
They left the hotel and shortly afterwards reached the mole, which
sheltered the shallow harbor where the cargo lighters were unloaded. The
long, smooth swell broke in flashes of green and gold phosphorescence
against the concrete wall, and the moon threw a broad, glittering track
across the sea. There was a rattle of cranes and winches and a noisy tug
was towing a row of barges towards the land. The measured thud of her
engines broke through the splash of water flung off the lighters' bows as
they lurched across the swell, and somebody on board was singing a
Spanish song. Farther out, a mailboat's gently swaying hull blazed with
electric light, and astern of her the reflection of a tramp steamer's
cargo lamp quivered upon the sea. By and by, Dick, who ascertained that
Fuller had not landed, hailed a steam launch, which came panting towards
some steps.
"I can put you on board the American boat, and bring you back if Mr.
Fuller isn't there," he said, and when Ida agreed, helped her into the
launch.
Then he took the helm while the fireman started the engine, and the craft
went noisily down the harbor. As they passed the end of the mole, Dick
changed his course, and the white town rose clear to view in the
moonlight behind the sparkling fringe of surf. The flat-topped houses
rose in tiers up a gentle slope, interspersed with feathery tufts of
green and draped here and there with masses of creepers. Narrow gaps of
shadow opened between them, and the slender square towers of the
cathedral dominated all, but in places a steep, red roof struck a
picturesque but foreign note.
"Santa Brigida has a romantic look at night," Dick remarked. "Somehow it
reminds me of pictures of the East."
"That is not very strange," Ida answered with a smile. "The flat roof and
straight, unbroken wall is the oldest type of architecture. Man naturally
adopted it when he gave up the tent and began to build."
"Yes," said Dick. "Two uprights and a beam across! You couldn't get
anything much simpler. But how did it come here?"