FTER a week at the Havana restaurant, Andrew Brant, erstwhile cabaret performer, was given notice. Just why he was unable to discover. The proprietor of the café merely shrugged, which implied any number of things. Subsequently, Brant was unable to connect with anything remotely resembling a job, and the services of a gifted Americano went begging.
Faced with this ominous predicament, he made valiant and futile efforts to earn his passage to New York, or even across to Key West. He spent most of his time along the docks, watching the departing liners, the big, freight-car ferries, the graceful yachts that belonged to American millionaires, and the swift, birdlike hydroplanes that sped in a few hours as far north as Miami. But it was useless. It was as difficult to escape from Havana with a lean purse as to reach the stars with a ladder.
Now at one time in the past, when the clouds had more of a silver lining, Brant had reckoned his future with the stars, horoscopically speaking; and, according to the horoscope, he was cast for robust adventure. Moreover, the stars predicted that he would arrive at a wintry old age.
Robust adventure was somewhat to his liking; but so far, it seemed, the stars were slightly off their course. Still, he was ready for it. Adventure and romance fairly permeated Havana. One rubbed elbows with it at every turn of the road. The very atmosphere was full of it.
After waiting more or less patiently, however, Brant concluded that what was written in the stars was pure hokum; that Adventure, Romance and Company cared no more for his services than did the café proprietors or the departing vessels.
On that particular evening, when he had admired the sunset and for the first time discovered that Morro Castle resembled the post-card views of it, the collector for the seats made Brant retreat to the side lines, where the benches were less comfortable and the crowds more promiscuous. He dickered with a swarthy peddler for the best un tabaco at the lowest possible price.
Later, he found himself an empty bench on the far side of the square that was adorned by melodramatic Latin statuary and sheltered by palm and laurel. Drawing meditatively upon his recent purchase, his thoughts remote from his surroundings, Brant presently became aware that a newcomer had usurped the far end of his bench.
Lazily, he turned. His indifference vanished magically when he glanced at his companion. The girl, sitting within three feet of him, was unmistakably American, undeniably attractive, and, so far as he could judge, alone. He wondered at that, for most of the tourists had gone, and winsome bits of femininity from the States—unaccompanied—were rare enough to arouse speculation.
Guardedly, and perhaps stealthily, Brant surveyed the girl. After one fleeting glance at him, she kept her face averted. He did not endeavor to attract her attention or to make advances, although had the opportunity presented itself he might have been a partner to a mild flirtation. Almost anything that would have broken the deadly monotony of things would have been welcomed.
Evidently the fair creature at the far end of the bench was not in a flirtatious spirit. She sat perfectly quiet, her eyes fixed upon the lighted square beyond, where, on an elevated platform, the band members were assembled.
The music, so long in starting, blared suddenly; and just as suddenly Brant heard the girl's voice.
“Please be careful,” she was saying, and for a moment he was not certain if she was addressing him. “I must not be seen speaking to you. Can you hear me?”
“Perfectly!” answered Brant.
The girl had not turned. She seemed intent upon the music and the crowds that passed; appeared to ignore his presence entirely.
“I am being watched and followed.” Once again her voice reached his ear. “I have a message that must be delivered. There is no time now to ask or answer questions. will you do me that kindness?”
“I'm at your service,” Brant responded. He realized then and there, thrilling at the thought, that Adventure had given him the high sign. Perhaps the stars weren't wrong after all!
“Be careful!” The girl's warning came sharply.
Quick to obey instructions, Brant relighted his cigar, puffed calmly upon it, and seemed to be interested only in the music. He even turned slightly on the bench, so that his back was partly toward his companion. The girl was the stage director of this particular scene; and like a well-trained actor, he implicitly followed orders, even though he had no script to guide him, and the business of the scene was still uncertain.