Then a man hove in view around the corner . . . not Farrell, but the
newly-landed stranger she had spied through her binoculars--the
presumed Inspector. His eyes were lifted as he calculated the new
gradient ahead of him, and thus on the instant he caught sight of
Santa aloft in the porch-way. Something held Santa's feet.
"Many pardons, _senora_," said the Stranger, halting a little before
he came abreast of the stairway and lifting his hat. "But can you
tell me if this path leads to the Hotel?"
Now Santa was confused and a little abashed--it may have been because
in her haste she had forgotten to drape her head in her mantilla--a
rite proper to be observed by Peruvian ladies before showing
themselves out-of-doors. But she could not help smiling: the
question being so absurd.
"Seeing, _sentor_, that there can be no other," she answered, with a
small wave of the hand out and towards the gorge down which the river
cascaded always so loudly that they both had unconsciously raised the
pitch of their voices.
From the pathway above came the sound of stray stones dislodged under
a heavy plunging tread; and there was Farrell striding down, with his
hands in his trousers' pockets.
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