O'Reilly paused a moment or two later to wipe the abundant
perspiration from his face; even yet his pulse was pounding
erratically. He hoped the future held no more surprises of this
sort, for he feared that his nerve might fail him.
El Gran Hotel Europea, Neuvitas's leading hostelry, belied its
name. It was far from large, and certainly it was anything but
European, except, perhaps, in its proprietor's extravagant and un-
American desire to please, at any cost. The building was old and
dirty, the open cafe, fronting upon the sidewalk of the main
street, was full of flies, and dust from the unclean roadway lay
thick upon its stone-topped tables; moreover, a recognizable odor
of decay issued from the patio--or perhaps from the kitchen behind
it. After O'Reilly's first meal he was sure it came from the
latter place; even suspected that the odor flattered actual
conditions. But it was the best hotel the place afforded, and
Senor Carbajal was the most attentive of hosts.
He was a globular, unctuous little man, this Carbajal; he reminded
O'Reilly of a drop of oil. He evinced an unusual interest in the
affairs of his American guest, and soon developed a habit of
popping into the latter's room at unexpected moments, ostensibly
to see that all was as it should be. Now there was very little in
the room to need attention--only a bed with a cheese-cloth
mosquito-net, a wash-stand, and a towering, smelly clothes-press
of Spanish architecture, which looked as if it might have a dark
and sinister history.
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