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 S THE GENERAL led the way into the palace, through a broad entrance hall, the cry of the peon girl still clung to the fringe of Thomas Strawbridge's mind. He put it resolutely aside, and assumed his professional business attitude. That is to say, a manner of complimentary intimacy such as an American drummer always assumes toward a prospective buyer. He laid a warm hand on the general's arm, and indicated some large oil paintings hung along the hallway. He said they were “nifty.” He suggested that the general was pretty well fixed, and asked how long he had lived here, in the palace.

“Ever since I seized control of the government in Rio Negro,” answered the dictator, simply.

For some reason the reply disconcerted Strawbridge. He had not expected so bald a statement. At that moment came the ripple of a piano from one of the rooms off the hallway. The notes rose and fell, massed by some skilful performer into a continuous tone. Strawbridge listened to it and complimented it.

“Pretty music,” he said.

“That is my wife playing—the Señora Fombombo.”

“Is it!” The drummer's accent congratulated the general on having a wife who could play so well. He tilted his head so the general could see that he was listening and admiring.

“Do you like that sort of music, General!” he asked breezily.

“What sort!”