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Updated: May 5, 2025
For a time, Miss Brewster followed the car tracks which were her sure guide from the palace to the Kast; briskly enough, at first. But, after three cars had passed her, she began to think longingly of the fourth. When it stopped at her signal, it was well filled.
"The best I could make of it over the phone Wisner had to be guarded was that people planning to take Dutch leave would better pay their parting calls by to-morrow at the latest." "That would mean day after to-morrow, wouldn't it?" mused the girl. "If it means anything at all," substituted her father testily. "Meantime, how do you like the Gran Hotel Kast, Miss Brewster?" asked Sherwen.
Thomas Murray Smith is an unspoiled millionaire. If he weren't so serious and quite so dangerously near forty well, I don't know." "Have you kept No. 3 for the last because he's the best?" "No-o-o-o. Because he's the nearest. He followed me down. You can see his name in all its luster on the Hotel Kast register, when you get back to the city Preston Fairfax Fitzhugh Carroll, at your service."
At the dip of the road down into the bridged arroyo, she turned, and was surprised or at least she told herself so to find him still looking after her. One dines at the Gran Hotel Kast after the fashion of a champignon sous cloche. The top of the cloche is of fluted glass, with a wide aperture between it and the sides, to admit the rain in the wet season and the flies in the dry.
One may not with impunity balance personal implements upon the too tremulous rails of the ancient Kast.
With a roar he leaped up and rushed. The foreigner met him with right and left, and this time he lay still. Hanging the tragically unsightly wreath on the door, through which the terrified mourner had vanished, Carroll returned to the Gran Hotel Kast, his perturbed and confused thoughts and emotions notably relieved by that one comforting moment of action.
In one of the side caverns off the main dining-room of the Hotel Kast, the yacht's owner, breakfasting with the yacht's tutelary goddess and the goddess's determined pursuer, discussed the blockade. Though Miss Polly Brewster kept up her end of the conversation, her thoughts were far upon a breeze-swept mountain- side.
I really thought Kast was going to forget his Swiss blood, and chase a whole peso of custom right out of the place." "If you ask me, I think the blighter is barmy," asserted the Briton. "Well, I'll ask you," proffered the elegant one kindly. "Why do you consider him 'barmy, as you put it?"
Commercial travelers of the tropics have a saying: "There are worse hotels in the world than the Kast but why take the trouble?" And, year upon year, they return there for reasons connected with the other hostelries of Caracuna, which I forbear to specify. To Miss Polly Brewster, the Kast was a place of romance.
"He gave some to Kast the last time he dined here," observed a languid and rather elegant elderly man, who occupied the fourth side of the table. "Mine host didn't like it." "I should suppose Senior Kast would be hardened," remarked the young Caracunan who had defended the absent. "Our eyeglassed friend scored for once, though.
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