Exactly two hours later, there dashed into the customs-house a
well-dressed woman whose hat was very much over one ear. She was
running as only a woman runs when she's made up her mind to get
there. She came hot-foot, helter-skelter, regardless of
modishly crippling skirt, past officers, past customs officials,
into the section where stood the one small sample-trunk that she
had ordered down in case of emergency. The trunk had not gone
through the customs. It had not even been opened. But Emma
McChesney heeded not trifles like that. Rio de Janeiro had
fallen for Featherlooms. Those three samples, Nos. 79, 65, and
48, that boasted style, cut, and workmanship never before seen in
Rio, had turned the trick. They were as a taste of blood to a
hungry lion. Rio wanted more!

Emma McChesney was kneeling before her trunk, had whipped out her
key, unlocked it, and was swiftly selecting the numbers wanted
from the trays, her breath coming quickly, her deft fingers
choosing unerringly, when an indignant voice said, in Portuguese,
"It is forbidden!"

Emma McChesney did not glance around. Her head was buried in the
depths of the trunk. But her quick ears had caught the word,
"PROHIBA!"

"Speak English," she said, and went on unpacking.

"INGLES!" shouted the official. "No!" Then, with a
superhuman effort, as Emma McChesney stood up, her arms laden
with Featherloom samples of rainbow hues, "PARE! Ar-r-r-rest!"