and catch as many as you can. It must be nice to feel that you have only
to pick up a fishing-rod and be young again."

She walked to the gate with him, but Cliffe stopped when they reached
it, for a big automobile was lurching down the uneven road. The mud
splashed about the car indicated distance traveled at furious speed, but
it slowed at the bend near the gate, and Cliffe sighed as he recognized
Robinson.

"I guess this stops my fishing," he said in a resigned tone. Dropping
his rod and creel, he jumped on to the footboard as the driver
cautiously took the gate, and Evelyn smiled as the car rolled up the
drive. She was sorry that her father had lost his favorite sport, but
his prompt surrender of it was characteristic. He was first of all a man
of business.

"Wired for an auto' to meet me when I left the train," Robinson told
him. "It was raining pretty hard, and they don't do much grading on
these mountain roads, but I made the fellow rush her along as fast as he
could." He took some letters from his wallet. "Read these and think them
over while I get breakfast."

Half an hour afterward they sat in a corner of the veranda, where Mrs.
Willans' guests left them alone. These quiet, intent men of affairs
obviously did not belong to their world.

"Well?" Robinson said.

"One of two things has got to be done; there's no middle course."

Robinson nodded.

"That's true. Middle courses generally lead to nothing."

"Very well. We can cut out our deal with President Altiera, lose the
money we have spent, and let the concessions go; or we can pay up again,
hang on, and put the matter through."

"What's your opinion? The fellow asks for more."

"Do you mean to be guided by me?"

"Yes," Robinson said. "Take which you think is the right line; I'll
stand in."

"It's pretty hard to see. We'll make good if we get the concessions;
but the President's up against a bigger thing than he thought. It's
going to cost him and us some money to head off the revolutionists, but
if we don't drop out right now, we've got to brace up and put it over.
Well, as I'm fixed, it's a big risk. My money's making good interest,
and if I go on, I've got to sell out stock I meant to hold. A set-back
would be a serious thing for me. I want a few minutes to think it over."

Robinson had confidence in Cliffe's integrity and judgment.

"An hour, if you like," he said; "then we'll have to pull out, whatever
you decide."

For a long while Cliffe sat silent with knitted brows. His wife made
claims upon his means that he sometimes found it hard to satisfy; and it
was his ambition that his daughter should be rich. After carefully
pondering the letters, he saw that he might be involved in a conflict
with forces whose strength he could not estimate, and defeat would cost
him the fruit of several years' labor. Yet the prize to be won was
tempting, and he could take a risk. Besides, they already had put a good
deal of money into it.

"Well," he said at last, "I've made up my mind."

"To hold on, I guess," Robinson suggested with a smile.

"That's so," Cliffe answered in a quiet voice. "What's more, I'm going
out to look into things myself. We can talk it over on the way to town.
I'll be ready as soon as I've told my wife."

Robinson took out his watch.

"Give you half an hour if we're to catch the train," he said.

Cliffe met Evelyn in the broad hall, and told her that he would have to
go south at once.

"Take me with you, won't you?" she begged. "I want to get away from
Banner's Post."

Cliffe hesitated a moment.

"Why, yes," he then said; "I see no reason why you shouldn't
go--particularly as your mother means to stay with Margaret Willans."

When, a half hour later, the car started from the bottom of the steps
and Mrs. Cliffe turned away with a wave of her hand, Evelyn stood in the
drive, asking herself bluntly why she wished to accompany her father. A
longing for change had something to do with it; she was getting tired of
an aimless and, in a sense, uneventful life, for it was true that
occupations that had once been full of pleasurable excitement had begun
to pall. But this was not her only object. Grahame was somewhere on the
coast she meant to visit, and she might meet him. Evelyn admitted with a
blush that she would like to do so.

The next morning a telegram arrived from Cliffe, directing her to join
him in town, and ten days later she stood, at evening, on a balcony of
the Hotel International, in Havana. It was getting dark, but a few lamps
were lighted in the _patio_, and the moonlight touched one white wall.
The air was hot and heavy, and filled with exotic smells, and the sound
of alien voices gave Evelyn the sense of change and contrast she had
sought. Yet she knew that, so far, the trip had been a failure. It had
not banished her restlessness; Havana was as stale as New York. She
remembered with regret how different it had been on her first visit.
Grahame and his companion had been with her then, and she knew that she
missed them.

She turned as a man came out on the balcony that ran along the end of
the house. He did not look like a Cuban, and she started when the
moonlight fell upon him, for she saw that it was Grahame. He was making
for the stairs at the corner where the two balconies joined and did not
notice her. Evelyn realized that, as she wore a white dress, her figure
would be indistinct against the wall, and, if she did not move in the
next few moments, he would go down the stairs and disappear among the
people in the _patio_. If he had meant to enter the hotel, he would not
have come that way.

She felt that if she let him go they might not meet again. After all,
this might be wiser. Yet her heart beat fast, and she thrilled with a
strange excitement as she stood irresolute, knowing that the choice she
had to make would be momentous.

Grahame reached the top of the stairs without turning, and was going
down when she leaned over the balustrade. She did not consciously decide
upon the action; it was as if something had driven her into making it.

"Mr. Grahame!" she called softly.

He looked up with the moonlight on his face and she saw the gleam she
had expected in his eyes. Then he came swiftly toward her, and her
indecision vanished when she gave him her hand.

"This is a remarkably pleasant surprise, but I didn't see you until you
spoke," he said. "Have you just come out of one of the rooms?"

"No; I've been here some time. I saw you as soon as you appeared on the
balcony."

Grahame gave her a quick look, and she knew he was wondering why she had
waited until the last moment. He was shrewd enough to see that the delay
had some significance, but this did not matter.

"Well," he said, "I'm glad you didn't let me pass, because I was going
out into the street, and it's doubtful if I'd have come back."

"Yes," said Evelyn; "I seemed to know that."

He was silent for a moment, but his expression was intent and a faint
glow of color showed in his brown face. Evelyn let him make what he
liked of her admission. She had not been influenced by coquetry, but by
a feeling that it was a time for candor.

"I was thinking about an interview I'd just finished--that is why I
didn't look round," he explained. "I came from Matanzas this afternoon."

"Then the _Enchantress_ isn't here?"

"No; she's at Matanzas, but I can't get back to-night. Will you be here
long?"

"A day or two, waiting for a boat. I wonder whether you would stay and
dine with us this evening?" Then a thought struck Evelyn, and she added:
"That is, if it isn't undesirable for you to be seen here."

She had not expected him to hesitate and was prepared for his reckless
twinkle.

"Of course I'll stay! But did you mean--if it was not unsafe?"

"I suppose I did," she admitted with a smile. "You know I helped you in
a mysterious plot the last time I was here. Now it would be selfish of
me to ask you to wait if you think you'd better not."

"There's no risk worth counting, and I'd take it if there was. When you
have a temperament like mine it's hard to deny yourself a pleasure."

"I shouldn't have thought you self-indulgent," Evelyn smiled.

"Well," he said, "one's fortitude has its limits. I suppose it depends
upon the strength of the temptation."

He had answered in a light vein, and Evelyn followed his lead.

"It's a relief to know you mean to stay. My father will be pleased to
see you; but he may not have finished his business when dinner is ready,
and I rather shrink from going down alone."

They talked about matters of no importance for a time, and then went
through the _patio_ to the dining-room. It was not full, and Evelyn
imagined that Grahame was glad there were several unoccupied chairs
between them and the rest of the company. She noticed, moreover, that
when people came in he glanced up quietly, as if he did not want her to
notice his action, and she had a guilty feeling that she had made him
take a risk that was greater than he would own. Yet she was glad that he
had taken it.

"Where are you going when you leave Havana?" he asked presently.

"To Valverde, and afterward perhaps to Rio Frio."

Grahame looked thoughtful, and Evelyn quietly studied him. Her training
had made her quick at guessing what lay behind the reserve of people
who were not quite frank with her, and she saw that he was disturbed.

"Why should I not go there?" she asked.

"I don't know any good reason if your father's willing to take you, but
the country's in a rather unsettled state just now." Grahame paused for
a moment and added earnestly: "Don't trust Gomez."

"Do you think we shall meet him?"

"Yes," he said with a dry smile; "I think it very likely."

"Then you must know something about my father's business, and what is
going on in the country."

"I believe I know more about the country than your father does. In fact,
I'd like to warn him against Gomez, only that I imagine he's a good
judge of character and already knows his man."

Grahame wrote an address on a leaf of a small notebook and, tearing it
out, put it on her plate.

"I'm going to ask a favor. If you should meet with any difficulty at Rio
Frio, will you send me a message through the man whose name I've written
down? I might, perhaps, be of some use."

"Do you expect us to get into any difficulty?"

"No; but one can't tell--trouble might arise."

"And, if it did, you could help us?"

"Well," he said gravely, "I'd do my best."

Evelyn's eyes sparkled.

"I know you could be trusted! But all this mystery gives the trip an
extra interest. Then, you have made it obvious that the _Enchantress_
will be on the coast."

"May I hope that this adds to your satisfaction?" Grahame said, smiling.

"Now you're frivolous, and I was pleasantly excited! However, I'll
promise that if anything very alarming seems to threaten us I'll send
you word."

Grahame looked up. An elderly Cuban gentleman, three or four places off,
had once or twice glanced at them carelessly and then resumed his
conversation with a lady beside him, but Grahame noticed that he stopped
when Evelyn spoke.

"Am I to tell my father what I have promised?" she asked.

"You must use your own judgment about that."

Evelyn understood him. He would not ask her to keep a secret from her
father, and she liked his delicacy; but he looked thoughtful. She did
not know that the Cuban gentleman engaged his attention.

"Well," she said, "I'll tell him if it seems necessary; that is, if
there's any reason for sending you word. Otherwise, of course, there
would be no need to mention it."

"No," he agreed with a smile that seemed to draw them closer because it
hinted at mutual understanding.

"One doesn't feel forced to explain things to you," Evelyn said
impulsively.

"That's an advantage. Explanations are a nuisance, and sometimes
dangerous when they're important. I find them easiest when they don't
matter."

Cliffe came in and greeted Grahame cordially; and Grahame, glancing down
the table without turning his head, saw the Cuban studying them.
Something in the man's manner suggested that Cliffe's friendliness had
surprised him. He made a few hasty pencil marks on the back of an old
letter and then, looking up suddenly, caught Grahame watching him
curiously. The Cuban pushed back his chair and left the room, although
Grahame suspected that his dinner was not more than half finished.

Evelyn, surprising the alert look on Grahame's face, was now more
disturbed than ever on his account. Evidently there was danger for him
here.

Her fears would have been increased had she known the few words the spy
wrote on his envelope.

CHAPTER XX

THE ARREST OF CASTILLO

On a hot evening not long after he left Havana, Cliffe sat in a room of
the old Spanish _presidio_ at Valverde. The building was in harmony with
the decayed town, for it had been begun in more prosperous times, and
its lower courses were solidly laid with stone. Molded doors and windows
spoke of vanished art, and the gallery round the central _patio_ was
raised on finely carved pillars, but Valverde had fallen on evil days
and the _presidio_ had been finished with adobe mud. It had served at
different times as the seat of the government, the barracks, and the
jail, and now, when part had fallen down, the rest had been rudely
repaired, and Gomez was quartered there when he visited the port.

Outside, the ruinous building still retained a certain dignity, but this
was not so within, where degenerate taste was shown in the tawdry
decoration, and Gomez's sitting-room frankly offended Cliffe with its
suggestion of effeminate luxury. Gaudy silk hangings hid the old adobe
walls, a silver lamp with a smoked chimney hung from the ceiling by
tarnished chains, and highly colored rugs were spread upon the dirty
floor. There were inartistic but heavily gilded French clocks and
mirrors; and over all a sickening scent of perfume.

Cliffe found it more pleasant to look out through the open window at the
town, which lay beneath him, bathed in moonlight. The close-massed,
square-fronted houses glimmered white and pink and yellow, with narrow
gaps between them where a few lights burned; a break, from which dusky
foliage rose, marked the _alameda_. In front ran a curving beach where
wet sand glistened below a bank of shingle and a fringe of surf broke
with a drowsy roar. Though it was not late, there was no stir in the
streets; an air of languorous depression brooded over the town. Gomez
seemed to feel that it needed an explanation.

"Our trade," he said, "is prosperous, but we do not encourage the people
to gather in the plaza, and the cafés are watched. They are the storm
centers: it is there the busybodies talk. The man who stays at home and
minds his business is seldom a danger to the State. He dislikes change,
and has no time to waste on idealistic theories."

"I guess that's true, up to a point," Cliffe agreed. "The industrious
citizen will stand for a good deal, but he's a man to reckon with when
things get too bad. He doesn't talk, like the others; he's been trained
to act, and there are developments when he makes up his mind about what
he wants. However, this is not what we're here to discuss."

"No; but the state of the country has something to do with the matter.
We admit that there have been manifestations of discontent, and
disturbances caused by mischievous persons who love disorder, and we
must enforce quietness and respect for authority. This, you will
understand, costs some money."

"I've subscribed a good deal," Cliffe reminded him. "I'm anxious to
learn when I'm going to get it back."

"The wish is natural. May I point out that in generously offering help
you threw in your lot with the Government and made our interests yours?"

"I see that pretty clearly," Cliffe replied with a touch of grimness,
for he recognized the skill with which he had been led on until he could
not draw back without a heavy loss. "Anyway, as you seem to have
weathered the storm, I want my reward. In short, I've come to find out
when your President means to sign the concessions."

"It will be as soon as possible; there is a small difficulty. We have an
elective legislature; an encumbrance, señor, which hampers the
administration, but in times of discontent it has some influence. Our
people are jealous of foreigners, and there are interested persons ready
to work upon their feelings. This is why the President hesitates about
granting fresh concessions until he has found a way of silencing his
enemies among the representatives. You perceive that I am frank with
you."

"It's what I like; but you haven't told me yet what I want to know. Now,
unless I can find out exactly when I may expect the papers signed, I'll
feel compelled to shut off supplies. I'd rather cut my loss than go on
enlarging it."

Gomez looked pained.

"I must remind you, with some diffidence, that others have offered their
help," he said.

"They offered it; they haven't paid up. I expect you'll find they'll
insist on knowing when you mean to deliver the goods. That's my
position; I stand firm on it."

"Very well. Before answering, I must inform the President."

"You needn't. I'm going to take this matter to headquarters."

"Unfortunately, the President has gone to Villa Paz for a short rest. I
fear he would not like to be disturbed."

"He will see me; he has to," Cliffe declared.

"After all, it is possible, but I see a difficulty. There is no inn at
Villa Paz where the señorita could find accommodation and the President
is, like myself, a bachelor. He could receive you, but not the señorita.
Our conventions are antiquated, but they must be considered. It is this
which prevents me from offering my hospitality."

Cliffe pondered for a few moments. The conventions Gomez mentioned were
justified, because women are not treated in his country as they are in
the United States, and Cliffe could not leave Evelyn alone in the
Valverde Hotel. For all that, he must see the President, and he imagined
that although Gomez had made some difficulties the fellow was willing
that he should go. Gomez was a clever rogue, but Cliffe thought he could
be trusted so long as their interests did not clash.

He looked up sharply, for there was a sudden stir in the town. Cliffe
was conscious of no definite sound, but he felt that the quietness had
been broken and he saw that Gomez was listening. The man's fleshy face
was intent; the stamp of indulgence had gone and given place to a look
of fierce cruelty. He had become alert and resolute; this struck Cliffe
as significant, as there was, so far, nothing to cause alarm.

In a few moments a murmur broke out, and swelled while Gomez walked to
the open window. The streets were suddenly filled with the patter of
hurrying feet, and the confused outcry became a menacing roar. Cliffe
jumped up. He had heard something like it when a mob of desperate
strikers drove the police through an American manufacturing town; and
now his daughter was alone at the hotel.

"What is it?" he asked.

"A tumult," Gomez answered. "I do not think it will be serious. We have
placed a guard about the hotel, so the señorita is safe. But you will
excuse me for a few minutes."

He went into an adjoining room, and Cliffe, standing by the window,
heard a telephone call. After this, all sounds inside the house were
drowned by the growing uproar outside. Cliffe could see nothing of the
riot, but he thought he could locate it in one of the dark gaps that
pierced a block of houses some distance off. The clamor gained in effect
from the mystery that surrounded its cause.

Two pistol shots rang out and there was a wild shouting, but the note of
fury had changed to alarm. Cliffe thought he could hear men running, and
he pictured the mob pouring down the narrow street in flight, for the
cries grew less frequent and receded. At last they died away, and a
group of men moving in regular order came out of the mouth of a street.
They seemed to have a prisoner in their midst, and four peons plodded
behind, carrying something on a shutter. Then they all vanished into
the gloom, and when their measured steps were getting faint Gomez
returned with an unpleasant smile.

"It is nothing," he said. "We had planned the arrest of a troublesome
person called Castillo, who is a favorite with the mob. There was some
excitement, and a few stones were thrown, but only one attempt at a
rescue, the leader of which was shot by the rural guards. As he was a
man we suspected of sedition, this has saved us some trouble."

Cliffe looked at him, as one who might study a new species of animal or
some rare and ugly plant.

Gomez spread out his hands.

"It is worth noting that the affair proves our strength," he said
gloatingly. "We have seized a popular leader of the discontented, and
there was no determined resistance. One may consider it an encouraging
sign."

Cliffe nodded agreement, and Gomez changed the subject.

"I have been thinking," he said. "If you are resolved to see the
President, Señora Herrero, wife of the _alcalde_, whom you have met,
would take care of the señorita while you are away. They are people of
some importance, and she would be safe with them."

This struck Cliffe as a good suggestion, and when Gomez accompanied him
to the _alcalde's_ house the matter was arranged with Evelyn's consent.
The next morning Cliffe set off with a relay of mules and three or four
days later was received by the President at a little town among the
hills. Nothing was said about business until he had rested and dined,
and then he sat with his host on a veranda half hidden by
bougainvillea, looking down on the dim littoral that ran back to the
sea.

President Altiera differed from his secretary. He looked more of an
autocratic soldier than a diplomatist. There was a hint of brutality
about him, and Cliffe thought he would rather use force than guile. The
man had a coarse, strong face, and his eyes were stern, but he was
rather reserved than truculent.

"Señor," he said, "since I understand you were determined to see me, it
is an honor to welcome you, and my house and self are at your command. I
imagine, however, that neither of us often wastes much time on
compliments."

"My excuse is that I find one does best by going to headquarters when
any difficulties arise. It seemed possible that your secretary might
smooth down my remarks before transmitting them."

"And you do not wish them smoothed down," Altiera dryly suggested.

"I think it best that we should understand each other."

"That is so. What do you wish to understand?"

"When I may expect the sealed grant of the concessions."

"In two months, provided that my enemies do not kill me first, which I
think is hardly probable."

"One hopes not, but there is another risk; not large, perhaps, but to be
reckoned with."

Altiera laughed.

"That the people may choose another President? No, señor. I rule this
country. When I cease to do so it will be because I am dead. Let us be
candid. Your concessions depend upon the luck that may attend some
assassin's attempt, and I take precautions."

Cliffe thought this was true. Altiera carried a pistol, and could use it
remarkably well, and two armed guards were posted outside the veranda.

"There is a condition," Altiera said. "The concessions will be yours in
two months, but payment of the money my secretary asked for must be made
in a fortnight, or, if this is impossible, as soon as you get home."

"It would suit me better to take the concessions in a fortnight and pay
in two months," Cliffe retorted coolly.

"I am not a trader, señor; I do not dispute and haggle over a bargain."

"Neither do I," said Cliffe. "Still, it's necessary for a trader to
state his terms."

There was silence for a few moments, and Cliffe, studying his
antagonist's face, thought his statement justified. The man might use
brutal means to gain his end, but he would not contend about a small
advantage.

"Very well," the President conceded. "Though it will cause me some
embarrassment, I make another offer. You shall have the grant in a
month."

"A month is too long to wait."

Altiera rose and stood with his brown hand clenched upon the back of his
chair and his brows knitted. It seemed to cost him an effort to maintain
his self-control, and Cliffe saw that he had pressed him hard. For all
that, he did not mean to yield. He had gone farther than was prudent,
and knew when to stop.

"You understand what you risk by your exactions?" Altiera asked
menacingly.

"Señor Gomez made that plain. I have no security for the money already
paid, except your honor."

Altiera bowed.

"Though the situation is difficult and you make it worse, I believe your
confidence is not misplaced. Well, since one or two of my ministers must
be consulted, I cannot give you an answer for a week; but the country is
healthful in this neighborhood, and you may be interested in studying
its resources. My house is at your disposal, and your comfort will be
provided for while I see what can be done."

It took Cliffe a minute or two to make up his mind. He would rather have
gone back to Valverde at once; but he felt that he must finish his
business before returning. Although he had some misgivings, he agreed to
stay.

In reaching his decision he thought Evelyn safe with the _alcalde_; but
he had not reckoned on the cunning of Secretary Gomez.

CHAPTER XXI

A HALF-BREED'S TRICK

Evelyn found the time pass heavily at Valverde. The town was hot and
uninteresting, although she did not see much of it, for it was only when
the glaring sunshine had faded off the narrow streets that she was
allowed a leisurely stroll in company with the _alcalde's_ wife. Señora
Herrero, who was stout and placid, and always dressed in black, spoke no
English, and only a few words of French. After an hour's superintendence
of her half-breed servants' work, she spent most of the day in sleep.
Yet she was careful of her guest's comfort, and in this respect Evelyn
had no cause for complaint.

It was the monotony the girl found trying. After the ten o'clock
breakfast there was nothing to be done until dinner was served at four.
The adobe house was very quiet and was darkened by lattices pulled
across the narrow windows; and there was no stir in the town between
noon and early evening. Evelyn patiently tried to grasp the plot of a
Spanish novel, and when she got tired of this sat in the coolest spot
she could find, listening to the drowsy rumble of the surf. Hitherto her
time had been occupied by strenuous amusements, and the lethargic
inaction jarred.

It was better when the shadows lengthened, because there were then
voices and footsteps in the streets. One could watch the languid
traffic; but when night came Valverde, instead of wakening to a few
hours' joyous life, was silent again. Sometimes a group of people went
by laughing, and now and then a few gathered round a singer with a
guitar, but there was no noisy talk in the cafés and no band played in
the _alameda_. An ominous quietness brooded over the town.

All this reacted on Evelyn's nerves, and one hot afternoon she felt
ready to welcome any change as she sat in a shaded room. Her hands were
wet with perspiration, the flies that buzzed about her face exasperated
her, and she found the musky smell that filled the house intolerable.
Señora Herrero lay in a big cane chair, looking strangely bulky and
shapeless in her tight black dress, with her eyes half closed and no
sign of intelligence in her heavily powdered face. Evelyn longed to wake
her and make her talk.

Then there were steps outside and Gomez came in. He bowed, and Señora
Herrero grew suddenly alert. Indeed, it struck Evelyn that her hostess
felt disturbed, but she paid no attention to this. She was glad of a
break in the monotony, and it was not until afterward her mind dwelt
upon what took place.

"Señor Cliffe's business with the President will keep him longer than he
thought. He may be detained for a fortnight," Gomez said.

Evelyn had no reason for being on her guard, and her disappointment was
obvious.

"I was looking forward to his return in a day or two," she answered.

"The señor Cliffe is to be envied for having a dutiful daughter," Gomez
smiled. "Still, I need not offer my sympathy, because it is his wish
that you should go to him."

"When?" Evelyn asked eagerly.

"As soon as you are ready. I have ordered the mules, and you can bring
what you think needful. We could start after dinner, and I offer myself
as escort for part of the way."

"But this is impossible!" Señora Herrero exclaimed in horrified protest.

Gomez spread out his hands deprecatingly.

"With apologies, señora, I think not. My plan is that you should go with
your guest until I can place her in some other lady's hands."

"But it is years since I have ridden a mule, and exercise makes me ill!
Besides, I cannot leave my husband and my household."

Evelyn remembered afterward that her hostess's indignant expression
suddenly changed, as if Gomez had given her a warning look; but he
answered good-humoredly:

"I have seen Don José. He feels desolated at the thought of losing you
for two or three days, but he agrees that we must do all we can to suit
the wishes of our American friends. Besides, you can travel to Galdo,
where we stay the night, in a coach. I will see that one is sent, but it
may take an hour or two to find mules."

"They must be good," said the señora. "I am heavy, and the road is bad."

"We will pick the best; but until you overtake us the señorita Cliffe
will, no doubt, be satisfied with my escort. We should reach Galdo soon
after dark. The señora Romanez will receive us there, and we start
early the next morning on our journey to the hills."

Gomez turned to Evelyn.

"This meets with your approval?" he asked suavely.

"Oh, yes," she agreed; though she afterward realized that there was no
obvious reason why she should not have waited for the coach, and that it
was curious her hostess did not suggest this.

Gomez returned after dinner before Evelyn was quite ready, and she was
somewhat surprised that he made no remark about the luggage she wished
to take. It was skilfully lashed on the broad pack-saddles, and they set
off when she mounted a handsome mule. There were two baggage animals,
driven by dark-skinned peons, and two mounted men brought up the rear.
Gomez said this explained the delay in getting mules for the coach, but
added that the girl would find the journey pleasanter in the saddle.

Evelyn agreed with him as they rode down the roughly paved street. It
was a relief to be moving, and the air had got pleasantly cool.
Half-breed women with black shawls round their heads looked up at her
from beside their tiny charcoal cooking fires, and she saw dark eyes
flash with hostility as her escort passed. Here and there a woman of
pure Spanish blood stood on a balcony and glanced down with shocked
prudery at the bold American, but Evelyn smiled at this. She distrusted
Gomez, who obviously was not a favorite with the poorer citizens, but as
a traveling companion she did not find much fault with him.

After a while they left the houses behind and turned into a dusty,
rutted track. The murmur of the sea followed them until they reached a
belt of forest where the sound was cut off, and Evelyn felt as if she
had lost a friend. The measured beat of the surf and the gleam of spray
were familiar things; the forest was mysterious, and oppressively
silent. In places a red glow shone among the massive trunks, but, for
the most part, they were hung with creepers and all below was wrapped in
shade. The track grew soft and wet; the air was steamy and filled with
exotic smells. Evelyn felt her skin get damp, and the mules fell into a
labored pace.

Strange noises began to fill the gathering gloom; the air throbbed with
a humming that rose and fell. Deep undertones and shrill pipings that it
was hard to believe were made by frogs and insects pierced the stagnant
air. Specks of phosphorescent light twinkled among the leaves, but the
fireflies were familiar and Evelyn welcomed them. She felt suddenly
homesick, and wished they were not leaving the coast; but she remembered
that her father had sent for her, and brushed her uneasiness away.

After a time, Gomez stopped.

"We have not gone fast, and the señora ought to overtake us soon," he
said. "Will you get down and wait for her?"

The forest, with the thin mist drifting through it, had a forbidding
look, and, for the first time that she could recollect, Evelyn felt
afraid of the dark.

"Let us go on," she said.

Gomez hesitated a moment and then acquiesced.

The road got steep and the mist thicker. Drooping creepers brushed them
as they passed, and now and then Evelyn was struck by a projecting
branch. Her mule, however, needed no guidance, and she sank into a
dreamy lethargy. There was something enervating and soporific in the
steamy atmosphere.

At last the gloom began to lighten and they came out into the luminous
clearness of the tropic night. In front lay a few flat blocks of houses,
surrounded by fields of cane, and here and there a patch of broad-leafed
bananas. Passing through the silent village they reached a long building
which Gomez said was the Romanez _hacienda_.

Lights gleamed in the windows, but they knocked twice before a strong,
arched door was unfastened, and they rode through into the _patio_. It
was obvious that they were expected. A gentleman dressed in white, his
stout wife in black, and a girl who wore a thin, yellow dress, came down
to welcome them. They were hospitable, but Evelyn, speaking only a few
words of Castilian, and feeling very tired, was glad when her hostess
showed her to her room.

She soon went to sleep, and, wakening early, felt invigorated by the
cool air that flowed in through the open window and the sight of the
blue hills that rose, clean-cut, against the morning sky. Then she had a
drowsy recollection of something being wrong, and presently remembered
that the señora Herrero had not arrived. This, however, was not
important, because Gomez could no doubt arrange for her hostess to
accompany them on the next stage of their journey.

Evelyn found Gomez apologetic when they met at breakfast. He was much
vexed with the _alcalde's_ wife, but the señorita Romanez and her duenna
would take her place, and he expected to put Evelyn in her father's care
in two more days. This, he added, would afford him a satisfaction that
would be tempered by regret.

They started after breakfast, but Evelyn did not feel drawn to her new
companion. Luisa Romanez was handsome in a voluptuous style, with dark
hair, a powdered face, and languishing black eyes, but so far as she
could make her meaning clear, she banteringly complimented Evelyn on
having won the admiration of a distinguished man. Evelyn declared that
this was a mistake, and Gomez had offered his escort as a duty, to which
Doña Luisa returned a mocking smile. Her amusement annoyed Evelyn. On
the whole, she was glad that conversation was difficult. The sour,
elderly duenna who rode behind them said nothing at all.

After traveling all day, they stopped at a lonely _hacienda_, where
Evelyn soon retired to rest. She slept well, and, wakening rather late
the next morning, found that Doña Luisa and her duenna had left an hour
before. This was embarrassing, because Evelyn knew something about
Spanish conventions; but, after all, she was an American, and they did
not apply to her.

Gomez appeared annoyed and extremely apologetic.

"There has been a misunderstanding," he explained. "I thought the
señorita Romanez would go with us to Rio Frio, but she told me last
night that she must return early this morning. I expostulated and
implored, but the señorita was firm. She declared she had not promised
to come farther than the _hacienda_. You see my unfortunate position.
One cannot compel a lady to do what she does not wish."

"When shall we reach Rio Frio?" Evelyn asked.

"If all goes well, late this afternoon."

Evelyn thought for a moment. She was vexed and vaguely alarmed, but her
father was waiting for her at Rio Frio.

"Then let us start as soon as possible," she said.

Gomez bowed.

"When breakfast is over. I go to give my men their orders."

Leaving the _hacienda_, they rode by rough, steep tracks that wound
through belts of forest and crossed sun-scorched slopes. Although it was
hot, the air was clear, and Evelyn was pleased to see that Gomez kept
the mules at a steady pace. At noon they reached a cluster of
poverty-stricken mud houses, and Gomez called one of the ragged,
half-breed peons. They talked for some time in a low voice, and then
Gomez turned to Evelyn.

"I am afraid we shall have to wait here for two or three hours," he
said. "It might be dangerous to go any farther now."

"But I must get on!" Evelyn answered sharply.

"Your wishes would be a command, only that I must think of your safety
first. There is an inn in the village, and while you rest I will explain
why we cannot go forward."

Evelyn found the small _fonda_ indescribably dirty, but it offered
shelter from the sun. Openings in its bare walls let in puffs of breeze,
and decaying lattices kept out the glare, but the room was full of
flies, and rustling sounds showed that other insects lurked in the
crevices. The place reeked with the smell of _caña_ and kerosene, and
Evelyn had to force herself to eat a little of the greasy mess that was
set before her in rude, sun-baked crockery. When the meal was over
Gomez began his explanation.

"You have heard that the country is disturbed. There are turbulent
people who want a revolution, and I am not popular with them."

Evelyn smiled, for she had learned something about the country's
politics and she thought he had expressed the feeling of its
discontented citizens very mildly. She distrusted him, but, so far, his
conduct had been irreproachable.

"I see you understand," he resumed. "The worst is that you too are an
object of suspicion; it is known that your father is a friend of the
President and has business with him. Well, I have been warned that some
of our enemies are in the neighborhood, and they might rouse the peons
to attack us. They will know when we left the _hacienda_ and watch for
us, but we can outwit them by waiting a while and then taking another
road."

This was plausible, and Evelyn agreed to the delay, although she did not
feel quite satisfied when Gomez left her. The dirty room was very hot
and its atmosphere unspeakably foul, but she could not sit outside in
the sun, and, taking up a soiled newspaper, she tried to read. Her
knowledge of Castilian did not carry her far, but she made out that the
Government was being urged to deal severely with a man named Sarmiento.

Evelyn put down the paper, feeling that she ought to know the name.
Sarmiento had some connection with Grahame and his friends; perhaps they
had spoken of him. This led her to think of them. It looked as if
Grahame were interested in the country's politics. Remembering the
promise she had made, she wondered whether the _Enchantress_ was then on
the coast. As he seemed to be opposing Gomez, he must be helping the
revolutionaries, while her father had business with the President. This
was puzzling, and she sat thinking about it for some time; and then
looked up with a start as Gomez came in.

"So you have been reading the _diario_!" he remarked.

"I don't understand very much; but who is Don Martin Sarmiento?"

"A dangerous person who goes about making trouble."

"It's curious, but I think I have met him."

Gomez gave her a searching glance and then smiled.

"He is not worth remembering, but you did meet him at Havana."

"Ah!" said Evelyn sharply.

Gomez laughed.

"Must I remind you, señorita, of a little affair at the Hotel
International?"

Evelyn remembered it well and guessed that it was Sarmiento whom Gomez
had been pursuing when she stopped him by dropping her ring. She could
now understand his look of baffled rage, and she recalled her shrinking
from the savagery it displayed.

"One imagines that you did not know Don Martin," Gomez said lightly,
although there was a keen look in his narrowed eyes.

"No," Evelyn answered; "I only saw him at dinner."

"Then perhaps you have heard your father speak of him?"

"I am not sure; I have heard his name somewhere; but I don't think my
father ever met him."

"Well, I don't know that it is of much importance. I came to tell you
that I think we can start."

They set off and reached Rio Frio without trouble some time after dark.
People in the streets turned and gazed at them, and although some
saluted Gomez, Evelyn thought that, for the most part, they watched the
party with unfriendly curiosity. She was eager to meet her father, but
when they dismounted in the _patio_ of a large white house she got a
shock. A dark-skinned woman and several half-breed servants came down
from a gallery to welcome them, but Cliffe was not there.

CHAPTER XXII

HELD FOR RANSOM

Gomez once more apologized. The señor Cliffe had not yet arrived from
Villa Paz, he explained, but was expected in the morning. In the
meantime the good señora Garcia would look after the señorita's comfort.

Evelyn had to be content with that. Indeed, she was too tired to feel
much disturbed. On getting up the next morning, however, she was
troubled by unpleasant suspicions. It had been a shock to find Cliffe
absent, and she began to review the misadventures which had marked her
journey. To begin with, it now seemed curious that her father had not
written instead of sending a message; then, the señora Herrero had not
kept her promise to overtake them, and Luisa Romanez had unexpectedly
gone back. While she wondered whether all this had any sinister meaning,
Evelyn felt for a packet of paper currency which she had, at her
father's advice, sewn into her dress. She found that it was gone. A
hurried search showed that the stitches had been neatly cut.

For a few moments she felt unnerved, and then resolutely pulled herself
together. This was no time for hysteria. It was obvious that she had
been duped. The lost sum was not large, but with the exception of a few
coins it was all she had, and it had not been stolen by a common thief.
Somebody had searched her clothes while she slept and taken the money
with the object of embarrassing her.

Going to the window, she looked out at the town. It had a mean,
dilapidated air; the few inhabitants she saw slowly moving about looked
poverty-stricken and furtive. Their harsh voices jarred; one could
expect no sympathy or help from these foreigners. Hitherto she had been
indulged and carefully protected, but she was now alone and in danger,
and the novel experience was daunting. Still, she saw that it was unwise
to give her imagination rein. She must keep her head and try to grapple
with the situation.

She finished dressing and without waiting for the morning chocolate
found her way to the room in which she had been received on the previous
evening. It stretched across one end of the house on the second floor
and was furnished in rather barbarous taste. Although there was a
profusion of colored silk and a hint of sensual luxury, it was obviously
a man's room, and Evelyn studied the woman who joined her when the
majordomo brought in breakfast.

Señora Garcia was coarsely handsome, but she had not the easy manners of
a lady of rank and her dark color hinted at Indian blood. Her expression
was arrogant, and Evelyn felt that she was hostile. Besides, she spoke
an uncouth Spanish that the girl could not understand at all. Breakfast
was a trial of nerve, but Evelyn knew that she must eat and hide her
fears. When breakfast was over she would have a talk with Gomez.

He soon came in, and dismissed the señora Garcia with a commanding
glance. Her servile obedience was significant.

"_Buenos días, señorita_," he greeted Evelyn smilingly.

"When do you expect my father?" she asked bluntly.

"I regret that I cannot answer positively. It may be a week before he
comes--perhaps longer."

"But you brought me here to meet him!"

Gomez smiled, and spread out his hands in a way that always irritated
Evelyn.

"It now appears that the señor Cliffe's business with the President is
not finished," he said.

"It would not prevent his coming to meet me if he had promised."

"You should know best," Gomez answered with a shrug. "Still, it looks as
if the señor Cliffe put his business first and is not very anxious about
you."

"That is not true!" Evelyn said vehemently. "If he had any cause to be
anxious, he would let no business stand in the way!"

"Ah! I admit I find this interesting."

Gomez looked so satisfied that Evelyn feared she had blundered, though
she could not see how. Her heart beat fast and her nerves were tensely
strung, but she knew that she must be calm. The man was her antagonist
and she was fighting in the dark.

"Well," she said, "since my father has not arrived, I will go to him."

"I am afraid that is impossible. It is a long way to Villa Paz and the
country is disturbed."

"Do you mean to prevent my going?"

"Far from it, señorita. You are at liberty to do what you wish; but
unfortunately, I cannot provide mules and an escort. There are some
dangerous revolutionaries among the hills. Then, I must remind you that
our people dislike foreigners, and a lady cannot travel alone and
without money."

Evelyn felt trapped.

"How do you _know_ I haven't money? Because it was stolen in this house!
You must lend me some--my father will repay it."

"Your pardon, señorita, but you are mistaken; I can answer for the
honesty of my servants. I would lend you money, only that I cannot
permit you to make a journey I know is dangerous."

The girl sat still and there was silence for a few moments while she
tried to brace herself. She felt that she was at the man's mercy, for
there was something threatening behind his suave politeness, and his
smile indicated that he was amused by her futile struggles. For all
that, she must keep up the fight.

"Then what is to be done?" she asked.

"I suggest that you write to the señor Cliffe and tell him where you
are. If you add that you do not feel safe, he will, no doubt, join you
as soon as possible. Although it may reflect upon our care of you, we
will see that he gets the letter."

It seemed a simple course, but Evelyn was on her guard. She must match
her wits against the man's, and he had shown a hint of eagerness that
she thought suspicious. Having brought her to Rio Frio by trickery, why
did he wish her father to know that she felt alarmed?

"I should be glad to write to him, but I do not see why I should make
him uneasy on my account," she said.

There was something in Gomez's expression which indicated that he felt
baffled, and she knew it might be dangerous to provoke him; but he
exercised self-control.

"That is for you to judge, but are you not inconsistent, señorita? You
show some anger and alarm when you do not find your father here, and now
when I suggest an easy way of bringing him, you will not take it."

"Do you want him to come here?" Evelyn asked bluntly.

Gomez gave her a steady, thoughtful look.

"On the whole, that would suit us." He paused and added in a meaning
tone: "It would facilitate your return to the coast."

Evelyn knew she had been given a hint that was half a threat and it cost
her something to refuse it, although she felt that to do what the man
wished might not be the safest plan.

"After all, it might interfere with his business if I made him leave
Villa Paz before he is ready."

Watching Gomez closely she thought his calm was forced, but he bowed.

"As you wish, señorita, but you will think over it. And now I must leave
you."

For some minutes after he had gone Evelyn sat with relaxed muscles and
vacant mind, for the strain had told; then by degrees her courage came
back. She was an American and must show no weakness to an antagonist of
alien and, she felt, baser blood. Besides, it looked as if she had won
the first encounter and she had resources which should prove useful. She
had inherited her father's intelligence, and her social training had
given her restraint and the power to conceal her thoughts, while a
woman's quick, instinctive perception was an advantage.

All this, however, was not directly to the point. She had been decoyed
to Rio Frio for some purpose. She shrank as she remembered Luisa
Romanez's hints; still, she did not think Gomez was in love with her.
The fellow was a sensualist, but he had some advantage in view, and she
had already suspected what it was. Now she began to understand the
matter more clearly. Gomez and the President meant to use her as a means
of getting her father into their power. She did not think his personal
safety was threatened, but they would insist on his agreeing to their
terms as the price of restoring her to him, and it was plain that she
would play into their hands by writing a letter that would cause him
anxiety. Evelyn determined that they should not have her help, but
although she sat for some time with brows knitted and hands clenched,
she could make no better plan than to remain quietly obstinate.

It was impossible to reach Villa Paz without money, and although she
shrank from being left in the power of a man like Gomez, she thought his
self-interest would secure her safety. She might, perhaps, get some one
to carry a message to Grahame if he were on the coast, but she was
reluctant to do so unless the need were urgent.

After a while she got up and went out into the plaza. People gazed at
her curiously; some smiled at one another as she passed, and a number of
the women looked suspicious and hostile. For all that, she was neither
molested nor followed, and when the sun got hot she returned to the
house, where she spent the day drearily improving her knowledge of
Castilian. It promised to become useful, but the fine language jarred
her long afterward.

The week that followed tried her courage. She was, in reality, a
prisoner, though subject to no open restraint and treated well, except
that the señora Garcia regarded her with badly disguised hatred. Now and
then she saw Gomez, but he was suavely courteous and said nothing of
importance. She got nervous and lost her color and her appetite, but
there was nothing to do but wait until Gomez, who apparently meant to
wear her out, made some fresh demand.

One evening he came into the room where she sat and after a ceremonious
greeting stood with his head slightly bent in an attitude of respect. He
was dressed in a white uniform which emphasized his stoutness and the
dark color of his greasy skin.

"You look tired, señorita," he remarked.

"I am very tired of Rio Frio. Have you come to tell me that I can go
away?"

"That you should be eager to do so grieves me, but I can, perhaps, make
it possible. There is a proposal I wish to make."

"Yes?" Evelyn answered as carelessly as she could.

"You may find what I propose surprising; but I must beg you to think
over it and you will see that it is not so strange as it seems. I have
the honor to ask you to be my wife."

Evelyn shrank back in horror, as if he had struck her, and then with an
effort recovered her self-control.

"This is impossible, señor; indeed, it is absurd."

"Your pardon," he said with ominous grimness; "I cannot agree. It is, I
think, the best way out of an embarrassing situation, but this is an
argument I do not wish to use. I would rather speak of the charm you
exercise and my respectful admiration."

"We can leave that out. I do not value nor desire it."

The man's dark eyes flashed, and Evelyn knew the danger of rousing him.
His Spanish polish was only skin-deep, and the savage lurked beneath.
For all that, she was desperate and meant to force the conflict.

"Very well," he said; "I must take another course. To begin with, it
looks as if your father did not care what became of you. It is now some
time since he left you at Valverde and he has not troubled to inquire if
you are safe."

"I do not believe that!"

"Well, we will let it go. The rest is more important. It is known in
Valverde that you did me the honor to run away with me."

Evelyn jumped up, with the color rushing to her face and her hands
clenched. The prudence she tried to exercise had given place to
imperious anger.

"You scoundrel!" she cried. "Do you think it matters to me what your
black-blooded countrymen and women think! Your Moorish customs may be
necessary for them, but I am an American!"

Gomez chuckled.

"There were two American _comisionistas_ at Valverde and they must have
heard the story in the cafés. It is, you understand, a romantic episode:
the daughter of a well-known financier elopes with a foreign soldier.
The _comisionistas_ talk about it when they return and your newspapers
make the most of the tale. Some of them are not reserved or fastidious.
It is possible they print your portrait. One can imagine the
astonishment of your friends, but the story would be incomplete if it
did not end with a romantic wedding."

The girl drew back in horror. If the tale reached home, the shock would
break her mother down; but it was possible that Gomez was lying. She had
heard of no American drummers in the town.

He gave her no time to recover.

"Then I must show you how what followed our flight from Valverde fits
in. We arrive together at Rio Frio after dark; you find shelter in my
house."

Evelyn started, for this was worse.

"Your house!" she exclaimed. "Then who is Señora Garcia?"

Gomez smirked in an ugly manner.

"A woman of the town who comes at my bidding."

The jealous hatred of the coarse but handsome woman was now explained
and Evelyn grew hot with humiliation as she saw that the señora Garcia
regarded her as a favored rival. It was unendurable; but in spite of her
anger she was getting calm. Besides, there was some hope in the thought
that Gomez could not be moved by passion. He was a sensual brute, and
her beauty had perhaps caught his roving eye, but it was some material
advantage he sought.

"It was a clever plot; one that only a mind like yours could conceive,"
she said with quiet scorn.

"The important thing is that it succeeded. But may I ask why you object
to me? I am a man of influence--in reality, the second in power. The
country is disturbed and discontented; before long I may be first."

"Your hopes would probably come to a sudden end, if your master guessed
them," Evelyn answered with a mocking smile.

She saw that she had touched him, for he cast a quick glance at the
door, as if to make sure that nobody had heard his boast. As he did so,
Evelyn thought she heard a faint movement outside, but she knew she
might be mistaken, and Gomez did not seem to notice anything. To
distract his attention, she flung another jibe at him.

"Señor," she said, "though you think I am in your power, I will never
marry you. It is an insult to suggest it. Even if you were not repulsive
in person and character, you are not a white man."

The blood rushed to his face and his eyes flashed.

"You are rash, señorita, in trying to provoke me, but you may take a
wiser course before I have finished with you. It pains me deeply to be
compelled to remind you that you are in my house, in my power. I repeat
to you my offer, señorita; I give you one more chance to marry me _of
your own free will_. And now I leave you to think it over."

Before Evelyn could more than gasp he was gone. She fell limply into a
chair and dropped her head into her hands. She must think, _think_; but
the strain had been unbearable and the reaction threatened to overwhelm
her.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE INTERCEPTED NOTE

When she was able to think calmly, Evelyn found herself confronted by
familiar troubles. She was not a prisoner and yet she could not run
away, because she had no money and could not understand the barbarous
Castilian spoken among the hills. Moreover, she could not appeal, even
by signs, for help, for it was generally believed that she had eloped
with Gomez. His friends would, no doubt, send her back to him. His
enemies would treat her with rude contempt. Sooner than be forced to
marry him, she would steal away and starve; but she had a conviction
that things would not come to the worst. It would suit Gomez best to
break down her resistance by moral pressure.

She was young, but not altogether inexperienced, and during the past
week her mental powers had suddenly developed; besides, she was
supported by a deep-rooted national pride. It was a privilege to be an
American, or, as her countrymen sometimes expressed it, to be white. The
sentiment might not be quite free from prejudice, but it was founded on
truth and carried an obligation. One must respect one's birthright and
never submit to be trampled on by a foreigner.

It was, however, obvious that she must seek outside help, and in her
need she thought of Grahame. He would come if she sent for him, and she
knew now that he would be welcome if he came as her lover. He was a
white man; it was an unspeakable relief to dwell upon his fine, athletic
symmetry and his strong, brown face with its stamp of semi-ascetic
restraint, after the tainted grossness of her persecutor. She had
thought of him often, and had indeed found it hard not to do so oftener,
but the turning-point had come and, flinging aside ambition, she opened
her heart to the love that had been waiting. This was not because she
was in danger, although danger had hastened the crisis.

For a time she forgot Gomez, and listened vacantly to the patter of feet
in the hot streets while she sat quietly in a corner of the shaded room,
lost in alluring dreams. Then she roused herself, and going to her
apartment wrote a short message, stating that she needed help. She could
not find an envelope and dare not ask for one, so she folded the note
and wrote across it the address Grahame had given her. Then she stole
from the house.

No one interfered with her as she went up a street that led to the
outskirts of the town, where she was less likely to be watched. The
unsealed note could not be posted, because it would no doubt be given to
Gomez, but she might find somebody who would arrange for its conveyance
by hand. It would be better if the person were a revolutionary, but she
imagined that the President's enemies would not make themselves
conspicuous. Some risk must be taken, but, after all, very few people
could read English.

After a time she met a peon and showed him the note. He seemed surprised
to see the Spanish name on the back, and at first vigorously shook his
head, but when Evelyn held out two or three coins he began to ponder,
and presently made a sign of understanding and took the note. Evelyn
felt reckless as he moved away, for she had given him all her money and
had no resource left.

Returning by a different way, she entered the house. Gomez did not seem
to be about, but the building was large and she seldom saw him except
when he paid her a formal visit. The man was a ruffian, but it was her
money he wanted, and he would act discreetly. His boast had thrown some
light upon his treacherous schemes: he meant to make himself President,
if he could compel her father to provide the necessary funds.

The peon carrying the note set out on foot for the next village, where
he had a friend who sometimes went to the coast. The friend, however,
was not at home, and Evelyn's messenger, being tired and in possession
of more money than usual, entered a little wine-shop and ordered
refreshment. The _caña_ was strong and after drinking more than was good
for him he forgot his caution when one of the villagers asked what had
brought him there. To satisfy the fellow's curiosity, he produced the
note, and the loungers in the wine-shop grew interested, for the man to
whom it was addressed was known as an enemy of the Government.

One tried to take it from the peon, another interfered, and as both
political parties were represented, a tumult broke out. It was stopped
by the arrival of two rural guards, the note was seized, and one of the
guards set off for Rio Frio at dawn the next morning.

Gomez started when he was given the note, for Evelyn had made an
unexpected move; but he saw the importance of what it implied and
lighted a cigarette while he thought the matter out. He had suspected
the _Enchantress_ for some time and knew that Grahame was her owner.
Since the _yanqui_ was in communication with a dangerous revolutionist,
he must be engaged in smuggling arms, and if he had landed many, the
rebels would be ready to fight. For all that, Gomez was puzzled. Grahame
was a friend of the señorita Cliffe's--perhaps even her lover--and he
was helping the rebels, while her father had spent a good deal of money
to support the President. This suggested that Cliffe might be playing a
crooked game, and bore out some suspicions Gomez had entertained. The
President must be informed at once; but in the meantime Gomez saw how
the note could be made use of.

After some thought, he summoned a confidential clerk who had learned
English in the United States, and gave him the note.

"It seems that the señorita does not like Rio Frio and means to leave
us," he remarked.

The clerk discreetly contented himself with a sign of agreement.

"Well," Gomez resumed, "I think we will let her message go."

"Would that be wise?" the other ventured. "We do not know when and which
way the Englishman will come, and he may be joined by some of
Sarmiento's followers."

Gomez smiled.

"The señorita Cliffe is artless and has made a mistake. Her note covers
only half the paper and leaves room for something to be added
underneath."

"Ah!" The clerk was a skillful penman and had once or twice successfully
imitated the signatures of hostile politicians.

"You understand!" said Gomez. "The writing must not look different and
you must use the same kind of pencil. Now give me some paper."

He smoked a cigarette before he began to write, for the space at the
foot of Evelyn's note was limited. Grahame probably knew the girl's
hand, but would be deceived by a clever imitation of it in the form of a
postscript under her signature. The note was dated at Rio Frio and left
it to be understood that Evelyn expected him there, but the postscript
directed him to land on the beach near Valverde, where a guide would
look out for him for several nights.

"There are two words we had better alter; the Americans do not often use
them," said the clerk cautiously, and Gomez agreed to the change.

"You will have it sent off and make arrangements for the Englishman to
be met," he added with a smile. "And now I must start for Villa Paz to
tell the President."

Half an hour later he mounted in the _patio_, and Evelyn, hearing the
clatter of hoofs, looked out through the half-opened lattice and watched
him ride away. As he had an armed escort and a spare mule, she imagined
he meant to make a long journey, and Grahame might arrive before he
returned.

Soon after the party had gone, the señora Garcia came in and stood
looking at the girl as if she had something to say. Her air of sullen
dislike was less marked than usual, and Evelyn, remembering the sound
she had heard during her interview with Gomez, suspected that she had
listened at the door. Now the woman looked anxious and embarrassed, and
while she hesitated Evelyn studied her. The señora must have possessed
unusual beauty and was handsome yet, although she was getting stout and
losing her freshness, as women of Spanish blood do at an early age in
hot climates. Her skin had been spoiled by cosmetics and her face was
clumsily touched with paint and powder. Evelyn felt a half contemptuous
pity; there was something pathetic in her crude attempts to preserve her
vanishing charm.

The señora made signs which Evelyn supposed to mean that Gomez had gone
away, and then she took out some silver and paper currency. Putting it
into the girl's hand, she pointed to the door.

Evelyn started, for the hint was plain; the señora was anxious to get
rid of her rival. Evelyn grasped at the chance to go. The money could be
repaid; it might be some time before Grahame arrived, and the woman
could be trusted to convey a note to him, because she could not give it
to Gomez without betraying her complicity in the girl's escape.

For a time they struggled to grasp each other's meaning, but at last the
señora Garcia showed she understood that she was to deliver a note to an
Englishman who would come in search of the girl. Evelyn was to find a
peon who lived outside the town and would put her on the way to Villa
Paz. It would, no doubt, prove a difficult journey, but she was
determined to make it.

She was soon ready, and walked carelessly across the plaza as if she had
no object. The townspeople knew her, and she met with no troublesome
curiosity. After a time, she entered a shady street, where she stopped
once or twice to look into a shop. Leaving it at the other end, she came
out into a hot, stony waste, dotted with tall aloes and clumps of
cactus, and presently reached a dilapidated adobe hut.

As she stood, hesitating, before it a man came out to meet her and she
felt her heart beat fast, for she was now confronted by her first
danger. The fellow might rob her or perhaps take her back. His white
clothes were threadbare, but they were clean, and on the whole she liked
his look; and the sight of a woman peeping through the door was somehow
reassuring.

It was not easy to make him understand what she wanted, but he looked
thoughtful when she repeated a word the señora Garcia had taught her.
Then he went in, apparently to consult the woman, and, returning,
signified that he would do what she wished. She must, however, go on
alone to a village some distance off; on the way he would overtake her
with a mule. Evelyn thought it curious that he had not asked for money,
but as he seemed anxious that she should not delay she set off. So far,
her escape had proved easier than she had imagined.

The sun was at its highest, and it was very hot; the road was a rough
track where loose stones lay among the heavy dust. Where water ran down
the hillside in artificial channels, there were palms and belts of
foliage; elsewhere outcropping rock and stones flung up a dazzling
brightness. In the background, rugged peaks rose against a sky of
intense blue, and far off on the opposite hand a misty gleam indicated
the sea.

Evelyn soon began to get tired, and she found her thin shoes badly
suited to the roughness of the ground. The dust that rose about her
gathered on her skin; she got hot and thirsty; but the water she tried
to drink was slimy and she toiled on. It seemed wiser to press forward
while she could, for there was nobody at work in the scattered fields.
Her eyes ached with the glare and her feet were sore, but the peon did
not come, and when she looked back the road wound along the hillside,
white and empty. Here and there tall trees filled the hollows among the
rocks, but the country seemed deserted and she could not see a house
anywhere.

At last, when the sun was low and the shadows were long and cool, she
saw a cluster of small white patches shining amid a belt of green ahead,
and supposed this was the _aldea_ the peon had meant. Limping on
wearily, she came within half a mile of it, and then, finding a place
where she was hidden by a clump of cactus, she sat down to watch the
road. She might run some risk of being robbed or stopped if she entered
the village alone, for it was obvious that a well-dressed foreigner
traveling on foot could not hope to escape notice, and the hill peasants
would probably not understand her few words of Castilian.

The shadows lengthened until they covered the hillside, and the air got
cool, but her guide did not come, and Evelyn began to wonder what had
delayed him. He had seemed willing to assist in her escape, and she
suspected that he must sympathize with the revolutionaries; but, if so,
it was strange that the señora Garcia should have known the password
which had apparently decided him. She had, however, been told that these
people were fond of intrigue, and that a general plot was often
accompanied by minor conspiracies, so to speak, one inside the other.
The señora Garcia had perhaps some object of her own to serve; but this
did not matter--it was more important that the peon did not arrive.

It began to get dark. The dew soaked Evelyn's thin dress, and she felt
hungry and achingly tired. Then a light or two twinkled among the trees
and some one began to sing to a guitar. The lights and the music, with
their suggestions of home and rest after the day's toil, troubled the
girl. She was alone and apparently deserted, with enemies behind her and
the way ahead unknown. For a few minutes her courage failed and she was
in danger of breaking down; then, with a determined effort, she
recovered her calm and roused herself to listen.

The music had grown plainer, and she recognized an air she had heard
when she sat with Grahame in the _patio_ of the International. The
contrast was too great, and brought her poignant memories. She was no
longer a person of consequence, indulged in every wish, but a homeless
fugitive. Then she thought of Grahame, who had translated the song they
were singing, for the plaintive refrain of _Las Aves Marinas_ carried
clearly through the cooling air. Had the wild sea-hawk got her message,
and was he already coming to her rescue? But even this was not of first
consequence. What about the peon? Had he betrayed her?

Everything was silent upon the hillside, but a faint breeze was getting
up and sighed among the stones. There was a splash of water in the
distance, but no sound came from the road. It ran back, a dim white
streak, into the deepening gloom, and then faded out of sight upon the
shoulder of a hill. There was no movement on it as far as the girl could
see.

She waited what seemed an interminable time, and then a faint drumming
caught her attention, and grew into a welcome beat of hoofs. Some one
was coming along the road. She watched eagerly, straining her eyes to
catch a glimpse of the rider. At last an object emerged from the shadow,
and as it drew nearer she could see that it was a man riding a mule.

With her nerves at high tension and her heart beating fast, Evelyn left
her hiding place in the cacti and stepped out into the middle of the
road. The man must see her now, and she had involved herself in fresh
difficulties if he were not the peon she expected.

He came on fast; he had caught sight of her and was urging his mule.
When he pulled up beside her and dropped from the animal, muttering
exclamations in an unknown tongue, Evelyn staggered. It was an Indian
from the hills.

CHAPTER XXIV

IN THE CAMP OF THE HILLSMEN

Evelyn instinctively drew back a few paces. Through her brain was
beating insistently the admonition that had helped her much in the past
few days:

"_Keep calm! Don't let him think you are afraid!_"

Her first thought had been flight, to the village; but reason told her
that was impossible. Here alone on the silent hillside, in the early
night, a white woman with this strange Indian, there came over her again
a pride in her American blood. She felt that she was a match for him, in
wits if not in strength. And with the thought came courage.

She pointed to the mule, then to herself, then to the village; and
explained in Spanish.

The Indian shook his head, and stood stolidly beside his mount. After
his first exclamations he had remained silent, watching Evelyn intently;
but she felt reassured when he made no move to approach her. As a matter
of fact, his mind at that moment was a chaos of conjectures and
possibilities; and while he hesitated Evelyn gasped with relief. Down
the road, carrying distinctly over the night air, came the sound of
furious riding--faint at first and then growing nearer, quickly nearer.
Even if it were not the peon, at least two strangers would be safer than
one.

With a guttural grunt that might have meant anything, the Indian jumped
upon his mule and started off toward the village, urging the animal
along; and Evelyn stepped farther back into the shadow of the cacti. She
felt that she had reached the breaking-point. Yet she must nerve herself
this once more, for without her guide she could not go on.

The hoof-beats drew near; in a minute they would pass and the rider be
swallowed up in the gloom beyond. Evelyn opened her mouth and tried to
call to him; but her voice failed her. Her worn-out body and her
overtaxed nerves were holding her powerless to move or cry. She could
only stand, helpless, and watch him sweep past.

But the peon's keen eyes had caught sight of the white dress fluttering
against the dark outline of the cacti, and even as he passed he reined
in his mule. A few moments later he was beside her, holding his battered
hat in his hand.

"Your servant, señorita," he said courteously.

Evelyn never could remember distinctly what happened after that. She had
only a hazy recollection of climbing upon the mule and trying to cling
there, while the man trotted beside her carrying a long, iron-pointed
staff. Somewhere near the village they had turned off the main road and
followed a rough path that led up into the hills. And there they had
stopped at a small _hacienda_, where Evelyn was hospitably received.

When she woke the next morning, in a clean little adobe room, and found
a neat-looking Spanish woman smiling upon her, Evelyn smiled in return.
Every muscle in her body ached, and the soles of her feet were
blistered, but, for the first time in many days, she felt a sense of
perfect security. Still smiling, she murmured the password of the
revolutionaries. It meant much to her now.

"_Confianza!_"

They had a hasty breakfast and started again, but rested for some time
in a belt of forest during the heat of the day. In the early evening
they approached a white _aldea_ perched high upon the edge of a ravine.
Evelyn's guide made her understand that they might not be allowed to
pass. He implied that she was in no danger, but it was with some anxiety
that she rode toward the village.

They skirted the side of the ravine, which was fretted with tumbling
cataracts. Steep rocks ran up from the edge of the trail and were lost
in climbing forest a hundred feet above, but after a time the chasm
began to widen, and small, square houses straggled about its slopes. A
barricade of logs, however, closed the road, and as Evelyn approached
two men stepped out from behind it. They were ragged and unkempt, but
they carried good modern rifles.

"Halt!" ordered one of them.

"_Confianza!_" the guide answered, smiling, and they let him pass.

Beyond the barricade, the guide stopped in front of an adobe building
that seemed to be an inn, for a number of saddled mules were tied around
it. Men were entering and leaving and a hum of voices came from the
shadowy interior, but the peon motioned to Evelyn that she must get down
and wait. Finding a stone bench where she was left undisturbed, she sat
there for half an hour while it grew dark, and then a man came up and
beckoned her to enter. She went with some misgivings, and was shown into
a room with rough mud walls, where a man sat under a smoky lamp at a
table upon which a map and a number of papers were spread. He wore
plain, white clothes, with a wide red sash; and two others, dressed in
the same way, stood near, as if awaiting his orders. Evelyn knew the
man, for she had seen him at the International.

"_Confianza!_" she said. "I believe you are Don Martin Sarmiento."

He gave her a quick glance, and answered in good English:

"It is a surprise to receive a visit from Miss Cliffe. But I must ask
who gave you the password?"

"Señora Garcia at Rio Frio."

"That sounds strange. But sit down. There is something we must talk
about."

He waited until one of the men brought her a chair.

"I understand you were going to Villa Paz," he then said.

"Yes; I am anxious to join my father."

"I am not sure that will be possible; but we will speak of it again.
First of all, I must know why you left Valverde." Sarmiento indicated
the others. "These are officers of mine, but they do not speak English,
and it is not necessary that you should know their names. You have
nothing to fear from us, but I must urge you to be frank."

Evelyn tried to think calmly. She was in the man's power, and he wore
the stamp of command, but she liked his look and did not feel afraid of
him. It might be wiser to be candid; but she had an embarrassing story
to tell and she began with some hesitation. Sarmiento helped her, now
with a nod of comprehension as she slurred over an awkward passage, and
now with a look of sympathy, while the others stood silent with
expressionless faces.

"Gomez is, of course, a scoundrel, and you were wise to run away," he
commented when she stopped. "There are, however, matters I do not quite
understand. For example, it would not be to the President's interest
that he should quarrel with your father; nor do I think Altiera would
approve of an alliance between his secretary and you."

Evelyn blushed and tried to meet the man's searching look.

"I cannot explain these things. I have told you what happened, and I
came to you with--confidence."

Sarmiento bowed.

"We respect our password. You are safe with us; but you cannot continue
your journey. The roads will be closed before you get through, and there
will be fighting in the next few days. When it seems less dangerous, we
must try to send you on, but in the meantime I must put you into my
daughter's hands."

He gave one of the officers some instructions, and the man beckoned
Evelyn, but she hesitated.

"I must pay my guide and send him back."

"We will give him the money, but he will not go back. We shall, no
doubt, find a use for him." Sarmiento smiled meaningly as he added: "It
looks as if he could be trusted."

Evelyn followed the officer to the back of the house where creepers
trailed about a rude pergola. A sheet of cotton had been stretched among
the poles, making a tent in which a light burned. Her companion, saying
a few words in Castilian, motioned to Evelyn to go in. She did so, and
then stopped abruptly.

The lamp was small and the light was dim; loops of vines falling about
it cast puzzling shadows, but Evelyn knew the girl who rose to meet her.
She had seen her talking confidentially to Grahame at the International,
and was seized by jealous suspicion. A stout, elderly lady in a black
dress, who was apparently the girl's duenna, sat farther back in the
shadow. Blanca gave Evelyn a friendly smile of recognition, but it cost
her an effort to respond. The Spanish girl seemed to understand that
something was wrong, and there was an awkward silence while they stood
with their eyes fixed on each other. Then Blanca said with a touch of
haughtiness:

"I have been told to make you as comfortable as possible, but I am sorry
there is not much comfort here. One cannot expect it in a camp."

She presented Evelyn to her duenna, and the señora Morales indicated a
folding chair.

"You come at a bad time," she remarked in awkward French, languidly
opening a fan. "It seems we are to have more fighting; it is the way of
men."

"They must fight," said Blanca. "The cause is good."

The señora Morales waved her fan. She wore a black silk mantilla
fastened tightly round her head like a cowl, and her dark, fleshy face
was thickly smeared with powder. Her eyes were lazily contemptuous.

"There are two causes, _niña_, and it is hard to see how both can be
right. But, since men quarrel about them, it is not impossible that both
may be wrong."

Evelyn smiled. The duenna's remarks saved the situation from becoming
strained; the woman was obviously shrewd in spite of her heavy face.

"They are always quarreling in this country," the señora continued.
"Those who will not pay their taxes call themselves Liberators; those
who expect favors from the President are Patriots. If he does not give
them enough, they conspire with the others to turn him out. Since
everybody cannot be satisfied, there is always trouble."

"But our friends are not fighting for rewards!" Blanca objected
indignantly.

"A few are disinterested," the señora conceded. She paused, and turned
to Evelyn with an authoritative air. "You must tell me why you ran away
from Rio Frio. I can guess something, but want to know the rest."

After a moment's hesitation, Evelyn thought it prudent to comply, and
the señora seemed to listen with sympathy.

"To run away was the simplest plan, but sometimes the simplest plan is
not the best," she said. "Did you think of nothing else?"

"I sent a message to Mr. Grahame of the _Enchantress_, telling him I was
in difficulties," Evelyn replied, watching Blanca.

The girl looked up with quick interest, but there was no hint of
jealousy in her expression.

"You thought he would come to help you?"

"I knew he would come if it was possible," Evelyn answered.

Blanca looked her in the face with a smile of understanding, and Evelyn
saw that her suspicions had been unfounded. Grahame was nothing to the
girl.

"My father must know this at once!" she said, and hurried away.

Don Martin came back with her and questioned Evelyn, and then he stood
thoughtfully silent for some moments.

"It is fortunate I heard this news," he said. "Your message may be
intercepted, and we must try to warn Grahame that you are in our hands."
He gave Evelyn a steady look. "I believe he will be satisfied with
that."

"You can tell him that I feel safe," Evelyn answered.

Don Martin left her with a bow, and shortly afterward they heard
somebody riding hard along the edge of the ravine. When the beat of
hoofs died away Blanca touched Evelyn's arm.

"There will be some supper after a while, but let us walk a little way
up the path."

They went out into the dark, passing slowly between shadowy rows of
bushes which Evelyn thought were young coffee plants. She waited,
believing that her companion meant to take her into her confidence.

"You were rash in sending for Mr. Grahame," Blanca began. "We must hope
our messenger arrives in time to stop him, but for all that----"

"Do you wish him to come?" Evelyn asked.

Blanca smiled.

"In a sense, it does not matter to me whether he comes or not, though I
would not wish him to run into danger. But he would not come alone."

Evelyn started. It was not Grahame, but Walthew, in whom Blanca was
interested. Somehow she had not thought of that.

"Of course, you met Mr. Walthew in Havana," she said.

"And at Rio Frio!" There was a hint of triumphant coquetry and something
deeper in Blanca's voice. "Indeed, Mr. Grahame should be grateful to me,
because it was I who kept him his companion. Mr. Walthew had been
dangerously ill, and was thinking of going home--though of course he did
not tell me this----"

"But if he did not tell you!"

"How did I know?" Blanca laughed. "_Cariña mia_, how do we know such
things? Is a man's face a mask? Have we no guide except what he says?"

Evelyn thought of Carmen, for Blanca had something of the great
coquette's allurement and power. It was not an unconscious attraction
she exercised, but the skill with which it was directed was primitive
and instinctive rather than intelligent.

"And you persuaded Mr. Walthew to stay!" she said. "Did you find it
hard?"

"Hard? Oh, no! It is not hard to persuade a young man, unless one is a
fool. A word or two is enough, and I told him he might become a great
_libertador_ like Bolívar and Garibaldi."

Evelyn laughed. She liked Walthew, but he was a very modern American,
and the thought of his emulating Garibaldi tickled her. Then, although
it was dark, she was aware of a change in her companion's mood. Blanca's
pose was different, it had somehow hardened, and her head was lifted
high.

"You find this amusing?" she asked in a haughty tone.

"I suppose I do, in a way," Evelyn admitted deprecatingly. "You see, I
know my countrymen, and we're not romantic, as a rule."

"Then it is clear you do not know Mr. Walthew. He is young, but he has
the spirit of these others, the great _libertadores_."

"I've no doubt that's true," Evelyn agreed, putting her hand on Blanca's
arm. "Indeed, I like and admire him very much."

They turned back to the house presently, on friendly terms, for the
Spaniard's anger flares up quickly but soon burns down. Evelyn, however,
saw that matters had gone farther than she thought, and she imagined
that Walthew would have some trouble with his relatives when he went
home.

"But how did you and your father come to meet Mr. Walthew, and what is
the _Enchantress_ doing on the coast?" she asked.

"You do not know?" There was a hint of gratified superiority in the
girl's tone. "She is bringing us the rifles that we need."

Evelyn asked no more questions, because her talk with Blanca had given
her much to think about, and when supper was over she sat outside the
tent alone. The moon was rising above the tall sierra that ran in a
rugged line across the sky. The air was warm and still, and she could
hear water splashing down in the bottom of the ravine. Now and then
there was a clatter of hoofs as a messenger rode up, and sometimes an
order was followed by a patter of feet. Then for a time everything was
silent except for a murmur of voices in the inn.

The girl noticed this vacantly, for her mind was busy, and she was
filled with a strange excitement. For the last week or two she had borne
a heavy strain, and her thoughts had been concentrated on finding a
means of escape. Now they were free to dwell upon a greater matter. The
struggle that began when she boarded the _Enchantress_ was ended, and
she could rejoice in her own defeat, as she had not been quite able to
do when, on first surrendering, she had written her note at Rio Frio.
Prudence, ambition, and self-interest were driven from the field; love
had utterly routed them. She loved Grahame, and she knew that he loved
her, though he had not avowed it yet. Blanca had spoken truly: words
were not needed: it was easy to read a man's heart.

Evelyn knew what he thought. He was a poor adventurer, and she was rich.
She blushed with shame, remembering how this had once weighed with her.
Now it did not matter at all. Nothing mattered except that he belonged
to her; but while this had never been so plain, it had not dawned on her
with a sudden flash. The light had been steadily creeping in for a long
time, while she stubbornly tried to shut it out, until she abandoned her
futile efforts and let the warming brightness flood her.

Then she thought of Grahame's danger. Don Martin had not received the
note. Suppose it had fallen into Gomez's hands. What use might not that
half-breed make of it!

Evelyn shuddered, and breathed a half-conscious prayer that Don Martin's
messenger might reach her lover in time.

CHAPTER XXV

A TRIAL OF SPEED

Night was falling over the troubled water, and there were threats of a
tropical storm. The _Enchantress_, with her anchor down, rolled uneasily
on the broken swell. A sandy point ran out to windward, but the combers
that beat upon its seaward side with a thunderous roar swirled in a
white turmoil round its end and filled the lagoon with an angry heave.
The palms on the landward shore bent in the wind and the dense green
jungle behind them rolled in tossing waves of green. To the north, the
sky was barred by leaden clouds and the sea-tops cut against it, lividly
white.

A trail of smoke whirled about the funnel, now streaming out to lee, now
eddying down, for a quantity of ammunition and contraband material had
just been landed, and Grahame was ready to go to sea again. There was
some danger in remaining, but the weather was bad, and he half expected
fresh instructions from Don Martin.

While he sat smoking in the lee of the deck-house and Walthew leaned
against the rail, Macallister looked out of the engine-room door.

"I can give ye steam enough to take her out at half an hour's notice,
but if ye're no' likely to need it, I'll bank my fires," he said.

"We won't heave anchor unless we're forced to; it's not an enticing
night," Grahame replied, and Walthew nodded, as in the pause that
followed he heard the rumble of the surf upon the shoals.

"What do you reckon has been going on inland?" he asked. "The fellows
who took the guns ashore didn't seem to have much news, but they
believed you were right in thinking this might be the last important
cargo we'd have to run."

"The Government has arrested Castillo, and no doubt brought pretty
strong pressure to bear on him. I'm afraid he couldn't stand up against
it, and has given his fellow conspirators away. The President seems no
fool, and Gomez is a cunning rascal, but I'm not sure they could keep
their plans dark because the opposition have their spies and
sympathizers everywhere. The consequence is that both parties may be
driven into prompt action instead of quietly finishing their
preparations."

"I expect that's so," said Walthew thoughtfully. "I wish I knew, because
I must see Don Martin and make a trip to Rio Frio before we leave the
coast for good."

"You know best; but I imagine it means trouble with your people when you
go home."

"It may, for a time," Walthew answered with a dogged look. "Still,
they'll come round, and I'm glad to think that, considering this job as
a business proposition, we have done pretty well. That will appeal to
the old man. Gun-running's not the line he wanted me to take, but he'll
be tickled when he sees that I've made good at it."

"I wouldna' say but he might like Miss Sarmiento as weel as yin o' they
hussies at the Florida hotel," Macallister remarked encouragingly.
"There was yin in blue, but no' much o' it, with a flagpole in her hat,
that gave me what I've heard ye call the googly eye----"

Walthew chuckled.

"That girl has roomsful of money."

"Then she might hae bought some clothes," the Scotsman retorted.

They were silent for a few minutes, and through the quietness they heard
the splash of canoe paddles.

"We may get some news," Walthew said.

The canoe ran alongside, and a half-breed handed up a dirty note.
Grahame opened it, and his jaws set and a curious glint came into his
eyes when he read Evelyn's message.

"Where did this come from?" he called sharply to the waiting half-breed.
In his anxiety he had spoken in English.

The messenger shook his head.

"_No entiendo._"

Grahame repeated the question in Spanish, and added: "Tell me quickly!"

"A man brought it down from the hills a half-hour ago. That's all I
know," the half-breed explained.

"All right; you may go."

Grahame turned to Walthew and Macallister and showed them the crumpled
note.

"I don't think our partnership agreement covers a risky private
undertaking of this kind, and you can turn me out, if you like, but I'm
going," he said.

"And I'm coming with you," Walthew replied cheerfully. "I've some
business of my own at Rio Frio."

"You can't come! How is Mack to run the boat alone?"

"Weel," said Macallister, "I'm thinking that's no' impossible. Onyway,
ye'll take him. We'll quarrel about who's to command her if ye leave him
on board."

Grahame saw they were both determined; his comrades meant to stand by
him, if it cost them the vessel. He was touched, but there was no time
to indulge in sentiment.

"We'll talk of it later. Start the windlass and stir the fires. I'll
want all the steam you can give me."

"Ye'll get it," Macallister replied, and vanished below, while Grahame
went forward when the windlass began to clank and the cable tightened.

Speed was urgently needed. It was several days since the note had been
written, and he dared not speculate about what might have happened in
the meanwhile. Evelyn was not easily frightened; she would not have sent
for him unless the danger was imminent. Then, the postscript stated that
a guide would look out for him between midnight and three o'clock in the
morning, at a place mentioned, and the _Enchantress_ must be driven hard
to get there in time. If she arrived too late, he must steam out to sea
before dawn broke and wait for another night.

The windlass rattled faster, the chain ran in as the anchor left the
ground, and, seeing Miguel ready with the tackle at the cathead, Grahame
went aft to the wheel. The gong clanged the signal "Full ahead," and the
screw began to throb. There was a crash forward as the swinging anchor
struck the bow, but Miguel had men enough to stow it, and Grahame fixed
his eyes ahead as he turned his wheel. Rolling across the broken swell,
the _Enchantress_ stemmed the strong flood-tide; bending palms and
shadowy beach were sliding past, and the turmoil on the shoals drew
nearer. Ahead was a narrow channel with about a fathom of water to the
good, but the leading marks were obscured and Grahame doubted if he
could find it. If the boat struck, she would be washed up, badly
damaged, among the sands; but the tide was rising, and before long
Macallister would have raised full steam. It was unthinkable that they
should lose time, and Grahame meant to take his chance.

Spray flew about her forward; as the swell got steeper she dipped to the
knightheads, and Miguel, running aft, began to use the lead. Grahame did
not stop him, although sounding was a matter of form, because she would
drive aground before he could bring her head round if he missed the
narrow deep.

She crept past the point, rolling wildly and lifting out her screw,
while the air got thick with spray and the thud of engines was drowned
by the turmoil of the sea. Some distance off, white ridges leaped out of
the gathering dark, but nearer at hand they were broken by the shoals
and raged in foaming confusion. The _Enchantress_ must cross this belt
without much steam to help her, but it was obvious that Macallister was
hard at work below, for thick smoke with fiery sparks in it poured from
the funnel.

Miguel's white-clad figure, swaying in the channels, cut against the
gloom, but Grahame could not hear his hail. Though he glanced at the
compass now and then, he was feeling his way rather by instinct than
definite guidance, and so far the upward sweep of the bows showed there
was sufficient water under the vessel. Sometimes a sea came on board and
poured aft in a frothing flood, but she was steadily forging ahead, and
a few minutes would take her across the worst of the shoals.

Suddenly she stopped with a crash, lurched sideways, and lay still while
a foam-tipped mass of water rolled up ahead. It broke on board, burying
her forward half, and the next moment Grahame was wet to the waist; but
she lifted as the roller surged by; and then struck the shoal again. A
few more blows of that kind would crush in her bilge, but Grahame set
his teeth and clung grimly to his wheel. There was nothing to be done
but wait; the crash would warn Macallister what was required of him, and
if he could not drive her off, they must cut the boats adrift and leave
her to her fate.

Another sea came tumbling in, but while its crest broke across the rail
it picked her up and she moved on slowly with the water sluicing aft
down her inclined deck. For a few seconds Grahame held his breath,
waiting for the shock; but she went on, and lifted her head buoyantly as
the next comber rolled up. When she had lurched over it and the spray
had blown away, he saw that the sea was more regular and the worst of
the turmoil lay astern. Five minutes afterward, she reeled out into open
water, and Macallister came on deck.

"We've started the bilge-pump, but it's no' drawing much," he said. "I
dinna think she's the waur for the knocks she got."

"That's satisfactory. You know what you have to do."

Macallister smiled with quiet enjoyment.

"We've no' had the need to drive her yet, but noo I'll let ye see."

He went below, and Grahame gave Miguel an order, for in swinging round
after leaving the lagoon the _Enchantress_ had brought the wind on her
quarter, and she carried a good spread of sail. He would not, however,
luff her off her course to make the work easier; the crew must hoist the
canvas as best they could, and there was a furious banging and clatter
of flying blocks as fore-staysail, foresail, and mainsail went up. Then
she listed down with her rail in the white surges that boiled up to lee,
while tall, hollow-fronted combers ranged up astern and sped after her.

Wire shrouds, strung to the breaking-point, shrieked in wild harmonies
as the blasts struck them; chain funnel-guys roared in deeper tones, and
there was a confused groaning of masts and booms. Spray swept her,
lashing Grahame's back and blowing past his head in clouds, and now and
then a sea-top broke on board; but she drove on furiously before the
wind.

After a while Grahame called Miguel to the helm and stood in the lee of
the deckhouse, pipe in mouth, for he had now time to think. He could
make no plans until he landed, but it was plain that he must go to Rio
Frio; and, if possible, he must leave Walthew behind. He could not allow
the lad to run the risk, and Macallister would need him. Some help might
be had from the revolutionaries, and he must try to find Don Martin. If
he failed to do so, much would have to be left to chance.

Grahame looked at another side of the matter. Suppose he rescued Miss
Cliffe, what then? Though the gun-running had been profitable, he was an
adventurer with very limited means. He could not trade upon Cliffe's
gratitude, though he loved the girl. He did not know when he began to
love her, but he had for some time made stern efforts to drive the
thought of her out of his mind. Perhaps he might have succeeded had
nothing unusual happened, for he knew his disadvantages; but now his
determination suddenly had been swept away. Evelyn was in danger;
somehow this made clear the strength of the feelings with which he had
grappled. The future was clouded; there were difficulties to be faced;
but he felt that if she had any love for him he could not give her up.

The gale freshened; but Grahame would not shorten sail. There was not
much time to spare, and the gear was standing well. He could trust the
helm to Miguel and might have slept, but, although he imagined his
strength might be severely taxed during the next few days, it was
impossible for him to rest. In spite of his anxiety, he was sensible of
an exultant excitement. The girl he loved was in danger, but she had
sent for him. Then, the adventure he was embarking on had a fascination
of its own, and he smiled as he remembered that his ancestors had often
in past days ridden across the dark marches, leading the Border Spears.
It was not for nothing the hot blood of the old mosstroopers ran in his
veins.

Swept by the seas on her quarter, the _Enchantress_ drove on, and
Grahame lurched about the slanted deck and stood amidst the spray that
whirled across her stern. She was going fast; his glances at the
recording log astonished him, for he had not believed her capable of
the speed it showed. His fierce impatience seemed to have inspired
thudding engines and quivering hull, and he thrilled when a great,
white-topped comber rolled up and swept her on. Flame blew from the
funnel, wet canvas, straining in black curves, reeled through the dark,
and the sea sped back, snowy white, toward the plunging bows.

At last, however, lights shone in the gloom, and Grahame ordered the
canvas to be lowered. It cost the crew an arduous struggle, but they
made all fast, and Grahame, ringing for half-speed, took the wheel.
There was a point a short distance from the town that would break the
sea, and by steaming in behind it he might get a boat away. Landing
would be difficult, and it was important that he should find the right
spot.

He watched the beach with his glasses as the _Enchantress_ swung
inshore, and when presently the combers changed to a steep, troubled
swell that ended in a white band of surf, he stopped the engines and
told Miguel to hoist out the gig. The navigation lights had been
extinguished, but he thought that anybody carefully watching for the
steamer could see her. The men had some trouble in lowering the boat,
but as soon as she was in the water Grahame jumped on board and told the
men to push off. Then, as they got out their oars, a dark figure leaped
from the steamer's rail and Walthew, alighting in the sternsheets,
turned to his comrade with a grin.

"I'm here, and you'll smash the boat if you try to send me back," he
said. "You see, I suspected what you were getting after when you put me
at a job it was awkward to leave."

"Well, I did my best, anyway," Grahame laughed.

Walthew took an oar, for the swell was high enough to make progress
difficult, but they found smoother water near the land, and stopped
pulling just outside the fringe of surf. Waiting for a slacker interval
in the shoreward rush of hissing rollers, they drove her in as fast as
she could go, and jumped overboard when she touched the sand. A wave
broke into her, but they ran her up safely, and Grahame turned to
Walthew after they had emptied the water out.

"I don't think I'm straining my authority by telling you to go off with
Miguel," he said.

"Anyhow, I'm not going," Walthew replied doggedly. "Our association is a
partnership, and I mean to come along. I don't know that I'll be of much
help to you, but the job you've undertaken is too big for one."

Grahame saw that objections would be useless, and, feeling that his
pistol was loose, he walked up the beach, with Walthew following a few
yards behind.

CHAPTER XXVI

TRAPPED

For a few minutes the men toiled silently across loose, wet sand, and
then, on reaching a belt of shingle near high-water mark, stopped to
look about. Lights gleamed in the town across the bay, but except for
that it was very dark. A clump of trees that fringed the end of a ridge
of higher ground could barely be distinguished, but Grahame decided that
this must be the spot Evelyn had mentioned in her note. Though the
shingle rolled beneath his feet, the sound it made was lost in the roar
of the surf upon the point. Dry sand blew past, pricking his face, and
when he turned toward the sea he saw a group of indistinct objects still
standing about the boat.

"What are they waiting for?" he asked. "I told them to push off."

"I guess old Miguel takes an interest in us and wants to see we're all
right. He knows something about these fellows' tricks, and may not share
our confidence."

"Well, I guess those are the trees where we should meet our guide."

"The fellow might have come down to the beach," Walthew remarked. "I was
busy helping Mack during the run and hadn't much time to think, but it
now strikes me as curious that Miss Cliffe was able to send the note and
arrange for a guide when she was a prisoner."

"She must have got into touch with some of Don Martin's spies, and his
friends would be ready to help. But we had better get on."

They crossed the shingle, seeing nothing that suggested there was
anybody about, but Walthew grew uneasy as they approached the trees. The
belt of timber was wrapped in gloom, and rolled back up the rising
ground in shadowy masses that rustled in the wind. It had somehow a
forbidding look, and the nearer he got the less he liked it. He was not
daunted, and meant to go on, but his nerves were highly strung and his
glances suspicious as he tried to pierce the dark.

They found a trail through tall grass and reeds, and followed it across
a patch of boggy soil until it led them to an opening in the trees. Here
a shadowy object rose out of the gloom, and Walthew instinctively felt
for his pistol. The abrupt movement dislodged a small bundle of clothes
which he carried by a strap across his shoulder, and it fell to the
ground. Then he saw the man come forward, waving his hand.

"This way, señor!" he called to Grahame, who was some yards in front.

Walthew felt tempted to leave the bundle. He wanted to watch the man;
but there was a packet of cartridges among the clothes he had dropped,
and he thought they might prove useful. Stooping down, he felt among the
grass, but had to move once or twice before he found the bundle; then,
springing to his feet, he saw that Grahame and the other had vanished.
The next moment his comrade's voice reached him, hoarse and breathless:

"Run!"

That Grahame said nothing more was ominous; but Walthew did not run back
to the boat. Drawing his pistol, he plunged in among the trees, but as
he reached them he felt a stunning blow on his head. He staggered and
fell into a thicket, blinded by blood that ran into his eyes. A struggle
seemed to be going on near by, and, getting upon his knees, he fired at
random. He thought a man ran toward him, and he fired again, but his
mind was confused and he could hardly see. For all that, he got upon his
feet and stumbled forward, dazed but determined to rescue his comrade.

A few moments afterward it dawned on him that he was going the wrong
way, for he seemed to have come out on the beach. Two or three men were
hurrying toward him, but the pistol would not go off. Stumbling on with
his hand clenched on the barrel, ready to use the butt, he tripped and
fell among the rattling shingle. Then his senses left him.

The next thing of which he was conscious was a cool splash on his face,
and while he wondered what it was, he felt that he lay upon something
that moved in an erratic manner. It was not shingle, for it was smooth
when he touched it, but a minute or two passed before he realized that
he was lying in the sternsheets of the gig. She was plunging sharply,
the spray flew aft in showers, and when he wiped his eyes he saw that
the men were pulling hard. With some trouble he got to his knees, and
the top of a wave that washed across the gunwale struck his face.

"Where is the señor Grahame?" he asked faintly.

"Who knows!" somebody answered. "It seems the _rurales_ have him. We
came too late."

Walthew groaned, for his head was getting clearer. His comrade had
fallen into a trap.

"Pull her round," he said. "We're going back!"

For a moment or two nobody replied. The gig lurched wildly, and a
sea-top broke on board. Walthew dimly saw the men swing to and fro at
the oars. Their blurred figures cut the sky as the bow went up, and then
stood out against white foam as the craft plunged into a hollow.

"It is not possible, señor," Miguel said breathlessly.

Walthew scrambled to his feet, and stood swaying awkwardly with the
violent motion, in danger of going overboard. The sea had got worse, and
the savage wind lashed his wet face. It was blowing very hard, and the
turn of the tide had brought broken water nearer inshore; he could hear
the roar of the surf upon the beach. It would now be dangerous to land;
but he must try to rescue his comrade. He seized the oar the man nearest
to him pulled. The fellow pushed him back and, losing his balance as the
boat plunged over a comber, he fell heavily upon the floorings.

"We will smash the boat if we land, and there are _rurales_ on the
beach," he heard Miguel say. "The sea is bad; perhaps we cannot reach
the steamer."

Walthew realized that Miguel was right. The men were unarmed, except for
their knives, and something had gone wrong with his pistol. Even if they
escaped being swamped by the surf, it would be impossible to cross the
beach in face of a hostile force. He lay still with a groan. He felt
faint, his head ached excruciatingly, and blood still trickled into his
eyes. He had not seen the _Enchantress_ when he stood up, and the
desperate way the men were rowing showed that they found it hard to
drive the boat offshore.

After a while, however, a hail came out of the dark, the men pulled
furiously, and then threw down their oars. There was a crash and a rope
fell into the boat, which surged violently forward, grinding against the
steamer's side. Walthew did not know how he got on board, and he
imagined that he fainted soon afterward, for the next thing he
remembered was trying to get up from the top grating in the engine-room,
where Macallister sat beside him, holding a rag and a can of hot water.

"Keep still while I tie up the cut," he said.

"But they've got Grahame!" Walthew exclaimed, trying to rise.

Macallister gently pushed him back.

"I ken. A bad job, but we might have lost ye both." Then he took up a
piece of linen. "It's lucky ye'll no' need stitching, but maybe this
will nip."

Walthew's head smarted intolerably after the bandage was applied, but
the dazed feeling left him when Macallister gave him something to drink,
and he began to ask questions.

"Miguel heard a shot and ran back up the beach with the others,"
Macallister told him. "They found ye reeling aboot and brought ye down
to the gig, with two or three _rurales_ no' far behind; the rest must
have gone off with Grahame before our men came up. They had just time
to launch her before the _rurales_ began to shoot, but nobody was hit.
Looks as if ye had been knocked oot with a carbine butt."

"Where are we now?" Walthew asked.

"Steaming back to the lagoon as fast as I can drive her, and that's
aboot four knots against the gale. The best thing we can do is to send
Don Martin word, but ye'll go to sleep in the meanwhile. I canna' look
after ye; I hae my hands full."

The clanging of hard-driven engines, which quickened to a furious rattle
when the screw swung out, made the need for watchfulness plain, and
Walthew crept away to his berth. He wanted to help, but knew that to
attempt this would probably result in his falling among the machinery.
Dazed by the blow on his head, he soon fell asleep, and when he wakened
the vessel was at rest. There was no pounding of engines, and the water
no longer gurgled along her side, but he heard voices behind the
bulkhead.

Scrambling awkwardly out of the berth, he made his way on deck with some
difficulty. The fresh air revived him, and he saw that the _Enchantress_
was anchored in the lagoon, but he opened a door close by instead of
stopping to look about. Two or three of the revolutionaries whom he knew
were sitting round a table in the saloon, and as Walthew came in,
white-faced, with staring eyes and a red bandage round his head, one of
them threw up his hands.

"_Ave Maria!_" he exclaimed.

Walthew sat down with a jerk and nodded to Macallister.

"I'm better."

Then he turned to the others.

"What are we going to do?"

"Nothing, until to-night," said one. "We must wait for dark before it is
safe to move. They will not keep your comrade at Valverde, and we must
try to find out where they have taken him."

"I'll be quite well in a few hours," Walthew declared. "But what is
likely to happen to Grahame?"

The man shrugged.

"Who knows! The regular course would be to try him for smuggling arms,
but I do not think the President will follow that plan. They may send
him to Rio Frio, because it is some distance from the coast, and it is
possible he will be given a chance of escaping on the way."

"Do you mean that they may let him go?" Walthew asked eagerly.

"He would not go very far. You must understand that the _rurales_ have
authority to shoot a prisoner who tries to escape, and the Government
finds this useful. Sometimes they arrest a man whom they think the court
could not convict, and an excuse is found for not watching him very
closely when he is being taken to the nearest jail; perhaps a guard is
called away when they stop for food. There is cover near, and the
prisoner makes a dash for freedom; then the guard, who has been hiding,
fires and the administration is rid of an enemy. Sometimes the _rurales_
break into the house of an obnoxious person and, taken by surprise, he
gets angry. A threatening movement is enough; he is shot down. It is
simpler than taking him before a judge who may be bribed to let him go."

"A gang o' bloodthirsty scoundrels! I'm thinking it's time ye turned on
them," Macallister said, while Walthew sat silent with a tense face and
fury in his eyes. "But, so far as we ken, they havena' shot Mr.
Grahame."

"No, señor," said another. "I think he is safe, for a time. He might
prove too useful for them to shoot, at least, not until they have tried
other means."

"If ye believe they can frighten or buy him----" Macallister began
savagely; but the man waved his hand.

"Señor, I only think we must set him free as soon as possible, and you
will agree about the need for that."

"I'm coming with you," said Walthew grimly. "If I'm not satisfied with
your plans, I'll do the thing in my own way."

Macallister gave him a sharp glance. Walthew did not look fit to travel,
but Macallister knew that objections would be futile. The boy had grown
older and sterner in a night.

The revolutionaries began to talk about what had better be done, and it
was decided that Macallister must remain in charge of the vessel, which
he would hide in a creek, so as to provide a means of escape, if this
should be needed. The others would start for Rio Frio as soon as it was
dark and, if they could gather a strong enough force, try to overtake
and attack Grahame's escort on the march. Failing this, they would
follow the _rurales_ to Rio Frio, and be guided by circumstances when
they got there. Walthew took no part in the discussion, but when it was
finished he got up and stood looking at the others sternly.

"We are going to save my partner, and not to do something that may help
you in your political schemes," he said. "It may save trouble if you
bear this in mind."

They assured him that Grahame's rescue was a matter of importance to
them; and when, shortly afterward they left the ship, Walthew went to
his berth and slept until the afternoon. He was getting better, for it
was not the cut but the jar on his skull that had dazed him, and the
effect of this was passing.

When the evening mist began to creep across the lagoon a canoe came off
and a half-breed stood up in her as she approached the gangway.

"The señores are waiting," he announced.

Walthew shook hands with Macallister.

"I'll either bring him back or stop with him," he said grimly. "Your
business is to be ready to take us off."

"Good luck to ye!" returned Macallister in a rather hoarse voice. "If
ye're long aboot it, I'll come after ye myself!"

When Walthew got into the canoe and vanished in the haze, Macallister
went down to his engine-room and fiercely set about some work that might
as well have been left undone.

CHAPTER XXVII

HANDS DOWN

Cliffe had spent some time at Villa Paz when President Altiera sent for
him one morning. It was with mixed feelings that Cliffe obeyed the
summons, for his business had proved longer and more difficult than he
expected, and he was anxious about Evelyn. Indeed, he wondered whether
he should let the concessions go and return to the coast; but he
determined to be guided by what took place during the interview.

It was getting hot when Altiera received him, and a glare of reflected
light shone through the unshuttered window. Cliffe, looking out over the
little town, thought there was an ominous quiet. An hour earlier he had
watched a company of slouching, dusty soldiers, equipped as if for
service, march through the narrow streets; but there was now no one
about. It struck him as significant that all the green shutters were
closed and the entrances to the _patios_ barred. This might have some
bearing on his business, but it was not of the first importance, and he
turned to the President and studied him closely.

There was a subtle change in Altiera since their last meeting. His
manner was somehow less cordial, and suspicion seemed to lurk in his
dark eyes. When he had indicated a chair he looked at Cliffe steadily.

"You have, no doubt, thought over the matter we talked about not long
ago," he began. "It is necessary that I should know when we may expect
the loan."

"That, as I think you understand, depends on when I may expect the
concessions."

"I cannot sign the papers yet. It would provoke a storm of indignation
that I cannot risk. My enemies have taught the people that I am robbing
them when I make a grant to foreigners."

"In short, you mean to put down the rebels before you conclude the deal
with me."

"You have guessed right. There will be no complaints when I have shown
that I have the upper hand."

"If I had known your plans at the beginning, I'd have acted
differently," Cliffe said.

Altiera gave him a piercing glance.

"Señor, I do not think you are justified in charging us with a want of
candor, because there is evidence that you have not been quite honest
with us. Our most dangerous enemy is Martin Sarmiento, and we find him
staying at your hotel in Havana, where the señorita Cliffe helps him in
an attempt to escape observation."

"I do not know the man," Cliffe protested with a puzzled air.

"Then it is strange that we should have caught a messenger bringing you
a note from him," Altiera answered. "I think we shall gain nothing by
fencing, señor."

Cliffe frowned.

"I've just got to say that I've never, to my knowledge, met Don Martin.
What was the note about?"

"We will talk of that later. In the meanwhile, I understand you have
decided not to let me have the money that we need?"

"Not without a written promise that the papers will be signed and handed
to me in a fortnight. Unless you consent, I must start for Valverde at
once."

Altiera pondered for a few moments, knitting his brows.

"You are, no doubt, anxious to rejoin your daughter," he said slowly.
"Perhaps I had better tell you that she is not at Valverde."

"Not at Valverde!" Cliffe exclaimed. "Then where has she gone?"

"I cannot tell you."

Cliffe clenched his hand, but would not let his alarm master him. He
suspected treachery and knew that he must be cool.

"Your secretary assured me that Miss Cliffe would be safe with the
_alcalde's_ wife; I shall hold him responsible. Why did she leave
Valverde?"

"It seems the señorita got tired of waiting, and set off to rejoin you.
This is most likely, but it is said in the cafés that she ran away with
the señor Gomez."

Cliffe looked up with his face set and an ominous sparkle in his eyes.

"That is a lie!"

"Personally, I think so; but having some knowledge of the sex, I would
not care to predict what a romantic young woman might do."

"Get on with your tale!"

Altiera regarded Cliffe calmly.

"The señorita had my secretary's escort, but, finding the road
dangerous, he made for Rio Frio, where he put her in safe hands. Her
liberty was not interfered with and one morning she left the house and
did not come back."

Cliffe got up and advanced a yard or two across the floor.

"You mean she ran away? Why did she do so?"

"Your pardon, señor!" Altiera spread out his hands with a mocking smile.
"There is no reason to believe she had any cause to run away; but, not
knowing your daughter's character, I cannot tell you why she went."

"Very well," said Cliffe, restraining himself with an effort. "I must
ask you for an armed escort to Rio Frio, where I will make inquiries. I
want the men at once!"

"I am afraid that is impossible. We have news that there are rebels in
the mountains. If I gave you a guard, the peons might be incited to
attack you, and the trouble would spread before we are ready to deal
with it. As President of this country, it is my business to think of its
welfare first."

"I understand," Cliffe said very dryly. "If I promised to let you have
the money you want, you might see your duty differently."

Altiera looked at him with thoughtful eyes. The American was shrewd, but
did not seem as eager as he had expected.

"Señor, the need of funds that would ensure the maintenance of order and
firm government justifies a risk one would not take without such a
reason. I will give you a guard and send soldiers to make a thorough
search for the señorita if we can agree about the loan."

"This means you really do not know where my daughter is. I was not sure
of it until now."

Altiera saw he had blundered in admitting that the girl was no longer
in his hands; but while he considered how his mistake could be covered
Cliffe resumed:

"It was a cunning plot, but you put it through clumsily, and you're
going to find that kidnapping an American woman is a dangerous game for
the President of a third-rate republic."

"One must make allowances for the excited imagination of an anxious
father," Altiera answered with an indulgent smile. "I deny the plot.
There is no need for one. We have a charming young lady left alone in a
foreign town who finds waiting tedious and determines to join her
relative. This is a simple and satisfactory explanation, without the
other that she forms a romantic attachment for an officer of rank. We
provide an escort because the country is disturbed, and part of the
journey is accomplished. It is not safe for her to go farther, but she
is rash, and, disregarding our advice, ventures too far from the house.
Then she loses her way and is perhaps seized by the rebels, with the
object of embarrassing the Government. We cannot be held responsible,
but we are willing to attempt her rescue when we see an opportunity."

The explanation was plausible, and could not be disproved until Cliffe
heard his daughter's account. But what he wanted was to find her.

"The opportunity is now, before the rebels begin to move," he said. "You
refuse to seize it?"

"You understand why it is impossible. I cannot do anything that might
plunge my country into a conflict, unless you show me some reason that
would justify the risk."

"I cannot give you such a reason."

Altiera shrugged.

"It is for you to decide! We come to a deadlock; our negotiations break
off."

"Very well," said Cliffe. "I leave Villa Paz in an hour, and it wouldn't
be wise of you to interfere with my movements. My business with you is
known to people who have some political influence in the United States,
and if I don't turn up in good time, inquiries will be made."

He turned abruptly and went out. It seemed safer to move quickly, though
he imagined the hint he had given Altiera would prevent any attempt to
stop him. The President had found a plausible excuse for Evelyn's
disappearance, but he would hesitate about detaining an American citizen
whose friends could bring pressure to bear at Washington. This
supposition was borne out when Cliffe found no trouble in hiring a guide
and mules; but while he made the arrangements his brain was working.

He would willingly have met the demand for money, only that Altiera had
incautiously admitted that he did not know where Evelyn was. Cliffe had
acted on impulse in refusing to submit to further exaction, but calm
reflection justified the course. Having a deep distrust of the man, he
thought he might take the money and then not undertake the search for
the girl. Cliffe determined to set about it himself and make a bid for
the help of the revolutionaries. This would involve him in a serious
loss, but that did not count. He must rescue his daughter, whatever it
cost.

Then he remembered that the President had admitted having intercepted a
message to him from the rebel leader. He had meant to insist on learning
what it was about, but had somehow omitted to do so, and it was now too
late to reopen the matter. There was, however, a ray of hope in the
thought that Sarmiento had tried to communicate with him.

When his baggage had been strapped on a pack-mule, he mounted and rode
out of Villa Paz as if making for Valverde, but as soon as they had left
the last of the houses behind he pulled up and quietly studied his
guide. He was a sturdy, brown-faced peon, dressed in ragged white
cotton, with raw-hide sandals and a colored blanket strapped round his
shoulders, but he looked trustworthy. Moreover, Cliffe thought his
willingness to assist a foreigner who was leaving the President's house
without an escort, which must have shown that he had lost the autocrat's
favor, had some significance. It was unfortunate that he could not speak
much Castilian, but he knew that money talks in a language that is
generally understood.

"I have changed my mind; we will not go to the coast," he said,
stumbling over the words and helping out his meaning by pointing to the
mountains.

The peon nodded.

"To me it is equal where the señor goes, so long as I am paid for the
days we spend upon the road."

"Very well," said Cliffe, taking out a handful of silver. "Do you know
Don Martin Sarmiento?"

The peon looked doubtful, and Cliffe saw that, as he had suspected, the
fellow had some dealings with the President's enemies.

"Don Martin is known to many," he replied cautiously.

Cliffe jingled the silver and awkwardly explained that he was no longer
a friend of the President's and wished to see Sarmiento as soon as he
could.

For a time the muleteer did not speak; then he looked up with an air of
decision.

"It may be difficult, señor, but we will try," he said, and jerking the
pack-mule's bridle abruptly left the road.

They passed through a coffee plantation and a field of sugar-cane, and
then as they reached thick forest the muleteer stopped and indicated the
road that wound in loops down the hillside.

"It is well the President should think we have gone that way," he
remarked with a smile. "He has, no doubt, been told how we left the
town."

Cliffe looked back across the wide sweep of sun-scorched country to the
shining streak on the horizon. His path led into the mountains and he
longed for the sea. Then he thought of Grahame and wondered where he
was. Cliffe felt sure the man would help him if he knew his need. He was
beginning to suspect what business Grahame had on the coast. He asked
his guide about the _Enchantress_, but the fellow did not seem to
understand, and it was obvious that he had not heard of Grahame. Then
Cliffe urged his mule on and plunged into the steamy shade.

Two days later they rode into a deep gorge filled with giant,
creeper-festooned trees, and the guide moved forward slowly, glancing
into the shadow that shut in the winding track. It appeared that his
caution was justified, for presently a hoarse voice bade them halt, and
as they pulled up two men with rifles stepped out into the sunlight.

For some time the muleteer disputed with them, using emphatic gestures
and pointing to Cliffe; and then he went on with one while the other sat
down watching the American, with his rifle across his knees. It was very
hot, for the sun struck down through an opening in the branches, but
although the perspiration dripped from him Cliffe did not think it wise
to move. Indeed, he was glad that his mule stood quiet, whisking off the
flies.

At last some one called in the forest and Cliffe's guard told him to
ride on, though the man followed at a short distance, as if to prevent
his escape. A few hundred yards farther on, the gorge widened into a
level hollow, and Cliffe saw that he was in a camp.

It was not marked by military order. Men of various shades of color lay
about, smoking cigarettes. Some were barefooted, and most were poorly
dressed, but all wore red sashes, and good rifles lay ready to their
hands. They looked more like brigands than soldiers, and it was hard to
imagine they had been drilled, but while their attitudes were slackly
negligent, their faces were resolute. In the background, climbing
forest, choked with fallen trees and trailing vines, rolled up the steep
hillside. It was very hot, and the hum of insects mingled with the sound
of drowsy voices.

Two men, better dressed than the others, came forward, and Cliffe
dismounted and followed them to a seat in the shadow, where they gave
him some cigarettes.

"Now, señor, you will tell us why you came here," said one.

Cliffe had not expected to be addressed in good English, and he looked
at the man with surprise.

The Spaniard smiled.

"With us, the consequences of trying to serve one's country is that one
finds it safer to live somewhere else. But we will keep to the point."

"I am looking for Don Martin Sarmiento," Cliffe said. "I expect you know