"Certainly not," he protested. "It is serious enough, isn't it?"
The voice of the Consul dropped to a whisper.
"Who sent you here?" he demanded. Without waiting for an answer he
suddenly rose. Moving with surprising lightness to the door, he jerked
it open. But if by this manoeuvre he expected to precipitate the spy
into the room, he was disappointed, for the outer office was empty.
The Consul crossed it quickly to the window. He saw the spy
disappearing into a neighboring wine-shop.
When Captain Codman again entered the inner office he did not return
to his seat, but, after closing the door, as though to shut Roddy from
the only means of escape, he stood with his back against it. He was
very much excited.
"Mr. Forrester," he began angrily, "I don't know who is back of you,
and," he cried violently, "I don't _mean_ to know. I have been
American Consul in these Central American countries for fifteen years,
and I have never mixed myself up with what doesn't concern me. I
represent the United States government. I don't represent anything
else. I am not down here to assist any corporation, no matter how
rich, any junta, any revolutionary party----"
"Here! Wait!" cried Roddy anxiously. "You don't understand! I am not a
revolution. There is only me and Peter."
"What is that?" snapped the Consul savagely. The exclamation was like
the crack of a flapping jib.
"You see, it's this way," began Roddy. He started to explain
elaborately. "Peter and I belong to the Secret Order----"
"Stop!" thundered the Consul. "I tell you I won't listen to you!"
The rebuff was most embarrassing. Ignorant as to how he had offended
the Consul, and uncertain as to whether the Consul had not offended
him, Roddy helplessly rubbed his handkerchief over his perplexed and
perspiring countenance. He wondered if, as a conspirator, he had not
been lacking in finesse, if he had not been too communicative.
In the corner of the room, in a tin cage, a great green parrot, with
its head cocked on one side, had been regarding Roddy with mocking,
malevolent eyes. Now, to further add to his discomfiture, it suddenly
emitted a chuckle, human and contemptuous. As though choking with
hidden laughter, the bird gurgled feebly, "Polly, Polly." And then, in
a tone of stern disapproval, added briskly, "You talk too much!" At
this flank attack Roddy flushed indignantly. He began to wish he had
brought Peter with him, to give him the proper signals.
With his hands clinched behind him, and tossing his white beard from
side to side, the Consul paced the room.
"So that is it!" he muttered. "_That_ is why he left Paris. That
explains the _Restaurador_. Of course," he added indignantly as he
passed Roddy, throwing the words at him over his shoulder, "_that_ is
where the money came from!"
Roddy, now thoroughly exasperated, protested warmly: "Look here," he
cried, "if you aren't careful you'll tell me something you don't want
me to know."
The Consul came to an instant pause. From his great height he stood
staring at his visitor, the placid depths of his blue eyes glowering
with doubt and excitement.
"I give you my word," continued Roddy sulkily, "I don't know what you
are talking about."
"Do you mean to tell me," demanded the old man truculently, "that you
are _not_ Mr. Forrester's son?"
"Certainly I am his son," cried Roddy.
"Then," returned the Consul, "perhaps you will deny he is suing
Alvarez for two million dollars gold, you will deny that he might get
it if Alvarez were thrown out, you will deny that a--a certain person
might ratify the concession, and pay your father for the harbor
improvements he has already made? You see!" exclaimed the Consul
triumphantly. "And these missing boxes!" he cried as though following
up an advantage, "shall I tell you what is in them?" He lowered his
voice. "Cartridges and rifles! Do you deny it?"
Roddy found that at last he was on firm ground.
"Of course I deny it," he answered, "because there are no boxes.
They're only an invention of mine to get me to Curacao. Now, you let
_me_ talk."
The Consul retreated behind his desk, and as Roddy spoke regarded him
sternly and with open suspicion. In concluding his story Roddy said:
"We have no other object in saving General Rojas than that he's an old
man, that he's dying, and that Peter and I can't sleep of nights for
thinking of him lying in a damp cell, not three hundred yards from us,
coughing himself to death."
At the words the eyes of the Consul closed quickly; he pressed his
great, tanned, freckled fingers nervously against his lip. But
instantly the stern look of the cross-examiner returned. "Go on," he
commanded.
"If we have cut in on some one's private wire," continued Roddy, "it's
an accident; and when you talk about father recovering two million
dollars you are telling me things I don't know. Father is not a chatty
person. He has often said to me that the only safe time to talk of
what you are doing, or are going to do, is when you have done it. So,
if the Venezuelan government owes the Forrester Construction Company
two millions and father's making a fight for it, I am probably the
last person in the world he would talk to about it. All I know is that
he pays me twenty dollars a week to plant buoys. But out of working
hours I can do as I please, and my friend and I please to get General
Rojas out of prison." Roddy rose, smiling pleasantly. "So, if you
won't introduce me to Senora Rojas," he concluded, "I guess I will
have to introduce myself."
With an angry gesture the Consul motioned him to be seated. From his
manner it was evident that Captain Codman was uncertain whether Roddy
was or was not to be believed, that, in his perplexity, he was
fearful of saying too much or too little.
"Either," the old man exclaimed angrily, "you are a very clever young
man, or you are extremely ignorant. Either," he went on with
increasing indignation, "they have sent you here to test me, or you
know nothing, and you are blundering in where other men are doing
work. If you know nothing you are going to upset the plans of those
men. In any case I will have nothing further to do with you. I wash my
hands of you. Good-morning."
Then, as though excusing himself, he added sharply, "Besides, you talk
too much."
Roddy, deeply hurt, answered with equal asperity:
"That is what your parrot thinks. Maybe you are both wrong."
When Roddy had reached the top of the stairs leading to the street,
and was on the point of disappearing, the Consul called sharply to him
and followed into the hall.
"Before you go," the old man whispered earnestly, "I want you clearly
to understand my position toward the Rojas family. When I was Consul
in Porto Cabello, General Rojas became the best friend I had. Since I
have been stationed here it has been my privilege to be of service to
his wife. His daughters treat me as kindly as though I were their own
grandfather. No man on earth could wish General Rojas free as much as
I wish it." The voice of Captain Codman trembled. For an instant his
face, as though swept with sudden pain, twisted in strange lines. "No
one," he protested, "could wish to serve him as I do, but I warn you
if you go on with this you will land in prison yourself, and you will
bring General Rojas to his death. Take my advice--and go back to Porto
Cabello, and keep out of politics. Or, what is better--go home. You
are too young to understand the Venezuelans, and, if you stay here,
you are going to make trouble for many people. For your father, and
for--for many people."
As though with the hope of finally dissuading Roddy, he added
ominously, "And these Venezuelans have a nasty trick of sticking a
knife----"
"Oh, you go to the devil!" retorted Roddy.
As he ran down the dark stairs and out into the glaring street he
heard faintly the voice of the parrot pursuing him, with mocking and
triumphant jeers.
The Consul returned slowly to his office, and, sinking into his chair,
buried his face in his great, knotty hands and bent his head upon the
table. A ray of sunshine, filtering through the heavy Venetian
blinds, touched the white hair and turned it into silver.
For a short space, save for the scratching of the parrot at the tin
bars of his cage, and the steady drip, drip of the water-jar, there
was no sound; then the voice of the sea-captain, as many times before
it had been raised in thanksgiving in the meeting-house in Fairhaven,
and from the deck of his ship as she drifted under the Southern Cross,
was lifted in entreaty. The blue eyes, as the old man raised them,
were wet; his bronzed fists fiercely interlocked.
"Oh, Thou," he prayed, "who walked beside me on the waters, make clear
to me what I am to do. I am old, but I pray Thee to let me live to see
Thine enemies perish, to see those who love Thee reunited once more,
happy, at home. If, in Thy wisdom, even as Thou sent forth David
against Goliath, Thou hast sent this child against Thine enemies, make
that clear to me. His speech is foolish, but his heart seems filled
with pity. What he would do, I would do. But the way is very dark. If
I serve this boy, may I serve Thee? Teach me!"
Outside the Consulate, Roddy found his convoy, the guide, waiting for
him, and, to allay the suspicion of that person, gave him a cable to
put on the wire for McKildrick. It read: "No trace of freight; it may
come next steamer; will wait."
He returned to the agent of the line and told him he now believed the
freight had been left behind in New York and that he would remain in
Willemstad until the arrival of the next steamer, which was due in
three days.
At the hotel he found Peter anxiously awaiting him. Having locked
themselves in the room the two conspirators sat down to talk things
over. From what had escaped the Consul, Roddy pointed out certain
facts that seemed evident: Alvarez had not paid the Forrester
Construction Company, or, in a word, his father, for the work already
completed in the last two years. His father, in order to obtain his
money, was interested in some scheme to get rid of Alvarez and in his
place put some one who would abide by the terms of the original
concession. This some one might be Rojas, and then, again, might not.
As Peter suggested, the Construction Company might prefer to back a
candidate for president, who, while he might not be so welcome to the
Venezuelans, would be more amenable to the wishes of the F. C. C. It
also would probably prefer to assist a man younger than Rojas, one
more easily controlled, perhaps one less scrupulously honest. It also
seemed likely that if, by revolution, the men of the Construction
Company intended to put in the field a candidate of their own, they
would choose one with whom they could consult daily, not one who,
while he might once have been a popular idol, had for the last two
years been buried from the sight of man, and with whom it now was
impossible to communicate.
The longer they discussed the matter the more sure they became that
Rojas could not be the man for whom the Construction Company was
plotting.
"If Rojas isn't the choice of the F. C. C.," argued Roddy, "his being
free, or in prison, does not interest them in the least. While, on the
other hand, if Rojas _is_ the candidate father is backing, the sooner
he is out of prison the better for everybody.
"Anyway," added Roddy, with the airy fatalism of one who nails his
banner to the mast, "if my father is going to lose two millions
because you and I set an old man free, then father is going to lose
two millions."
Having arrived at this dutiful conclusion Roddy proposed that,
covertly, in the guise of innocent sight-seers, they should explore
the town, and from a distance reconnoitre the home of Senora Rojas.
They accordingly hired one of the public landaus of Willemstad and
told the driver to show them the places of interest.
But in Willemstad there are no particular places of interest. It is
the place itself that is of interest. It is not like any other port in
the world.
"It used to be," Roddy pointed out, "that every comic opera had one
act on a tropical island. Then some fellow discovered Holland, and now
all comic operas run to blonde girls in patched breeches and wooden
shoes, and the back drops are 'Rotterdam, Amsterdam, any damn place at
all.' But this town combines both the ancient and modern schools. Its
scene is from Miss Hook of Holland, and the girls are out of Bandanna
Land."
Willemstad is compact and tiny, with a miniature governor and palace.
It is painted with all the primary colors, and, though rain seldom
falls on Curacao Island, it is as clean as though the minute before it
had been washed by a spring shower and put out in the sun to dry.
Saint Ann Bay, which is the harbor of Willemstad, is less of a bay
than a canal. On entering it a captain from his bridge can almost see
what the people in the houses on either bank are eating for breakfast.
These houses are modeled like those that border the canals of The
Hague. They have the same peaked roofs, the front running in steps to
a point, the flat facades, the many stories. But they are painted in
the colors of tropical Spanish-America, in pink, yellow, cobalt blue,
and behind the peaked points are scarlet tiles. Under the southern sun
they are so brilliant, so theatrical, so unreal, that they look like
the houses of a Noah's Ark fresh from the toy shop. There are two
towns: Willemstad, and, joined to it by bridges, Otrabanda. It is on
the Willemstad side that the ships tie up, and where, from the deck to
the steamer, one can converse quite easily with the Monsanto brothers
in their drawing-room, or with the political exiles on the balconies
of the Hotel Commercial. The streets are narrow and, like the streets
of Holland, paved with round cobblestones as clean as a pan of rolls
just ready for the oven. Willemstad is the cleanest port in the West
Indies. It is the Spotless Town of the tropics. Beyond the town are
the orange plantations, and the favorite drive is from Willemstad
through these orange trees around the inner harbor, or the Schottegat,
to Otrabanda, and so back across the drawbridge of Good Queen Emma
into Willemstad. It is a drive of little over two hours, and Roddy and
Peter found it altogether charming.
About three miles outside of Willemstad they came upon the former
home of a rich Spanish planter, which had been turned into a
restaurant, and which, once the Groot du Crot, was now the Cafe
Ducrot. There is little shade on the Island of Curacao and the young
men dived into the shadows of the Ducrot garden as into a cool bath.
Through orange trees and spreading palmettos, flowering bushes and a
tangle of vines, they followed paths of pebbles, and wandered in a
maze in which they lost themselves.
"It is the enchanted garden of the sleeping princess," said Peter.
"And there are her sleeping attendants," he added, pointing at two
waiters who were slumbering peacefully, their arms stretched out upon
the marble-top tables.
It seemed heartless to awaken them, and the young men explored further
until they found a stately, rambling mansion where a theatrical
landlord with much rubbing of his hands brought them glasses and
wonderful Holland gin.
"We must remember the Cafe Ducrot," said Roddy, as they drove on. "It
is so quiet and peaceful."
Afterward they recalled his having said this, and the fact caused them
much amusement.
From the Cafe Ducrot the road ran between high bushes and stunted
trees that shaded it in on either side; but could not shade it
completely. Then it turned toward Otrabanda along the cliff that
overlooks the sea.
On the land side was a wall of dusky mesquite bushes, bound
together by tangled vines, with here and there bending above them a
wind-tortured cocoanut palm. On the east side of the road, at great
distances apart, were villas surrounded by groves of such hardy trees
and plants as could survive the sweep of the sea winds. "If we ask the
driver," whispered Roddy, "who lives in each house, he won't suspect
we are looking for any one house in particular." Accordingly, as they
drew up even with a villa they rivaled each other in exclaiming over
its beauty. And the driver, his local pride becoming more and more
gratified, gave them the name of the owner of the house and his
history.
As he approached a villa all of white stucco, with high, white pillars
rising to the flat roof of the tropics, he needed no prompting, but,
with the air of one sure of his effect, pulled his horses to a halt
and pointed with his whip.
"That house, gentle-mans," he said, "belongs to Senora Rojas." Though
the house was one hundred yards from the road, as though fearful of
being overheard, the negro spoke in an impressive whisper. "She is
the lady of General Rojas. He is a great General, gentle-mans, and now
he be put in prison. President Alvarez, he put that General Rojas in
prison, down in the water, an' he chain him to the rock, an' he put
that lady in exile. President Alvarez he be very bad man.
"Every day at six o'clock that lady and the young ladies they stand on
that cliff and pray for that General Rojas. You like me to drive you,
gentle-mans, out here at six o'clock," he inquired insinuatingly, "an'
see those ladies pray?"
"Certainly not!" exclaimed Roddy indignantly.
But Peter, more discreet, yawned and stirred impatiently. "I am just
dying for something to eat!" he protested. "Let her out, driver."
For appearance's sake they drove nearly to the outskirts of Otrabanda,
and then, as though perversely, Roddy declared he wanted to drive back
the way they had come and breakfast at the Cafe Ducrot.
"Why should we eat in a hot, smelly dining-room," he demanded in tones
intended to reach the driver, "when we can eat under orange trees?"
Peter, with apparent reluctance, assented.
"Oh, have it your own way," he said. "Personally, I could eat under
any tree--under a gallows-tree."
For the second time they passed the Casa Blanca, and, while apparently
intent on planning an extensive breakfast, their eyes photographed its
every feature. Now, as the driver was not observing them, they were
able to note the position of the entrances, of the windows, rising
behind iron bars, from a terrace of white and black marble. They noted
the wing, used as a stable for horses and carriages, and, what was of
greater interest, that a hand-rail disappeared over the edge of the
cliff and suggested a landing-pier below.
But of those who lived in the white palace there was no sign. It hurt
Roddy to think that if, from the house, the inmates noted the two
young men in a public carriage, peering at their home, they would
regard the strangers only as impertinent sighters. They could not know
that the eyes of the tourists were filled with pity, that, at the
sight of the villa on the cliff the heart of each had quickened with
kindly emotions, with excitement, with the hope of possible adventure.
Roddy clutched Peter by the wrist; with the other hand he pointed
quickly. Through a narrow opening in a thicket that stood a few rods
from the house Peter descried the formal lines of a tennis court.
Roddy raised his eyebrows significantly. His smile was radiant,
triumphant.
"Which seems to prove," he remarked enigmatically, "that certain
parties of the first part are neither aged nor infirm."
His deduction gave him such satisfaction that when they drew up at the
Cafe Ducrot he was still smiling.
Within the short hour that had elapsed since they had last seen the
Ducrot garden a surprising transformation had taken place. No longer
the orange grove lay slumbering in silence. No longer the waiters
dozed beside the marble-topped tables. Drawn up outside the iron fence
that protected the garden from the road a half-dozen fiery Venezuelan
ponies under heavy saddles, and as many more fastened to landaus and
dog-carts, were neighing, squealing, jangling their silver harness,
and stamping holes in the highway. On the inside, through the heavy
foliage of the orange trees, came the voice of the maitre d'hotel,
from the kitchen the fat chef bellowed commands. The pebbles on the
walks grated harshly beneath the flying feet of the waiters.
Seated at breakfast around a long table in the far end of the garden
were over twenty men, and that it was in their service the restaurant
had roused itself was fairly evident. The gentlemen who made up the
breakfast-party were not the broadly-built, blonde Dutchmen of the
island, but Venezuelans. And a young and handsome Venezuelan, seated
at the head of the table, and facing the entrance to the garden, was
apparently the person in whose honor they were assembled. So much
younger, at least in looks, than the others, was the chief guest, that
Peter, who was displeased by this invasion of their sleeping palace,
suggested it was a coming-of-age party.
It was some time before the signals of the Americans were regarded.
Although they had established themselves at a table surrounded by
flowering shrubs, and yet strategically situated not too far distant
from the kitchen or the cafe, no one found time to wait upon them, and
they finally obtained the services of one of the waiters only by the
expedient of holding tightly to his flying apron. Roddy commanded him
to bring whatever was being served at the large table.
"That cook," Roddy pointed out, "is too excited to bother with our
order; but, if there's enough for twenty, there will be enough for two
more."
Although they were scorned by the waiters, the young men were
surprised to find that to the gentlemen of the birthday-party their
coming was of the utmost interest, and, though the tables were much
too far apart for Roddy to hear what was said, he could see that many
glances were cast in his direction, that the others were talking of
him, and that, for some reason, his presence was most disconcerting.
Finally, under pretence of giving an order to his coachman, one of the
birthday-party, both in going and returning from the gate, walked
close to their table and observed them narrowly. As he all but paused
in the gravel walk opposite them, Roddy said with conviction:
"No! Walter Pater never gave the Stoic philosophy a just
interpretation, while to Euphuism----"
"On the contrary," interrupted Peter warmly, "Oscar Hammerstein is the
ONLY impressario who can keep the pennant flying over grand opera and
a roof garden. Believe me----"
With a bewildered countenance the Venezuelan hastily passed on.
Placidly the two young men continued with their breakfast.
"Even if he _does_ understand English," continued Roddy, "that should
keep him guessing for a while."
As they, themselves, had no interest in the birthday-party, and as
they had eaten nothing since early coffee on the steamer, the young
men were soon deep in the joy of feasting. But they were not long to
remain in peace.
From the bushes behind them there emerged suddenly and quietly a young
negro. He was intelligent looking and of good appearance. His white
duck was freshly ironed, his straw hat sported a gay ribbon. Without
for an instant hesitating between the two men, he laid a letter in
front of Roddy. "For Mr. Forrester," he said, and turning, parted the
bushes and, as quickly as he had come, departed.
Roddy stared at the hedge through which the messenger had vanished,
and his wandering eyes turned toward the birthday-party. He found that
every one at that table was regarding him intently. It was evident all
had witnessed the incident. Roddy wondered if it were possible that
the letter came from them. Looking further he observed that the man
who was serving Peter and himself also was regarding him with greater
interest than seemed natural, and that he was not the man who first
had waited upon them.
"You," began Roddy doubtfully, "you are not the waiter who----"
The man shrugged his shoulders.
"That fellow he can't speakety English," he explained. "I speakety
English very good."
The man smiled knowingly, so it seemed to Roddy, impertinently. Roddy
felt uncomfortably convinced that some jest was going on behind his
back, and he resented the thought.
"Yes," he began hotly, "and I will bet you _understand_ it, too."
Under the table Peter kicked violently at his ankles.
"Read your letter," he said.
The envelope bore only the name Rodman Forrester. The letter began
abruptly and was not signed. It read: