Saxon denied himself the lure of the deck that evening. Though he
would probably be close behind his messages in arriving, he was
devoting himself to a full narration embodied in a love-letter.
He bent over the task in the closeness of the dining saloon, with such
absorption that he did not rise to investigate even when, with a
protracted shrieking of whistles, there came sudden cessation from the
jarring throb of screw-shaft and engines. Then, the _City of Rio_ came
to a full stop. He vaguely presumed that another important port had
been reached, and did not suspect that the vessel lay out of sight of
land, and that a second steamer, southbound, had halted on signal, and
lay likewise motionless, her lights glittering just off the starboard
bow.
When, almost two hours later, he had folded the last of many pages,
and gone on deck for a breath before turning in, the engines were
once more noisily throbbing, and he saw only the bulk and lights of
another vessel pointed down-world under steam.
But, as usual, Rodman, gentleman of multifarious devices, was not
letting facts escape him. Indeed, it was at Rodman's instance that two
mail ships, the _City of Rio_ and the _Amazon_, had marked time for an
hour and a half. In the brewing of affairs, Rodman was just now an
important personage, and the commanders of these lines were under
instructions from their offices to regard his requests as orders, and
to obey them with due respect and profound secrecy. The shifting of
administrations at Puerto Frio meant certain advantages in the way of
concessions to gentlemen in Wall Street whose word, with these
steamers, was something more than influential.
Mr. Rodman had been rowed across from the _Rio_ to the _Amazon_, and
he had taken with him the hand-luggage that made his only impedimenta.
In Mr. Rodman's business, it was important to travel light. If he
found Senor Miraflores among the passengers of the _Amazon_, it was
his intention to right-about-face, and return south again.
Senor Miraflores had been in the States as the secret and efficient
head of that _junta_ which Rodman served. He had very capably directed
the shipping of rifles and many _sub-rosa_ details that must be
handled beyond the frontier, when it is intended to change governments
without the knowledge or consent of armed and intrenched incumbents.
The home-coming of Senor Miraflores must of necessity be
unostentatious, since his arrival would be the signal for the
conversion of the quiet steeps of San Francisco into craters.
Rodman knew that, if the senor were on board the _Amazon_, his name
would not be on the sailing-list, and his august personality would be
cloaked in disguise. His point of debarkation would be some secluded
coast village where fellow conspirators could hide him. His advent
into the capital itself would not be made at all unless made at the
head of an invading army, and, if so made, he would remain as minister
of foreign affairs in the cabinet of General Vegas, to whom just now,
as to himself, the city gates were closed.
But Senor Miraflores had selected a more cautious means of entry than
the ship, which might bear travelers who knew him. Rodman spent an
hour on the downward steamer. He managed to see the face of every
passenger, and even investigated the swarthy visages in the steerage.
He asked of some tourists casual questions as to destination, and
chatted artlessly, then went over the side again, and was rowed back
across the intervening strip of sea. Immediately upon his departure
overside, the _Amazon_ proceeded on her course, and five minutes later
the _City of Rio_ was also under way.
The next morning, after a late breakfast, Saxon was lounging at the
rail amidship. He had ceased looking backward, and all his gaze was
for the front. Ahead of him, the white superstructure, the white-duck
uniform of the officer pacing the bridge, the whiteness of the
holystoned deck, all stood boldly out against the deep cobalt of the
gently swelling sea. Saxon was satisfied with life, and, when he saw
Rodman sauntering toward him, he looked up with a welcoming nod.
"Hello, Carter--I mean Saxon." The gun-smuggler corrected his form of
address with a laugh.
The breezy American was a changed and improved man. The wrinkled gray
flannels had given way to natty white duck. His Panama hat was new and
of such quality that it could be rolled and drawn through a ring as
large as a half-dollar. He was shaven to an extreme pinkness of face.
As Saxon glanced up, his eyes wearing tell-tale recognition of the
transformation, the thin man laughed afresh.
"Notice the difference, don't you?" he genially inquired, rolling a
cigarette. "The gray grub is splendidly changed into the snow-white
butterfly. I'm a very flossy bug, eh, Saxon?"
The painter admitted the soft self-impeachment with a qualification.
"I begin to think you are a very destructive one."
"I am," announced Rodman, calmly. "I could spin you many a yarn of
intrigue, but for the fact that, since you began wearing a halo
instead of a hat, you have become too sanctified to listen."
"Inasmuch," smilingly suggested the painter, "as we might yet be
languishing in the _cuartel_ except for the fact that I was able to
give so good an account of myself, I don't see that you have any
reasonable quarrel with my halo."
Rodman raised his brows.
"Oh, I never lost sight of the fact that you had some reason for the
saint role, and, as you say, I was in on the good results. But, now
that you are flitting northward, what's the idea of keeping your ears
stopped?"
"They are open," declared Mr. Saxon graciously; "you are at liberty to
tell me anything you like, but only what you like. I'm not thirsting
for criminal confessions."
"That's all right, but you--" Rodman broke off, and his lips twisted
into ironical good humor--"no, I apologize--I mean, a fellow who
looked remarkably like you used to be so deeply versed in
international politics that I think this new adventure would appeal to
you. Ever remember hearing of one Senor Miraflores?"
Saxon shook his head, whereupon Rodman laughed with great
sophistication. Carter had known Senor Miraflores quite well, and
Rodman knew that Carter had known him.
"Very consistent acting," he approved. "You're a good comedian. In the
Chinese theaters, they put flour on the comedian's nose to show that
he's not a tragedian, but you don't need the badge. You're all right.
You know how to get a laugh. But this isn't dramatic criticism. It's
wars and rumors of wars."
The adventurer drew a long puff from his cigarette, inhaled it deeply,
and stood idly watching the curls of outward-blown smoke hanging in
the hot air, before he went on.
"Well, Miraflores has once more been at the helm. Of course, in the
lower commissions of the _insurrecto_ organization, we have the usual
assortment of foreign officers, odds and ends, but the chief
difference between this enterprise and the other one--the one Carter
knew about--is the fact that we have some artillery, and that, when we
start things going, we can come pretty near battering down the old
town."
Rodman proceeded to sketch the outlines of the conspiracy. It was
much the stereotyped arrangement with a few variations. Two regiments
in the city barracks, suspected of disloyalty, had been practically
disarmed by the President, but these troops had been secretly rearmed
with a part of the guns brought in by Rodman, and would be ready to
rise at the signal, together with several other disaffected
commands--not for the government, but against it.
The mountain of San Francisco is really not a mountain at all, but a
foot hill of the mountains. Yet, it looks down on the city of Puerto
Frio as Marathon on the sea, and here are guns trained inward as well
as outward. These guns can shell the capital into ruins in the space
of a few hours; then, they can hurl their projectiles further, and
play havoc with the environs. Also, they can guard the city from the
approach that lies along the roads from the interior. A commander who
holds San Francisco stands at the door of Puerto Frio with a latch-key
in his hand. The revolutionists under Vegas had arranged their attack
on the basis of unwarned assault. The Dictator had indeed some
apprehensions, but they were fears for the future--not for the
immediate present. The troops garrisoned on San Francisco, ostensibly
the loyal legion of the Dictator's forces, were in reality watching
the outward approaches only as doors through which they were to
welcome friends. The guns that were trained and ready to belch fire on
signal from Vegas, were the guns trained inward on the city, and, when
they opened, the main plaza would resemble nothing so much as the far
end of a bowling alley when an expert stands on the foul-line, and the
palace of the President would be the kingpin for their gunnery. The
_insurrecto_ forces were to enter San Francisco without resistance,
and the opening of its crater was to be the signal for hurling through
the streets of the city itself those troops that had been secretly
armed with the smuggled weapons, completing the confusion and throwing
into stampeding panic the demoralized remnants upon which the
government depended.
Unless there were a traitor in very exclusive and carefully guarded
councils, there would hardly be a miscarriage of the plans.
Saxon stood idly listening to these confidences. Nothing seemed
strange to him, and least of all the entire willingness of the
conspirator to tell him things that involved life and death for men
and governments. He knew that, in spite of all he had said, or could
say, to the other man, he was the former ally in crime. He had thought
at first that Rodman would ultimately discover some discrepancy in
appearance which would undeceive him, but now he realized that the
secret of the continued mistake was an almost miraculous resemblance,
and the fact that the other man had, in the former affair, met him in
person only twice, and that five years ago.
"And so," went on Rodman in conclusion, "I'm here adrift, waiting for
the last act. I thought Miraflores might possibly be on the _Amazon_
last night, and so, while you sat dawdling over letter-paper and pen,
little Howard Stanley was up and doing. I went across to the other
boat, and made search, but it was another case of nothing transpiring.
Miraflores was too foxy to go touring so openly."
Saxon felt that some comment was expected from him, yet his mind was
wandering far afield from the doings of _juntas_. All these seemed as
unreal as scenes from an extravagantly staged musical comedy. What
appeared to him most real at that moment was the picture of a slim
girl walking, dryad-like, through the hills of her Kentucky homeland,
and the thought that he would soon be walking with her.
"It looks gloomy for the city," he said, abstractedly.
"Say," went on Rodman, "do you know that the only people on that boat
booked for Puerto Frio were three fool American tourists, and that, of
the three, two were women? Now, what chance have those folks got to
enjoy themselves? Do you think Puerto Frio, say day after to-morrow,
will make a hit with them?" The informant laughed softly to himself,
but Saxon was still deep in his own thoughts. It suddenly struck him
with surprised discovery that the view from the deck was beautiful.
And Rodman, also, felt the languid invitation of the sea air, and it
made him wish to talk. So, unmindful of a self-absorbed listener, he
went on garrulously.
"You know, I felt like quoting to them, 'Into the jaws of death, into
the mouth of hell, sailed the three tourists,' but that would have
been to tip off state secrets. If people will fare forth for
adventure, I guess they've got to have it."
"Do you suppose," asked Saxon perfunctorily, "they'll be in actual
danger?"
"Danger!" repeated the filibuster with sarcasm. "Danger, did you say?
Oh, no, of course not. It will be a pink tea! You know that town as
well as I do. You know there are two places in it where American
visitors can stop--the _Frances y Ingles_, where you were, and the
American Legation. By day after to-morrow, that plaza will be the
bull's-eye for General Vegas's target-practice. General Vegas has a
mountain to rest his target-gun on, and it's loaded with shell. Oh,
no, there won't be any danger!"
"Wasn't there some pretext on which you could warn them off?" inquired
the painter.
Rodman shook his head.
"You see, I have to be careful in my talk. I might say too much. As it
was, I knocked the town to the fellow all I could. But he seemed
hell-bent on getting there, and getting there quick. He was a fool
Kentuckian, and you can't head off a bull-headed Kentuckian with
subtleties or hints. I've met one or two of them before. And there was
a girl along who seemed as anxious to get there as he was. That girl
was all to the good!"
Saxon leaned suddenly forward.
"A Kentuckian?" he demanded. "Did you hear his name?"
"Sure," announced Mr. Rodman. "Little Howard Stanley picks up
information all along the way. The chap was named George Steele,
and----"
But the speaker broke off in his story, to stand astounded at the
conduct of his auditor.
"And the girl!" shouted Saxon. "Her name?"
"Her name," replied the intriguer, "was Miss Filson."
Suddenly, the inattention of the other had fallen away, and he had
wheeled, his jaw dropping. For an instant, he stood in an attitude of
bewildered shock, gripping the support of the rail like a
prize-fighter struggling against the groggy blackness of the knock-out
blow.
Saxon stood such a length of time as it might have required for the
referee to count nine over him, had the support he gripped been that
of the prize-ring instead of the steamer's rail. Then, he stepped
forward, and gripped Rodman's arm with fingers that bit into the
flesh.
"Rodman," he said in a low voice that was almost a whisper, between
his labored breathings, "I've got to talk to you--alone. There's not a
minute to lose. Come to my stateroom."