The Courts of the Morning

I

This story begins, so far as I am concerned, in the August of 192‒, when I had for the second time a lease of the forest of Machray. Mary and Peter John and the household had gone north at the end of July, but I was detained for ten days in London over the business of a Rhodesian land company, of which I had recently become chairman. I was putting up at my club, and one morning I was rung up by Ellery Willis of the American Embassy, who had been wiring about me all over the country. He seemed to be in a hurry to see me, so I asked him to luncheon.

I had known Willis in the War, when he had had a field battery with the American 2nd Corps. After that he had been on the Headquarters Staff at Washington, and was now a military attaché at the London Embassy. He seemed to have a good many duties besides the study of military affairs, and when I met him he was always discoursing about world-politics and the need of England and America getting close to each other. I agreed with him about that, but used to tell him that the best way was not to talk too much, but to send Englishmen and Americans fishing together. He was an ardent, rather solemn young man, but with a quick sense of humour, and Mary said he was the best dancer in London.

He cut at once into business.

“You are a friend of Mr. Blenkiron’s⁠—John S. Blenkiron,” he said. “I want to know if you have heard from him lately?”

“Not for months,” I said. “Blenkiron was never a regular correspondent, and the fount has dried up since last December.”

He looked grave. “That’s bad,” he said.

“There’s nothing wrong?” I asked anxiously.

“Only that nobody knows what has become of him.”

“But that was always the old ruffian’s way. He likes to cover his tracks, like Providence, and turn up suddenly when he is not expected. There’s a lot of the child in him.”

Willis shook his head. “I expect there’s more to it this time than that. I’ll tell you what we know. He made a dive back into Wall Street last fall, and did some big things in electrolytic zinc. Then he went to Santa Catalina, and returned to New York in the second week of January. On the 27th day of that month he sailed for Panama in a fruit-steamer, having previously shut up his office and wound up his affairs as if he were thinking of his decease. From that day no one has clapped eyes on him. He has nothing in the way of family life, but I needn’t tell you that he has plenty of friends, and they are beginning to get anxious. All that we can find out is that last March a little Jew man turned up in New York with an order from Mr. Blenkiron for a quarter of a million dollars. It was all right, and the money was handed over, and the shape it took was a draft on Valparaiso to be paid after countersignature by our consul there. We got in touch with the consul, and heard that the money had been collected on Mr. Blenkiron’s instructions by some fellow with a Spanish name.”

“That sounds queer,” I said.

“It certainly does. But there’s something queerer still. In June Mr. Neston of the Treasury got a letter⁠—he had been a business associate of Mr. Blenkiron’s at one time and they used to go bass-fishing in Minnesota. It didn’t come by mail, but was handed in one evening at Mr. Neston’s private residence. It bore no name, but there could be no doubt it was from Mr. Blenkiron. I have seen a copy of it with Mr. Neston’s commentary, and I can tell you it was great stuff. The writer warned his old friend that there might be trouble brewing in certain parts of the world which he did not specify, and he begged him, as he was a good American, to keep his eyes skinned. He also said that he, the writer, might have to ask some day soon for help, and that he counted on getting it. The funny thing was that the letter was in a kind of cipher. I understand that Mr. Blenkiron used to write to his friends in a high-coloured version of our national slang, and that he had a good many private expressions that were Choctaw to those that did not know him. That letter might have been read as the perfectly natural expression of a lightheaded American, who had been having too many cocktails and was writing drivel about his health and his habits and the fine weather. But, knowing how to construe it, it made Mr. Neston sit up and take notice.⁠ ⁠… There was another thing. I have said that the letter had no name, but it was signed all the same. It seems that in any very important and intimate communication Mr. Blenkiron used to make a hieroglyphic of his surname and stick J. S. after it in brackets. That was meant to be a kind of SOS to his friends that the thing was mighty important. Well, this letter had the hieroglyphic in three places, scrawled in as if the writer had been playing absentmindedly with his pen. Mr. Neston’s conclusion was that Mr. Blenkiron had written it in some place where he was not allowed to communicate freely, and might be in considerable danger.”

I admitted that it looked like it, and said that if Blenkiron had been captured by bandits and held up to ransom, I could vouch for it, from what I knew of him, that his captors had done the worst day’s work of their lives. I asked what his Government was doing about it.

“Nothing official,” said Willis, “for we are in this difficulty. We are afraid of spoiling Mr. Blenkiron’s game, whatever it may be. Washington has a very high respect for his talents, and we should hate to cross him by being officious. All the same, we are anxious, and that is why I have come to you.”

He proceeded to give me one of his lectures on international affairs. America, by his way of it, was in a delicate position, in spite of being rich enough to buy up the globe. She was trying to set her house in order, and it was a large-sized job, owing to the melting-pot not properly melting but leaving chunks of undigested matter. That was the real reason why she could not take a big hand in world-affairs⁠—the League of Nations and so forth; she had too much to do at home, and wanted all her energies for it. That was the reason, too, why she was so set on prohibition of all kinds⁠—drink, drugs, and aliens. But her hand might be forced, if anything went wrong in the American continent itself, because of her Monroe Doctrine. She didn’t want any foreign complications at the moment. They would be very awkward for her, and possibly very dangerous, and she would resolutely keep out of them, unless they occurred, so to speak, opposite her front yard, in which case she would be bound to intervene. Therefore, if anyone wanted to do her the worst kind of turn, he would stir up trouble in some place like South America. Willis believed that Blenkiron had got on the track of something of the kind, and was trying to warn her.

That sounded reasonable enough, but what was not reasonable was Willis’s straight request that I should put on my boots and go and look for him. “We can’t do anything officially,” he repeated. “An American would be suspected where an Englishman would get through. Besides, I believe you are his closest friend.”

Of course I at once disabused him of that notion. I knew old Blenkiron too well to be nervous about him; he could no more be badly lost than Ulysses. I saw Willis’s point about American politics, but they were no concern of mine. I told him in so many words that my travelling days were over, that I was a landowner and a married man and the father of a son, with all sorts of prior duties. But he was so downcast at my refusal, and so earnest that something should be done, that I promised to put the matter before Sandy Arbuthnot. I proposed in any case to go to Laverlaw for a couple of days on my way to Machray.

II

Laverlaw is a very good imitation of the end of the world. You alight at a wayside station in a Border valley, and drive for eight miles up a tributary glen between high green hills; then, when the stream has grown small and you think that the glen must stop, it suddenly opens into an upland paradise⁠—an amphitheatre of turf and woodland which is the park, and in the heart of it an old stone castle. The keep was once a peel-tower, famous in a hundred ballads, and the house which had grown round dated mostly from the sixteenth century. I had never been there before, for the old Lord Clanroyden had lived sick and solitary for years, and Sandy had only succeeded in the previous February. When I arrived in the early gloaming, with that green cup swimming in amber light and the bell-heather on the high ground smouldering in the sunset, I had to rub my eyes to make sure that the place was not a dream. I thought it the right kind of home for Sandy, a fairytale fortress lying secret in the hills, from which he could descend to colour the prose of the world.

Sandy met me at the gates and made me get out of the car and walk the rest of the way with him. In his shocking old tweeds, with his lithe figure, his girlish colouring, and his steady, glowing eyes, he fitted well into that fantastic landscape. You could see that he was glad to have me there, and he made me welcome with all his old warmth, but in the half-mile walk I felt a subtle change in him. His talk didn’t bubble over as it used to, and I had a feeling that he was rather making conversation. I wondered if being a peer and a landowner and that sort of thing had sobered him, but I promptly dismissed the idea. I wasn’t prepared to believe that external circumstances could have any effect on one who had about as much worldliness as a fakir with his begging-bowl.

All the same there was a change, and I was conscious of it during the evening. Archie Roylance and his young wife were staying there⁠—like me, for the first time. I am prepared to rank Janet Roylance second only to Mary as the prettiest and most delightful thing in the world, and I knew that she and Sandy were close friends. In the daytime she was always, so to speak, booted and spurred, and seemed to have the alertness and vigour of an active boy; but in the evening she used to become the daintiest little porcelain lady; and those who saw Janet as a Dresden shepherdess in a drawing-room would scarcely believe that it was the same person who that morning had been scampering over the heather. She was in tremendous spirits, and Archie is a cheerful soul, but they found it heavy going with Sandy.

We dined in what had been the hall of the thirteenth-century keep⁠—stone walls, a fireplace like a cave, and Jacobean rafters and panelling. Sandy wore the green coat of some Border club, and sat like a solemn sprite in the great chair at the head of his table, while Janet tried to keep the talk going from the other end. The ancient candelabra, which gave a dim religious light, and the long lines of mailed or periwigged Arbuthnots on the wall made the place too heavy a setting for one whom I had always known as a dweller in tents. I felt somehow as if the old Sandy were being shackled and stifled by this feudal magnificence.

The Roylances, having been married in the winter, had postponed their honeymoon, and Janet was full of plans for bringing it off that autumn. She rather fancied the East. Sandy was discouraging. The East, he said, was simply dusty bric-a-brac, for the spirit had gone out of it, and there were no mysteries left, only half-baked Occidentalism. “Go to Samarkand, and you will get the chatter of Bloomsbury intellectuals. I expect in Lhasa they are discussing Freud.”

I suggested South Africa, or a trip up through the Lakes to the Nile. Janet vetoed this, because of Archie’s stiff leg; she thought big-game hunting would be bad for him, and she considered with justice that if he were in the neighbourhood of wild beasts he would go after them.

Archie himself was inclined to South America. He said he had always had a romance about that part of the world, and he understood that it was the only place which still held some geographical secrets. Also it appeared that, though a poor linguist, he could talk a sort of Spanish, owing to having spent some time in the Madrid Embassy.

“I’ve never been there,” said Sandy, “and I never want to go. It’s too big and badly put together, like a child’s mud castle. There’s cannibal fish, and every kind of noxious insect, and it’s the happy home of poisons, and the people are as ugly as sin. The land isn’t built according to our human scale, and I have no taste for nightmares.”

“All the same, it’s tremendously important,” Archie replied. “Charles Lamancha says that all the big problems of the future will be concerned with the New World. It might be rather useful to me in politics if I went and had a look round.”

Sandy laughed. “Better go to the States. That’s the powerhouse where you press the button.”

This gave me the chance to talk about Blenkiron, and I told them what I had heard from Ellery Willis. Archie, who had only seen Blenkiron in the last year of the War, was rather excited; Sandy, who knew him intimately, was apathetic.

“He’ll turn up all right. Trust John S. You can’t mislay a battered warrior like that. You’d better tell Willis that he is doing a very poor service to Blenkiron by starting a hue-and-cry. The old man won’t like it a bit.”

“But, I assure you, Willis is very much in earnest. He wanted me to start out right away on a secret expedition, and to quiet him I promised to speak to you.”

“Well, you’ve spoken,” said Sandy, “and you can tell him I think it moonshine. Blenkiron will come back to his friends when his job is done, whatever it may be.⁠ ⁠… Unless Archie likes to take the thing on?”

He seemed to want to drop the subject, but Janet broke in:

“I always understood that Mr. Blenkiron had no relations except the nephew who was killed in the War. But I met a girl last month who was a niece or a cousin of his. She told me she had been staying in the Borders and had been taken to see you at Laverlaw.”

Sandy looked up, and I could have sworn that a shade of anxiety passed over his face.

“Her name was Dasent,” Janet went on. “I can’t remember her Christian name.”

“Probably Irene⁠—pronounced Ireen,” said Sandy. “I remember her. She came over with the Manorwaters. She seemed to have got a little mixed about Scotland, for she wanted to know why I wasn’t wearing a kilt, and I told her ‘because I was neither a Highlander nor a Cockney stockbroker.’ ”

He spoke sharply, as if the visit had left an unpleasant memory.

“I should like to meet a niece of Blenkiron’s,” I said. “Tell me more about her.”

In reply Sandy made a few comments on American young women which were not flattering. I could see what had happened⁠—Sandy at a loose end and a little choked by his new life, and a brisk and ignorant lady who wanted to enthuse about it. They had met “head on,” as Americans say.

“You didn’t like her?” I asked.

“I didn’t think enough about her to dislike her. Ask Janet.”

“I only saw her for about an hour,” said that lady. “She came to stay with Junius and Agatha at Strathlarrig just when I was leaving. I think I rather liked her. She was from South Carolina, and had a nice, soft, slurring voice. So far as I remember she talked very little. She looked delicious, too⁠—tallish and slim and rather dark, with deep eyes that said all sorts of wonderful things. You must be as blind as a bat, Sandy, if you didn’t see that.”

“I am. I don’t boast of it⁠—indeed I’m rather ashamed of it⁠—but I’m horribly unsusceptible. Once⁠—long ago⁠—when I was at Oxford, I was staying in the West Highlands, and in the evening we sat in a room which looked over the sea into the sunset, and a girl sang old songs. I don’t remember whether she was pretty or not⁠—I don’t remember her name⁠—but I remember that her singing made me want to fall in love.⁠ ⁠… Since I grew up I’ve had no time.”

Janet was shocked. “But, Sandy dear, you must marry.”

He shook his head. “Never! I should make a rotten husband. Besides, Dick and Archie have carried off the only two women I love.”

After that he seemed to cheer up. I remember that he took to telling stories of poisons⁠—I suppose the mention of South America set him off on that. He showed us a box with three tiny pellets in it, things which looked like discoloured pearls, and which he said were the most mysterious narcotics in the world, and one of the deadliest poisons. They reminded me of pills I once got from an old Portugee prospector, which I carried about with me for years but never touched, pills to be used if you were lost in the bush, for one was said to put you into a forty-hours sleep and two gave a painless death. Sandy would explain nothing further about them, and locked them away.

What with one thing and another we had rather a jolly evening. But next morning, when the Roylances had gone, I had the same impression of some subtle change. This new Sandy was not the one I had known. We went for a long tramp on the hills, with sandwiches in our pockets, for neither of us seemed inclined to shoulder a gun. It was a crisp morning with a slight frost, and before midday it had become one of those blazing August days when there is not a breath of wind and the heather smells as hot as tamarisks. We climbed the Lammer Law and did about twenty miles of a circuit along the hilltops. It was excellent training for Machray, and I would have enjoyed myself had it not been for Sandy.

He talked a great deal and it was all in one strain, and⁠—for a marvel⁠—all about himself. The gist of it was that he was as one born out of due season, and mighty discontented with his lot.

“I can’t grow old decently,” he said. “Here am I⁠—over forty⁠—and I haven’t matured one bit since I left Oxford. I don’t want to do the things befitting my age and position. I suppose I ought to be ambitious⁠—make speeches in the House of Lords⁠—become an expert on some rotten subject⁠—take the chair at public dinners⁠—row my weight in the silly old boat⁠—and end by governing some distant Dominion.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because I don’t want to. I’d rather eat cold mutton in a cabman’s shelter, as Lamancha once observed about political banquets. Good Lord, Dick, I can’t begin to tell you how I loathe the little squirrel’s cage of the careerists. All that solemn twaddle about trifles! Oh, I daresay it’s got to be done by somebody, but not by me. If I touched politics I’d join the Labour Party, not because I think them less futile than the others, but because as yet they haven’t got such a larder of loaves and fishes.”

“I want a job,” he declared a little later. “I was meant by Providence to be in a service, and to do work under discipline⁠—not for what it brought me, but because it had to be done. I’m a bad case of the inferiority complex. When I see one of my shepherds at work, or the hands coming out of a factory, I’m ashamed of myself. They all have their niche, and it is something that matters, whereas I am a cumberer of the ground. If I want to work I’ve got to make the job for myself, and the one motive is personal vanity. I tell you, I’m in very real danger of losing my self-respect.”

It was no good arguing with Sandy in this mood, though there were a great many commonsense things I wanted to say. The danger with anyone so high-strung and imaginative as he is that every now and then come periods of self-disgust and despondency.

“You’re like Ulysses,” I told him. “The fellow in Tennyson’s poem, you know. Well, there’s a widish world before you, and a pretty unsettled one. Ships sail every day to some part of it.”

He shook his head.

“That’s the rub. As I’ve told you, I can’t grow up. There’s a couple of lines by some poet that describes me accurately: ‘He is crazed by the spell of far Arabia, It has stolen his mind away.’ Far Arabia⁠—that’s my trouble. But the Ulysses business won’t do for an ageing child of forty. Besides, what about the mariners? Where are the ‘free hearts, free foreheads?’ We used to have a rather nice little Round Table, Dick, but it is all broken up now and the wood turned into cigar-boxes for wedding presents. Peter is dead, and you and Archie are married, and Leithen and Lamancha are happy parts of the machine.”

“There’s still Blenkiron.”

“He doesn’t count. He was a wandering star, that joined us and revolved cheerfully with us for a little, and then shot back to where it belonged.⁠ ⁠… You can’t alter it by talking, my dear chap. I’m the old buccaneer marooned on a rock, watching his ancient companions passing in ocean liners.”

We had reached the top of the hill above Laverlaw and were looking down into the green cup filled with the afternoon sunlight, in which the house seemed as natural a thing as a stone from the hillside. I observed that it was a very pleasant rock to be marooned on. Sandy stared at the scene, and for a moment did not reply.

“I wish I had been born an Englishman,” he said at last. “Then I could have lived for that place, and been quite content to grow old in it. But that has never been our way. Our homes were only a jumping-off ground. We loved them painfully and were always homesick for them, but we were very little in them. That is the blight on us⁠—we never had any sense of a continuing city, and our families survived only by accident. It’s a miracle that I’m the sixteenth Clanroyden.⁠ ⁠… It’s not likely that there will be a seventeenth.”

III

I left Laverlaw rather anxious about Sandy, and during our time at Machray I thought a good deal about my friend. He was in an odd, jumpy, unpredictable state of mind, and I didn’t see what was to be the outcome of it. At Machray I had a piece of news which showed his restlessness. Martendale, the newspaper man, came to stay, and was talking about boats, for his chief hobby is yacht-racing.

“What’s Arbuthnot up to now?” he asked. “I saw him at Cowes⁠—at least I’m pretty sure it was he. In an odd getup, even for him.”

I said that I had been staying with Sandy in August and that he had never mentioned Cowes, so I thought he must be mistaken. But Martendale was positive. He had been on the Squadron lawn, looking down on the crowd passing below, and he had seen Sandy, and caught his eye. He knew him slightly, but apparently Sandy had not wanted to be recognised and had simply stared at him. Martendale noticed him later, lunching out of a paper bag with the other trippers on the front. He was dressed like a yacht’s hand, rather a shabby yacht’s hand, and Martendale said that he thought he had a glimpse of him later with some of the crew of the big Argentine steam yacht, the Santa Barbara, which had been at Cowes that year. “The dago does not make an ornamental sailor,” said Martendale, “and if it was Arbuthnot, and I am pretty certain it was, he managed to assimilate himself very well to his background. I only picked him out of the bunch by his clean-cut face. Do you happen to know if he speaks Spanish? They were all jabbering that lingo.”

“Probably,” I said. “He’s one of the best linguists alive. But, all the same, I think you were mistaken. I saw him a fortnight later, and, I can tell you, he isn’t in the humour for escapades.”

In November, when I ran up to London from Fosse for a few days, I got further news of Sandy which really disquieted me. It appeared that he had gone down to the grass countries to hunt⁠—a fact which in itself surprised me, for, though a fine horseman, he had always professed to hate hunting society. But for some reason or other he kept a couple of horses at Birkham and spent a lot of time there. And he seemed to have got mixed up with a rather raffish lot, for since the War the company in the Shires has not been what you might call select. The story told to me was that at a dinner where much champagne was swallowed Sandy had had a drunken row with a young profiteering lout, which had just about come to blows. He seemed to have behaved rather badly at dinner and worse later, for after having made a scene he had bolted, shown the white feather, and refused to take responsibility for what he had done.

Of course I didn’t believe a word of it. In the first place, Sandy was as abstemious as a Muslim; in the second place, he had the temper of a seraph and never quarrelled; and, in the third place, he didn’t keep any white feathers in his collection. But the story was repeated everywhere and, I am sorry to say, was believed. You see, Sandy had a great reputation in a vague way, but he hadn’t the kind of large devoted acquaintance which could be always trusted to give the lie to a slander. And I am bound to say that this story was abominably circumstantial. I had it from an eyewitness, quite a decent fellow whose word it was hard to disbelieve. He described a horrid scene⁠—Sandy, rather drunk and deliberately insulting an ill-tempered oaf in the same condition, and then, when it almost came to fisticuffs, funking the consequences, and slipping off early next morning without a word of explanation.

I hotly denied the whole thing, but my denials did not carry very far. Sandy had disappeared again, and his absence gave gossip its chance. The ordinary story was that he had taken to drink or drugs⁠—most people said drugs. Even those who believed in him began to talk of a bad breakdown, and explained that the kind of life he had led was bound some day to exact its penalty. I tried to get hold of him, but my telegrams to Laverlaw brought the answer that his lordship had gone abroad and left no address for letters.

Three days after Christmas I got the shock of my life. I opened The Times and found on the foreign page a short telegram from New York which reported the death of Mr. John Scantlebury Blenkiron on board his yacht at Honolulu. The message said that he had once been well known as a mining engineer, and that at various times he had made coups in Wall Street.

I took the first train to London and interviewed Ellery Willis at the Embassy. He confirmed the news, for he had had a wire from Washington to the same effect.

“What did he die of?” I demanded. “And what was he doing at Honolulu? And in a yacht? He loathed the sea. He used to say that he would as soon take to yachting for pleasure as make his meals off emetics.”

“He must have been ill some time,” Willis suggested. “That would account for his disappearance. He wanted to be by himself, like a sick animal.”

I simply wouldn’t credit it, and I asked Willis to wire for details. But none came⁠—only a recapitulation of the bare fact. When a week later I got the American papers, my scepticism was a little shaken. For there were obituaries with photographs. The writers enlarged on his business career, but said nothing about his incursions into politics, nor did they give any further news of his illness. I was almost convinced, but not quite. The obituaries were full, but not full enough, for Blenkiron had been a big figure, and one would have expected the press to go large on his career and personality. But the notices all gave me the impression of having been written to order and deliberately keeping wide of the subject. There was nothing in the way of personal reminiscences, no attempt to describe his character or assess his work. The articles were uncommonly like the colourless recitals you find in a biographical dictionary.

I wired about it to Sandy, and got a reply from his butler that he was still abroad, address unknown. I wished that I knew where to find the niece who had visited Laverlaw in the summer, but Janet Roylance, to whom I applied, could tell me nothing. She and Archie were setting out almost at once on their delayed honeymoon, and had chosen South America.

I have one other incident to record before I bring these preliminaries to a close. Palliser-Yeates came to stay with us for a weekend in January, and one night, after Mary had gone to bed, we sat talking in the library. He had never known Blenkiron, but he was a friend of Sandy, and to him I unburdened my anxieties. I thought he listened to me with an odd look on his face.

“You don’t believe the stories?” he asked.

“Not one blessed word,” I said. “But the poor old chap has managed to get himself a pretty flyblown reputation.”

“Perhaps he wanted to,” was the astounding answer.

I stared, and asked him what he meant.

“It’s only a guess,” he said. “But Sandy has for a long time had a unique reputation. Not with the world at large, but with the people who matter in two hemispheres. He was known to be one of the most formidable men in the world. Now, suppose that he was engaged, or about to be engaged, in some very delicate and dangerous business. He would be marked down from the start by certain people who feared him. So he might wish to be counted out, to be regarded as no longer formidable, and what better way than to have it generally believed that his nerve had gone and that he was all to pieces? If I wanted to create that impression, I would lay the foundation of it in the Shires, where they make a speciality of scandal. If that was his purpose, he has certainly succeeded. By this time the rumour has gone all over Europe in the circles where his name was known.”

I was digesting this startling hypothesis, when Palliser-Yeates told me the following story:

He had been in Paris just before Christmas on some business connected with Argentine banking, and one of his South American colleagues had taken him to dine at a restaurant much in vogue among the “rastas.” I think it was on the Rive Gauche, not a specially reputable place, but with amazingly good food. The proprietor was from the Argentine, and all the staff were South Americans. Palliser-Yeates noticed one of the waiters, not at his own table but a little way off, and he recognised the man’s face. The hair and skin were darkened, but he was positive that it was Sandy⁠—Sandy in a greasy dress suit and a made-up black tie. When the room filled up and got rather noisy, he made an errand to speak to the conductor of the orchestra, and managed to get a word with this waiter. He cannoned against him in one of the doors and said, “Sorry, Sandy.” The waiter knew him perfectly, and whispered from behind his pile of dishes, “Don’t give me away, John. It’s damnably serious. And never come here again.” So Palliser-Yeates took himself off, and had scrupulously held his tongue except for telling me. He said that Sandy looked well enough, and seemed to have mastered his job, for you couldn’t detect any difference between him and the rest of the outfit.

When I heard this, I decided to go to Paris myself and have a look at the restaurant, for anxiety about Sandy was coming between me and my sleep. There was something about Palliser-Yeates’s story which took my memory back a dozen years to old Kuprasso’s dancing-house in Constantinople and the man who had led the Company of the Rosy Hours. Sandy was on the warpath again, and I was bound to keep an eye on him.

But two days later I had a letter⁠—from Blenkiron. It had a typed address and a Southampton postmark⁠—which was no clue, for it had probably been brought over by a passenger in a ship and posted at the port of arrival. The handwriting was Blenkiron’s unmistakable scrawl. It ran as follows:

“The papers will say I have gotten across the River. Don’t let that worry you. But the Golden Shore at present is important and I may have to stay there quite a time. Therefore keep up the requiems and dirges until further notice.”

Also at last I got a reply from Sandy, in answer to my string of letters. It was a telegram from London, so he had left Paris, and it merely contained Abraham Lincoln’s words: “You stop still and saw wood.”

After that I stopped still. Both Blenkiron and Sandy were up to some devilry, and I had an instinct that they were working together. I have set down here my slender personal knowledge of the beginning of the strange events now to be related. The rest comes from the actors themselves.

I

The open windows, protected by wire blinds as fine-meshed as gauze, allowed the cool airs from the sea to slip in from the dusk. The big restaurant was in a pleasant gloom broken by patches of candlelight from the few occupied tables. The Hotel de la Constitución stands on a little promontory above the harbour of Olifa, so the noise of the streets comes to it only like the echo of waves from a breakwater. Archie Roylance, looking into the great square of velvet sky now beginning to be patterned by stars, felt as if he were still at sea.

The Vice-Consul interpreted his thoughts.

“You are surprised at the quiet,” he said. “That is only because we dine early. In a little there will be many lights and a jigging band and young people dancing. Yet we have good taste in Olifa and are not garish. If you will be my guest on another occasion, I will take you to a club as well equipped as any in Pall Mall, or to a theatre where you will see better acting than in London, and I will give you a supper afterwards which Voisin’s could not better. We have civilisation, you see⁠—for what it is worth.”

The Vice-Consul, whose name was Alejandro Gedd, was a small man with a neat, dark, clean-shaven face, and high cheekbones from which his critics deduced Indian blood. As a matter of fact they came from another ancestry. His grandfather, Alexander Geddes, had come out in his youth from Dundee as a clerk in a merchant’s house, had prospered, married a pretty Olifera, begotten a son, and founded a bank which rose in the silver boom to fortune. That son had married a lady of pure Castilian descent, whose beauty was not equal to her lineage, so the grandson of old Geddes had missed both the vigour of the Scot and the suave comeliness of the Olifera. Don Alejandro was an insignificant little man, and he was growing fat. The father had sold his interest in the bank at a high figure, and had thereafter dabbled in politics and horse-breeding; the son, at his death, had promptly got rid of the stud and left the government of his country to get on without him. He had been sent to an English school, and later to the Sorbonne, and had emerged from his education a dilettante and a cosmopolitan. He professed a stout Olifa patriotism, but his private sentiment was for England, and in confidential moments he would speak of his life as exile. Already he had asked Archie a dozen questions about common friends, and had dwelt like an epicure on the recollections of his last visit⁠—the Park on a May morning, an English garden in midsummer, the Solent in August, the October colouring of Scottish hills. His dinner-jacket had been made in the vicinity of Hanover Square, and he hoped that his black stock and his black-ribboned eyeglass were, if not English, at any rate European.

Archie was looking at the windows. “Out there is the Pacific,” he said, “nothing nearer you than China. What is it like the other way?”

“The coastal plain for a hundred miles. Then the foothills and the valleys where the wine is made. A very pretty light claret, I assure you. Then, for many hundreds of miles, the great mountains.”

“Have you travelled there much?”

Don Alejandro shook his head. “I do not travel in this land. What is there to see? In the mountains there are nothing but Indians and wild animals and bleak forests and snow. I am content with this city, where, as I have said, there is civilisation.”

“A man I met on the boat told me about a place called the Gran Seco. He said it was bound to be soon the greatest copper area in the world.”

Don Alejandro laughed. “That ill-favoured spot becomes famous. Five years ago it was scarcely known. Today many strangers ask me about it. The name is Indian-Spanish. You must understand that a hundred miles north of this city the coastal plain ends, and the Cordilleras swing round so that there is no room between them and the ocean. But at the curve the mountains, though high, are not the great peaks. These are far to the east, and you have for a big space a kind of tableland. That is what we call the Gran Seco⁠—the Great Thirst⁠—for it is mostly waterless and desert. But it is very rich in minerals. For long we have known that, and before the War there were many companies at work there. Now there is one great company, in which our Government has a share, and from which Olifa derives much of its wealth. The capital employed is mostly foreign⁠—no, not American⁠—European, but of what country I do not know. The labourers are the people of the hills, and the managers are Europeans of many nationalities. They pass through this city going and coming⁠—through this hotel often⁠—perhaps we may see some of them tonight. They are strange folk who do not mix freely with us of Olifa. I am told they are growing as wealthy as Rockefeller. There are no English among them, I think⁠—Slavs mostly, with some Italians and now and then a German, so I do not come across them in the way of business, and it would appear that they have no time for pleasure.⁠ ⁠… May I ask, Sir Archibald, for what purpose especially you honour us with a visit? I want to know how best I can serve you.”

Archie wrinkled his brow. “You are very kind, Don Alejandro. The fact is we’re here mainly for the fun of it. This is a sort of belated honeymoon trip. Also, I’d like to know something about the politics of Olifa and South America generally. You see, I’m a Member of Parliament, and I’ve an idea that this part of the globe may soon become rather important. I have brought several introductions.”

Don Alejandro waved his hand deprecatingly.

“That will be readily arranged. Your Minister is on leave, and the Embassy has left you in my hands. Without doubt you will be received by our President. I myself will take you to our Minister for External Affairs, who is my second cousin. Our Minister of Finance will expound to you our extravagant prosperity. But of politics in the old sense you will find little. We are too rich and too busy. When we were poor we talked government all the day. And we had revolutions⁠—dictatorships tempered by revolutions. My father more than once saved his neck by the good blood of his racing stable. But now we are very tame and virtuous. Our Government is rich enough to be enlightened, and our people, being also rich, do not trouble their heads about theories. Even the peons on the estancias and the vaqueros in the hills are content. Olifa is⁠—how do you say?⁠—a plutocratic democracy⁠—a liberal plutocracy. Once it was a battered little packet-boat, now it is a great liner careless of weather and tides. It has no problems, this fortunate country.”

“Jolly place for a holiday,” said Archie. “Well, we mean to have a good look round. What do you advise?”

Don Alejandro became lyrical. “You can go south for eight hundred miles in an ever-widening plain. There you will see such orange groves as the world cannot match, and nearer the mountains the savannahs which are the richest pasture on earth. I will write to my cousin at Veiro, and he will entertain you at the stud farm which was once my father’s. It will not be like an English Sunday afternoon in the country, where a fat stud groom with a bunch of carrots takes the guests round the stables. It is a wild place between the knees of the hills, but there is some pretty horseflesh there.”

“Can I get up into the mountains?” Archie put in, but Don Alejandro was not to be interrupted.

“You must visit our great cities, for Olifa, though the capital, is not the largest. Cardanio has now four to five hundred thousand souls. That is the port from which our fruits and hides and frozen beef are shipped. And there is Alcorta in the hinterland, which is our little Birmingham. But madame will weary of these commercial glories. She will be happier, I think, among the horses at Veiro, or in some pretty hacienda.⁠ ⁠…”

Janet Roylance had paid little heed to the conversation, being engaged in studying the slowly increasing number of diners.

“I would like to go into the mountains,” she said. “I saw them from far out at sea, and they looked like the battlements of Paradise.”

“A very savage Paradise you would find it, Lady Roylance. None of your green Swiss valleys with snow-peaks rising from meadows. It is all dusty and bare and cruel. Take my advice and be content with our sunny estancias⁠—”

“Look at these chaps, Janet,” said Archie suddenly. “There’s a queer class of lad for you!”

Don Alejandro fixed his eyeglass and regarded four men who had taken their seats at a table a little way off. It was a curious quartet. There was a tall man with hair so pale that at first sight he looked like an albino; he had a bony face and skin like old parchment, but from his bearing it was clear that he was still young. Two were small and dark and Jewish, and the fourth was a short burly fellow, with the prognathous jaw of a negro but the luminous eyes of a Latin. All were dressed in well-cut evening clothes, and each wore in his buttonhole a yellow flower⁠—to Archie it looked like a carnation. The notable things about them were their extreme pallor and their quiet. They sat almost motionless, speaking very little and showing that they were alive by only the tiniest gestures. A waiter brought them caviar, and poured champagne into their glasses, and as they moved their arms to eat and drink they had an odd suggestion of automata.

Don Alejandro dropped his eyeglass. “From the Gran Seco,” he said. “That is the ‘type Gran Seco.’ European, I think⁠—the tall man might be a Swede⁠—going from or returning to their place of work. No. I do not know anyone of them. Olifa is full of these birds of passage, who linger only for a day. They do not mix with our society. They are civil and inoffensive, but they keep to themselves. Observe the chic of their clothes, and the yellow buttonholes. That is the fashion of the copper magnates.”

“They look to me like pretty sick men,” said Archie.

“That, too, is their fashion. Those who go to that uncouth place speedily lose their complexions. It may be the copper fumes or some fever of the hills.”

“I should rather like to go there,” said Archie.

Don Alejandro laughed.

“Ah, you are intrigued. That is like an Englishman. He must be forever hunting romance. No doubt a visit to the Gran Seco can be accomplished, but it must first be arranged. The railway beyond Santa Ana is not for the public. It is owned by the company, and their permission is necessary to travel on it. Also there must be a permit from the Gobernador of the province, who is also the Company’s president, for the workers in the mines are a brutal race and the rule of the Gran Seco must be like the rule of a country in wartime.⁠ ⁠… If you wish, I will put the matter in train. But I do not think it is quite the place for a lady. Such cheeks as madame’s are not for the withering airs of the hills.”

“I will follow the Olifero custom,” said Janet. “Your ladies, Don Alejandro, are very fond of pearl powder.”

The restaurant was filling up. It appeared that many Oliferos were dining, for large lustrous women’s eyes looked out of dead-white faces. At the far end of the room, close to the band, a noisy party took their seats at a table. They were all young, and, since they had not troubled to change, their clothes made a startling blotch of colour among the sober black and white of the other guests. All looked as if they had just left a golf-course, the men in knickerbockers of white flannel and both sexes in outrageous jumpers.

“Behold our protectors!” said Don Alejandro with a touch of acid in his tone. “Behold the flower of Yanqui youth! No. I do not know them⁠—for that you must ask my colleague, Señor Wilbur. But I know where they come from. They are from the big Yanqui yacht now in the harbour. It is called the Corinna.”

“Good lord! That was Mike Burminster’s boat. I didn’t know he had sold it.” Archie regarded the party with disfavour.

“I do not know who is the present owner, except that he is a Yanqui. The guests I should judge from their appearance to have sprung from Hollywood.”

“They were lunching here today,” said Janet. “I saw them when Archie was inquiring about his lost kit-bag.⁠ ⁠… There was a girl among them that I thought I must have seen before.⁠ ⁠… I don’t see her here tonight.⁠ ⁠… I rather like the look of them, Don Alejandro. They are fresh, and jolly, and young.”

“Believe me, they will not repay further acquaintance, Lady Roylance.” Don Alejandro was unconsciously imitating his Castilian mother. “They come here in opulent yachts and behave as if Olifa were one of their vulgar joy-cities. That is what they call ‘having a good time.’ Yanqui youth, as I have observed it, is chronically alcoholic and amorous, and its manners are a brilliant copy of the parrot-house.”

The three had their coffee in the spacious arcade which adjoined the restaurant. It was Don Alejandro’s turn to ask questions, and he became for a little the English exile, seeking eagerly for news⁠—who had married whom, what was thought in London of this and that⁠—till Olifa dropped from him like a mantle and he felt himself once more a European. Presently their retreat was invaded by other diners, the band moved thither from the restaurant, and dancing began in a cleared space. The young Americans had not lingered over their meal, and had soon annexed the dancing-floor. Fragments of shrill badinage and endearments were heard in the pauses of the music.

Don Alejandro advised against liqueurs, and commended what he called the Olifa Tokay, which proved to be a light sweet wine of the colour of sloe-gin. Holding his glass to the corona of light in the centre of the patio, he passed from reminiscence to philosophy.

“You are unfortunate pilgrims,” he said. “You come seeking romance and I can only offer the prosaic. No doubt, Sir Archibald, you have been led to believe that we Latin Americans are all desperadoes, and our countries a volcanic territory sputtering with little fires of revolution. You find instead the typical bourgeois republic, as bourgeois as the United States. We do not worry about liberty, for we have learned that wealth is a better and less troublesome thing. In the old days we were always quarrelling with our neighbours, and because we conscripted our youth for our armies there was discontent and presently revolution. Now we are secure, and do not give occasion for discontent.”

“Someone told me that you had a pretty effective army.”

“We have a very effective police. As for our army, it is good, no doubt, but it is small. For what should we use our army? We have no ambition of conquest, and no enemy against whom we need defence.”

“Still, you can’t count on perpetual peace, you know. You are rich, and wealth means rivals.”

“Have we not the League of Nations?” Don Alejandro cried merrily. “Is not Olifa even now a member of the Council? And is there not the Monroe Doctrine, invented by the great-grandfathers of those depraved children who are dancing yonder?”

“Oh, well, if you like to put it that way⁠—”

“I do not like to put it that way. I do not believe in the League of Nations, and I do not love the United States, and I regard the Monroe Doctrine as an insult to my race. But what would you have, my dear Sir Archibald? We have chosen prosperity, and the price we pay for it is our pride. Olifa is a well-nourished body without a soul. Life and property are as safe here as in England, and what more can the heart of man desire? We have a stable Government because our people have lost interest in being governed. Therefore I say, do not propose to study our politics, for there is nothing to study. To you in England, with a bankrupt Europe at your door and the poison of Communism trickling into your poverty, politics are life and death. To us, in our sheltered Hesperides, they are only a bad dream of the past. There is no mystery left in Olifa.⁠ ⁠…”

As Don Alejandro spoke, the four men from the Gran Seco were moving through the arcade. They held themselves stiffly, but walked as lightly as cats, deftly steering their way among the tables and at the same time keeping close together. They looked neither to right nor left, but, as they passed, Janet and Archie had a good view of their waxen faces. The eyes of all⁠—the pale eyes of the tall man, the beady eyes of the Jews, and the fine eyes of the Latin⁠—had the same look of unnatural composure, as if the exterior world did not exist for them and they were all the time looking inward in a profound absorption. They had something of the eery detachment of sleepwalkers.

Don Alejandro was talking again.

“Be content, my friends, with what we can offer⁠—our beauty and our civilisation. Think of us as a little enclave of colour between the glooms of the great sea and the clouds of the great mountains. Here man has made a paradise for himself, where during his short day of life he can live happily without questioning.”

Archie had been looking at Janet.

“I think we both want to go to the Gran Seco,” he said.

II

Archie left Janet writing letters and started out next morning to explore the city. The first taste of a foreign town was always to him an intoxication, and, in the hot aromatic sunshine of that month which for Olifa is the sweet of the year, the place seemed a riot of coloured and exultant life. He descended the broad terraced road which by easy gradients led from the hotel to the twisted streets of the old city. Some of the calles were only narrow ravines of shade, where between high windowless walls country mule-carts struggled towards the marketplace. Others were unhappily provided with screeching electric tramways, so that the passerby on foot or on a horse had to mount high on the ill-paved sidewalk to avoid destruction. Presently he came into a hot marketplace, where around an old Spanish fountain were massed stalls laden with glowing flowers and fruit, and strange unwholesome fishes, and coarse pottery, and garish fabrics, and country-woven straw hats. Through this medley Archie limped happily, testing his Spanish on the vendors, or trying with most inadequate knowledge to disentangle the racial mixture. The town Oliferos were a small race, in which he thought there must be considerable negro blood, but the countryfolk were well-made and upstanding, often with a classic and melancholy dignity in their faces. There were lean, wild-looking people, too, whose speech was not any kind of Spanish, with an odd angle to their foreheads and the shyness of an animal in their small anxious eyes, who squatted in their dark ponchos beside their mules and spoke only to each other. An Indian breed, thought Archie⁠—perhaps from the foothills.

A maze of calles took him to the main Plaza, where a great baroque cathedral raised its sculptured front above a medley of beggars and vendors of holy medals. The square was shamefully paved, the façades of the old Spanish houses were often in disrepair, but the crumbling plaster and the blotched paint blended into something beautiful and haunting. Here it was very quiet, as if the city hushed itself in the environs of the house of God. To Archie it seemed that he was looking upon that ancient Olifa, before the hustling modern world was born, Olifa as it had appeared to the eyes of Captain Cook’s sailors when they landed, a city which kept the manners and faith of sixteenth-century Spain. He entered the church, and found a vast, cavernous darkness like the inside of a mountain, candles twinkling like distant glowworms, echoes of muttered prayers and the heavy sweetness of incense. After it the Plaza seemed as bright as a mountain-top.

Another labyrinth brought him into a different world. The great Avenida de la Paz is a creation of the last twenty years, and runs straight as a ruler from the villas of the most fashionable suburb to the old harbour of the city. In its making it has swallowed up much ancient derelict architecture, and many nests of squalid huts, but, since it was built with a clear purpose by a good architect, it is in itself a splendid thing, in which Olifa takes a fitting pride. Where Archie struck it, it was still residential, the home of the rank and fashion of the city, with the white mass of the Government buildings and the copper dome of the Parliament House rising beyond it. But as he walked westward it gradually changed. Soon it was all huge blocks of flats and shops, with here and there the arrogant palace of a bank or shipping company.

One of these caught Archie’s attention. It was an immense square edifice built of the local marble, with a flight of steps running up to doors like those of the Baptistry in Florence. Two sentries with fixed bayonets were on guard, and at first he thought it a Government office. Then his eye caught a modest inscription above the entrance⁠—Administración de Gran Seco. The name had stuck in his memory from last night’s talk⁠—linked with the sight of the four copper magnates and Don Alejandro’s aloofness. The Gran Seco was a strange and comfortless place, and it was perched far up in the mountains. This gorgeous building was at variance with the atmosphere with which the name was invested for him, and he stared with lively curiosity at its magnificence.

Suddenly the great doors opened and a man came out, escorted by two bowing porters. The sentries saluted, a big limousine drew up, and he was borne away. Archie had a glimpse of a tall figure in dark grey clothes, and, what seemed out of keeping with the weather, a bowler hat. The face was middle-aged and bearded⁠—a trim black beard like a naval officer’s. As he passed, the man had glanced at him, and, even in that short second of time, there was something in those eyes which startled him. They seemed so furiously alive. There was nothing inquisitive in them, but they were searching, all-embracing. Archie felt that this was one who missed nothing and forgot nothing; he had had an impression of supreme competence which was as vivid as an electric shock. No wonder the Gran Seco was a success, he thought, if it had men of that quality in its management.

The broad pavements, the double line of trams, the shopwindows as soberly rich as those of the Rue de la Paix, the high white buildings narrowing in the distance to enfold a blue gleam of the sea, made an impressive picture of wealth and enlightenment. There was a curious absence of colour, for the people he passed seemed all to be wearing dark clothes; they were a quiet people, too, who spoke without the southern vehemence. Emancipation had come to the ladies of Olifa, for there were many abroad, walking delicately on the pavement, or showing their powdered prettiness in motorcars. Here was none of the riotous life of the old quarter, and Archie had an impression of the city as elaborately civilised and of its richer inhabitants as decorous to the point of inanity. There were no peasants to be seen, nor a single beggar; the Avenida de la Paz seemed to be kept as a promenade for big business and cultivated leisure. Archie grinned when he remembered the picture he had formed of Olifa, as a decadent blend of ancient Spain and second-rate modern Europe, with a vast wild hinterland pressing in upon its streets. The reality was as polished and secure as Paris⁠—a reticent Paris, with a dash of Wall Street.

One splash of colour caught his eye. It came from a big touring car, which had drawn up at the pavement’s edge and had disgorged its occupants. The driver was a young man strangely clad in starched linen knickerbockers, a golf-jumper designed in a willow-plate pattern of blue and white, pale blue stockings, and a wide-brimmed straw hat. He sat negligently at the wheel, and as Archie stared at him he tilted his hat over his brow. Presently there emerged from the shop two girls and a second youth⁠—the youth in snowy white flannels with a scarlet sash, and the girls in clothes the like of which Archie had never seen, but which in his own mind he classed as the kind of thing for a tropical garden-party. He noticed, since the extreme shortness of their skirts made their legs their most notable feature, that they had black patent-leather shoes with silver buckles, and wonderful shot-silver stockings.

“You all right, honey?” one of them addressed the driver.

“Fine. Got the candy you want?”

Then an argument arose between the two girls and the other youth, an argument conducted in a dialect unintelligible to Archie, and in voices which forcibly reminded him of the converse of a basket of kittens. The four in that discreet monochrome place were indecently conspicuous, but they were without modesty, and among the stares and whispers of the crowded pavement conducted their private dispute with the freedom of children. The driver at last grew bored.

“Aw, come on, Baby,” he cried. “Get off the sidewalk and come aboard. We got to hustle.”

They obeyed him, and the car presently slid into the traffic, the driver’s hat still tilted over his brows. Archie believed that he recognised one of the young women as a member of the party from the American yacht who had been dining in the hotel restaurant the night before. He rather resented their presence in Olifa. These half-witted children of pleasure were out of the picture which he had made for himself; they even conflicted with Olifa’s conception of herself. “The United States,” he told himself, “won’t be too popular in Latin America if it unlooses on it much goods of that type.”

At last the Avenida passed from shops and offices into a broad belt of garden, flanked on one side by the Customs House and on the other by the building which housed the Port authorities. Beyond them lay the green waters of the old harbour, and the very spot where the first Conquistadors had landed. The new harbour, where the copper from the Gran Seco was shipped, lay farther south, close to the railway-stations; the old one was now almost unused except for fishing-boats, and as a landing-place for the yachts which berthed in the outer basin behind the great breakwater. To the north was a little plaza which was all that remained of the first port of Olifa. It was a picturesque half-moon of crumbling stone, and seemed to be mainly composed of cafés and cinema houses.

Archie sniffed the salt breeze from the west, and limped cheerfully along the waterfront, for he loved to be near the sea. In the outer basin he saw the funnels and top-gear of the yacht Corinna, on which he had aforetime enjoyed the Duke of Burminster’s hospitality. It annoyed him that his friend should have sold or chartered it to the kind of people he had seen in the motorcar.

A launch from the yacht was even then approaching the landing-stage. Archie could read the name on a sailor’s jersey. Two men were landed, one who looked like a steward, and the other a thickset fellow in an engineer’s overalls. They separated at once, and the second of the two walked in Archie’s direction. Archie had a bad memory for faces, but there was something in this figure which woke recollection. As they came abreast and their eyes met, both came half unconsciously to a halt. The man seemed to stiffen and his right hand to rise in a salute which he promptly checked. He had a rugged face which might have been hewn out of mahogany, and honest, sullen, blue eyes.

“Hullo,” said Archie, “I’ve seen you before. Now, where on earth⁠ ⁠… ?”

The man gave him no assistance, but stood regarding him in a sulky embarrassment. He sniffed, and in lieu of a handkerchief drew his hand across his nose, and the movement stirred some chord in Archie’s memory.

“I’ve got it. You were with General Hannay. I remember you in that black time before Amiens. Hamilton’s your name, isn’t it? Corporal Hamilton?”

Like an automaton the figure stiffened. “Sirr, that’s my name.” Then it relaxed. It was as if Archie’s words had recalled it for a moment to a military discipline which it hastened to repudiate.

“Do you remember me?”

“Ay. Ye’re Captain Sir Erchibald Roylance.” There was no “sirr” this time.

“Well, this is a queer place to foregather. I think the occasion demands a drink. Let’s try one of these cafés.”

The man seemed unwilling. “I’m a wee bit pressed for time.”

“Nonsense, Hamilton, you can spare five minutes. I want to hear how you’ve been getting on and what landed you here. Hang it, you and I and the General went through some pretty stiff times together. We can’t part on this foreign strand with a how-d’ye-do.”

Archie led the way to a café in the crescent of old houses which looked a little cleaner than the rest.

“What’ll you have, Hamilton?” he asked when they had found a table. “You probably don’t fancy the native wine. Bottled beer? Or rum? Or can you face aguardiente, which is the local whisky?”

“I’m a teetotaller. I’ll hae a glass o’ syrup.”

“Well, I’m dashed.⁠ ⁠… Certainly⁠—I never drink myself in the morning. Now, about yourself? You’re a Glasgow man, aren’t you? Pretty warm place, Glasgow. Are you and the other soldier-lads keeping the Bolshies in order?”

Hamilton’s mahogany face moved convulsively, and his blue eyes wandered embarrassedly to the door.

“My opinions has underwent a change. I’m thinkin’ of anither kind of war nowadays. I’m for the prolytawriat.”

“The devil you are!” Archie gasped. “So am I, but my opinions are still the same. What exactly do you mean?”

The man’s embarrassment increased. “I’m for the proly⁠—prolytawriat. Us worrkers maun stick thegither and brek our chains. I’ve been fechtin’ for the rights o’ man.”

“Fighting with what?”

“Wi’ the pollis. That’s the reason I’m out here. I made Govan a wee thing ower het for me.”

Archie regarded him with a mystified face, which slowly broke into a smile.

“I’m sorry to say that you’re a liar, Hamilton.”

“I’m tellin’ ye God’s truth,” was the reply without heat. Embarrassment had gone, and the man seemed to be speaking a part which he had already rehearsed.

“No. You’re lying. Very likely you had trouble with the police, but I bet it wasn’t over politics. More likely a public-house scrap, or a girl. Why on earth you should want to make yourself out a Bolshie⁠ ⁠… ?”

“My opinions has underwent a change,” the man chanted.

“Oh, drat your opinions! You got into some kind of row and cleared out. That’s intelligible enough, though I’m sorry to hear it. What’s your present job? Are you in the Corinna?”

“Ay, I cam out in her. I’m in the engine-room.”

“But you know nothing about ships?”

“I ken something aboot ship’s engines. Afore the war I wrocht at Clydebank.⁠ ⁠… And now, if ye’ll excuse me, I maun be off, for I’ve a heap o’ jobs ashore. Thank ye for your kindness.”

“I call this a perfectly rotten affair,” said Archie. “You won’t stay, you won’t drink, and you keep on talking like a parrot about the proletariat. What am I to say to General Hannay when I meet him? That you have become a blithering foreign communist?”

“Na, na. Ye maunna say that.” The man’s sullenness had gone, and there was humour in his eye. “Say that Geordie Hamilton is still obeyin’ orders, and daein’ his duty up to his lights.”

“Whose orders?” Archie asked, but the corporal was already making for the door.

The young man walked back to the hotel in a reflective mood, and at luncheon gave Janet a summary of the events of the morning. He had been storing up his impressions of Olifa for her, and had meant to descant upon the old city and the market and the Cathedral Square, but he found these pictures obscured by his later experiences. “Most extraordinary thing. I ran up against a fellow who used to be Dick Hannay’s batman⁠—regular chunky Scots Fusilier and brave as a badger⁠—Hamilton they call him. Well, he had the cheek to tell me that he had changed his views and become a Bolshie and had consequently had to clear out of Glasgow. I swear the chap was lying⁠—could see it in his face⁠—but I’m puzzled why he should want to lie to me.⁠ ⁠… He says he has some kind of engineer’s job on the Corinna.⁠ ⁠… More by token, I saw a selection of the Corinna party in a motorcar in the Avenida. Dressed up like nothing on earth, and chattering like jays!”

“We had them here this morning,” said Janet. “Pretty little savages with heads like mops. I’ve christened them the Moplahs.”

“Was there a fellow in starched linen bags? He was the prize donkey.”

Janet shook her head. “There was only one man with them and he wore white flannels. I can’t quite make them out. They behave like demented trippers, and are always pawing and ragging each other, but I came on the young man suddenly when I went to the bureau to ask about postage, and when the clerk couldn’t tell me he answered my question. His whole voice and manner seemed to change, and he became startlingly well-bred.⁠ ⁠… I want to explore the Moplahs. And I would rather like to see again the tall girl I had a glimpse of yesterday. I can’t get it out of my head that I’ve seen her before.”

III

On the following evening Janet and Archie dined as Don Alejandro’s guests at the Club de Residentes Extranjeros. The club, situated in one of the squares to the north of the Avenida, was a proof of Olifa’s wealth and her cosmopolitanism. In the broad cool patio a fountain tinkled, and between it and the adjoining arcades tropical plants in green tubs made the air fragrant. The building was for the most part a copy of an old Spanish town house, but the billiard-room was panelled in oak with a Tudor ceiling, the card-room was Flemish, and the big dining-room Italian Renaissance. The night was freshly warm, with light airs stirring the oleanders, and, from the table which Don Alejandro had selected, the patio was a velvet dusk shot with gold and silver gleams like tiny searchlights.

The only other guest was the American Consul. Mr. Roderick Wilbur was a heavy man, with the smooth pale face of eupeptic but sedentary middle-age. His years in Olifa had not mellowed his dry, high-pitched New England voice, or endowed him with a single Latin grace. He looked upon the other diners with the disapproving air of a Scots elder of the kirk surveying a travelling theatrical company, and the humour which now and then entered his eye was like the frosty twinkle of a very distant star.

Don Alejandro was in a vivacious mood. He was the showman of his beloved city, but he was no less a representative of his beloved Europe; he wished the strangers to praise Olifa but to recognise him as a cosmopolitan. Archie and Janet satisfied his patriotism, for, having hired a car that afternoon and driven round the city, they overflowed in admiration.

“You were right,” Janet told him. “There is no mystery in Olifa. It is all as smooth and polished as a cabochon emerald, and, like a cabochon, you can’t see far inside it. Your people have the satisfied look of London suburbanites on a Sunday up the river.”

“Your police are too good,” said Archie. “One doesn’t see a single ragamuffin in the main streets. Janet and I prefer the old quarter. Some day, Don Alejandro, we want you to take us round it and tell us who the people are. They look like samples of every South American brand since the Aztecs.”

“The Aztecs lived in Mexico,” Janet corrected.

“Well, I mean the chaps that were downed by the Conquistadors.”

Don Alejandro laughed. “Our old quarter is only a tourist spectacle, like the native city in Tangier. For the true country life you must go to the estancias and the savannahs. I have arranged by telegraph for your visit to my cousin at Veiro.”

“And the Gran Seco?”

“That also is in train. But it is more difficult and will take time.”

“I said there was no mystery in Olifa,” Janet observed, “but I rather think I was wrong. There is the Gran Seco. It seems to be as difficult to get into it as into a munition factory. Have you been there, Mr. Wilbur?”

The American Consul had been devoting serious attention to his food, stopping now and then to regard Janet with benevolent attention.

“Why, yes, Lady Roylance,” he said. “I’ve been up to the Gran Seco just the once since it blossomed out. I’ve no great call to go there, for Americans don’t frequent it to any considerable extent.”

“Wilbur hates the place,” said Don Alejandro. “He thinks that every commercial undertaking on the globe should belong to his countrymen, and it vexes him that the Gran Seco capital should be European.”

“Don’t you pay any attention to Mr. Gedd,” said the big man placidly. “He’s always picking on my poor little country. But I can’t say I care for that salubrious plateau. I don’t like being shepherded at every turn as if I was a crook, and I reckon the Montana sagebrush is more picturesque. Also they haven’t much notion up there of laying out a township. They’d be the better of some honest-to-God Americans to look after the plumbing.”

“See! He is all for standardising life. What a dull world the United States would make of it!”

“That’s so. We prefer dullness to microbes. All the same, there’s things about the Gran Seco which you can see with half an eye aren’t right. I didn’t like the look of the miners. You never in your days saw such a hangdog, miserable bunch, just like some of our old Indian reservations, where big chief Wet Blanket and his wives used to drink themselves silly on cheap bourbon. And how in thunder does Castor get his labour? He’s got a mighty graft somewhere, but when I first came here the Gran Seco Indians were a difficult folk to drive. I’ve heard that in old times the Olifa Government had trouble with them over the conscription.”

“They were savages,” said Don Alejandro, “and they are savages still. Castor has doubtless the art of dealing with them, for he himself is on the grand scale a savage.”

Archie pricked up his ears.

“Castor? Who is he?”

“The Gobernador of the province. Also the President of the company.”

“I saw a fellow coming out of the Gran Seco head office⁠—a fellow with a black beard, who didn’t look as if he missed much.”

“That was Señor Castor. You are fortunate, Sir Archibald, for you, a new arrival, have already seen Olifa’s great man, and that is a privilege but rarely granted to us Oliferos. He descends upon us and vanishes as suddenly as a river mist.”

“Tell me about him,” said Janet. “Where does he come from? What is his nationality?”

Don Alejandro shook his head. “I do not know. Mr. Wilbur, who is a man of hasty judgments, will say that he is a Jew. He is certainly a European, but not a Spaniard, though he speaks our tongue. I can only say that he emerged out of nothing five years ago, and became at once a prince. He rules the Gran Seco, and its officials are altogether his creation. And since he rules the Gran Seco he rules Olifa. He has, as Mr. Wilbur would say, this country of mine by the short hairs.”

“He don’t meddle with politics,” said the American, and Janet noticed that as he spoke he cast a quick glance around him, as if he did not wish to be overheard. Don Alejandro, too, had lowered his voice.

“What nonsense!” said the latter. “He is money, and money is our politics today. Once we Latins of America were a great race. We were Europeans, with minds enlarged and spirits braced by a new continent. You are a soldier, Sir Archibald, and will remember that the bloodiest battles of last century were fought in La Plata and on the Uruguay. Our plains were the nursery of the liberties of Italy. But now we have but the one goddess. We are rich and nothing more. Soon we shall be richer, and then, my dear Wilbur, we shall be the devotees of your great country, which is the high-priest of riches.”

“I can’t say that you’re showing any special devotion just at present,” said the other dryly. “My nationals⁠—thank God there aren’t many⁠—are about the most unpopular in this State. But quit talking about politics. We’re out to give you a good time, Lady Roylance, and we want to know just how you’d like us to set about it.”

Janet was of a patient and philosophical temper, but Archie liked to take his sensations in gulps. So far Olifa, he admitted to himself, had been a little boring. The place, for all its beauty, had a deadly commonplaceness⁠—it was the typical bourgeois State, as Don Alejandro had declared the first night. And yet he was conscious that this judgment did not exhaust the matter. There were moments when he felt that Olifa was a strange woman in a mask of cheap silk, a volcano overspread with suburban gardens. Behind even the decorousness of the Avenida he savoured a mystery. Into the pleasant monotony of the days had come wafts of air from some other sphere⁠—a peasant’s face in the market, the bearded Gobernador, the pallid men in the hotel, even the preposterous figure of Dick Hannay’s former batman. These things had stirred in him an irrational interest.⁠ ⁠… Perhaps if he went into the hinterland he would find the glamour of Olifa, of whose existence he was convinced, but which had hitherto contrived to evade him.

The club dining-room was full, and when they left it for coffee on the terrace beside the patio they had difficulty in finding chairs. It was apparently the practice to dine elsewhere and come to the club to dance, for a band was pounding out ragtime, and a dozen couples were on the floor.

“The Moplahs,” Janet sighed happily.

It was beyond doubt the American party from the yacht, and in that place they were as exotic as a tuberose in a bed of wallflowers. They had conformed to convention in their dress, for the four men wore dinner-jackets, and the four girls bright, short-skirted, silk-taffeta gowns and long pearl necklaces. Among the powdered Olifero ladies and the sallow Olifero cavaliers their fresh skins made a startling contrast, and not less startling were their shrill, toneless voices. They chattered incessantly, crying badinage to each other and to the band, as they danced the half-savage dances with an abandon which now suggested wild children and now the lunatic waltzing of hares in an April moonlight. Janet laughed aloud, the picture was so crazily fantastic. A Spanish girl, in a frock with wide flounces and with blue-black hair dressed high and surmounted by a gold comb, was suddenly cannoned into by a fluffy-headed minx, who apologised in a voice like a vindictive kitten’s, and was rewarded by a stony stare. Just so, Janet remembered, she had seen a greyhound repel the impudence of a Skye terrier.

“I don’t see my tall girl,” she said.

“The fellow with the starched linen knickerbockers isn’t here,” said Archie. “I didn’t see his face, but I think I would know him again. Who are they, Mr. Wilbur?”

The American’s eyes were hard with disapproval. “I can’t tell you their names, but they’re off the Corinna. They’re in Burton Rawlinson’s party. Mr. Rawlinson isn’t on board himself, and there can’t be much of a restraining hand to shepherd the bunch. Some of them have been to my office, and I judge I’m going to hear of trouble with them before they quit these shores. They want this city to stop still and take notice of them.”

Archie inquired concerning Mr. Rawlinson.

“He’s a fine man and a big man, one of the biggest on the Pacific coast. I’ve nothing against Burton. He’s rich, and he’s public-spirited, and he’s gotten a mighty fine collection of pictures. I can’t say I take to his offspring and their friends. There’s more dollars than sense in that outfit.”

“I like the Moplahs,” said Janet. “I want to know them.”

Archie, who was a connoisseur of dancing, observed that the men danced better than the women, a thing he had noticed before with Americans. “Did a fellow with starched linen bags ever come to your office?” he asked the Consul. “Slightly built fellow, a little shorter than me?”

Mr. Wilbur shook his head. “Maybe, but I don’t remember him. All their garments struck me as curious. Heaven knows what’s going to become of our youth, Sir Archibald. They’ve quit behaving like ladies and gentlemen⁠—running wild like bronchos, and their parents can’t do the lassooing. They’re hard cases at seventeen.”

“There’s an appalling innocence about them,” said Janet and looked up smiling, for two of the dancers had left the floor and were approaching them.

The girl was small, and a little too plump, but very pretty, with a mop of golden curls like a medieval page’s. The young man was thin and beaky, and his longish hair was parted in the middle.

“Say, what about dancing?” he said. “Won’t you cut in?” He looked at Janet, while the girl smiled pleasantly on Archie.

“Most awfully sorry,” said Archie. “I’d love to, but I’ve got a game leg.”

“Pardon?”

“I mean I’m a bit lame.”

Janet rose smiling and took the young man’s arm.

“I don’t know your name,” said Mr. Wilbur, who was a stickler for the conventions, “but I reckon you’re with the Corinna party. This lady is Lady Roylance.”

The youth regarded him solemnly. “You’ve said it, Grandpa,” was his reply. “Come on, lady.”

The girl was still partnerless, and Don Alejandro offered himself for the breach. He sprang to his feet and bowed deeply from the waist. “If I may have the honour,” he said. Archie and the Consul were left alone to their cigars.

The dancing-place was soon crowded, and Janet and Don Alejandro seemed to have been completely absorbed into the whirl. Glimpses could be caught of Janet’s porcelain elegance, and of an unwontedly energetic Don Alejandro in the grip of various corybantic maidens. The two men in the lounge-chairs presently ceased to be spectators and fell into talk.

Mr. Wilbur, as if the absence of his colleague had unsealed his tongue, expanded and became almost confidential. He asked Archie for his impressions of Olifa, and when he was told “tidy and contented and opulent,” nodded an acquiescent head.

“You’re about right, sir. That’s Olifa first and last⁠—the Olifa of today. Better policed than New York, and just about as clean as Philadelphia. Manicured, you might say. But it wasn’t always like that. When I first came here Olifa was the ordinary South American republic, always on the edge of bankruptcy and revolution, and this city had one of the worst names on the coast. The waterfront was a perfect rat-hole for every criminal in the Pacific⁠—every brand of roughneck and dope-smuggler and crook⁠—dagos with knives and niggers with razors and the scum of the U‑nited States with guns. Today you could take your wife along it in perfect safety any hour of the night. The Treasury was empty, for politics were simply who could get their hands first and deepest into it. There was bad trouble upcountry, and there was always a war going on in the mountains, which the little underfed and never-paid soldiers couldn’t win. Now we’ve got a big balance in the budget and the peace of God over the land. It’s a kind of miracle. It’s almost against nature, Sir Archibald.”

“Why, it’s principally the Gran Seco,” he continued, in response to Archie’s request for an explanation. “That, as you know, is the richest copper proposition on the globe, and the Government has a big share in it. There’s money to burn for everybody nowadays. But there’s more than money. Olifa’s gotten a first-class brain to help her along.”

“The President?”

Wilbur laughed.

“The Excelentísimo is a worthy gentleman, and he has gotten some respectable folks to help him, but it isn’t the President of this republic that has made the desert blossom like the rose. There’s a bigger brain behind him.”

“You mean the Gran Seco fellow⁠—what’s his name?”

“I mean Mr. Castor. At least I reckon it must be Mr. Castor, for there isn’t anybody else. You see, I can size up the members of the Government, because I know them, so it must be the man I don’t know.”

“I see. Well, it’s clear that I must get alongside of this Castor if I’m to learn much about Olifa. What’s the best way to work it?”

“Through the President, I reckon. I’d like to help you, but I haven’t much of a pull in Olifa just at the moment. You see, the U‑nited States is going through one of its periodical fits of unpopularity. Olifa has waxed fat, like the man in the Bible, and she’s kicking, and when a South American nation kicks it’s generally against the U‑nited States. Don Alejandro will fix an interview with the President for you, and he’ll arrange your trip to the Gran Seco. He’s a good little man, though he don’t like my country.”

Thereafter Mr. Wilbur discoursed of his nation⁠—its strength and its weakness, its active intelligence, imperfect manners, and great heart. He was a critic, but he was also an enthusiast. To this man, grown old in foreign lands in his country’s service, America was still the America of his youth. Her recent developments he knew only from the newspapers, and he loyally strove to reconcile them with his old ideal. America only needed to be understood to be loved, but it was hard to get her true worth across the footlights. “You English,” he said, “have got a neat, hard-shell national character, with a high gloss on it. Foreigners may not like it, but they can’t mistake it. It hits them in the eye every time. But we’re young and growing and have a lot of loose edges, and it’s mighty hard to make people understand that often when we talk foolishness we mean wisdom, and that when we act high and mighty and rile our neighbours it’s because we’re that busy trying to get a deal through we haven’t time to think of susceptibilities. You’ve got to forget our untidy fringes.”

“Like the crowd from the yacht,” said Archie. “They don’t rile me a bit, I assure you.⁠ ⁠… Just look at the way that lad dances. He might be David capering before the Lord.”

“That’s because you’ve seen a lot of the world, Sir Archibald. I reckon you’ve met enough Americans to know the real thing.”

“No, I’ve met very few. You see, I’ve never crossed the Atlantic before. But I knew one American, and for his sake I’m ready to back your country against all comers. He was about the wisest and bravest and kindest old fellow I ever came across.”

Mr. Wilbur asked his name.

“He’s dead, poor chap. Died a few months ago. I daresay you’ve heard of him. His name was Blenkiron⁠—John S. Blenkiron.”

Archie had his eye on the Hebraic dancer or he might have noticed a sudden change in his companion’s face. When Mr. Wilbur spoke again⁠—and that was after a considerable pause⁠—it was in a voice from which all feeling had gone, the voice in which he conducted his consular duties.

“Yes. I’ve heard of Mr. Blenkiron. Mighty fine man, they tell me. Just how well did you know him, Sir Archibald?”

“I only saw him for a week or two in the Amiens business of March ’18. But they were pretty solemn weeks, and you get to know a man reasonably well if you’re fighting for your life beside him. He was with a great pal of mine, General Hannay, and the two of them put up a famous show at Gavrelle. I can see old Blenkiron’s face yet, getting cheerier the more things went to the devil, and fairly beaming when the ultimate hell was reached. I wouldn’t ask for a better partner in a scrap. I’m most awfully sorry he died. I always hoped to see him again.”

“Too bad,” said Mr. Wilbur, and he seemed to be absorbed in some calculation, for his brows were knitted.

A flushed Janet joined them, attended by two cavaliers who insisted on plundering the pot plants to give her flowers. Presently Don Alejandro also extricated himself from the dancers, with his black-corded eyeglass hanging over his left shoulder.

“These innocents are going to the Gran Seco,” Janet announced. “They seem to think it is a sort of country club, but if your account is true, Mr. Wilbur, they’ll be like hummingbirds in a dustbin.”

“They surely will,” said the Consul. “When do you expect your own permits, Lady Roylance?”

“They should be ready tomorrow,” said Don Alejandro.

Archie and Janet left their calèche at the hotel gates, and walked up the steep avenue to enjoy the coolness of the night wind. At the esplanade on the top they halted to marvel at the view. Below them lay the old town with the cathedral towers white in the moonlight⁠—a blur of shadows in which things like glowworms twinkled at rare intervals, and from which came confused echoes of some secret nocturnal life. Beyond lay the shining belt of the Avenida, and the Ciudad Nueva mounting its little hills in concentric circles of light. On the other side the old harbour was starred with the riding lights of ships, and the lamps of the waterfront made a double line, reflection and reality. To the south at the new harbour there was a glow of fires and the clamour of an industry which did not cease at sunset. To the west, beyond the great breakwater, sea and sky melted under the moon into a pale infinity.

Suddenly Archie’s spirits awoke. He seemed to see Olifa as what he had hoped⁠—not a decorous city of careerists, but a frontier post on the edge of mysteries. The unknown was there, crowding in upon the pert little pride of man. In the golden brume to the east were mountains⁠—he could almost see them⁠—running up to icefields and splintered pinnacles, and beyond them swamps and forests as little travelled as in the days of Cortes. Between the desert of the ocean and the desert of the hills lay this trivial slip of modernity, but a step would take him beyond it into an antique land. The whiff of a tropical blossom from the shrubberies and the faint odour of wood smoke unloosed a flood of memories⁠—hot days in the African bush, long marches in scented Kashmir glens, shivering camps on Himalayan spurs. The War had overlaid that first youth of his, when he had gone east to see the world, but the rapture and magic were now returning. He felt curiously expectant and happy.

“I’ve a notion that we’re going to have the time of our lives here,” he told his wife.

But Janet did not reply. For three days she had been busy chasing a clue through her memory and now she had grasped it. She had suddenly remembered who was the tall girl she had seen with the party from the Corinna on the day of their arrival.

All night Archie dreamed of the Gran Seco. As he saw it, it was a desolate plateau culminating in a volcano. The volcano was erupting, and amid the smoke and fire a colossal human figure sat at its ease. Then the dream became a nightmare⁠—for the figure revealed itself as having the face and beard of the man he had seen leaving the office in the Avenida, but the starched white linen knickerbockers of the preposterous young American.

IV

Archie set out on his exploration of Olifa with his nose in the air, like a dog looking for game. The spell of a new country had fallen on him, as had happened fifteen years before when he left school. The burden of the War and all it had brought, the cares of politics, the preoccupations of home had slipped from his shoulders, and he felt himself again an adventurer, as when he had first studied maps and listened hungrily to travellers’ tales. But now he had one supreme advantage⁠—he had a companion; and Janet, who had never before been out of Europe, was as eager as he was to squeeze the last drop out of new experience.

He left over his more important letters for the moment and used those introductions which had been given him by the friends he had made during his time at the Madrid Embassy. The result was that the pair were taken to the heart of a pleasant, rigid little society⁠—as remote from interest in the Government of Olifa as an unreconstructed Southern planter is from a Republican White House, or a Royalist Breton from the Élysée. Archie was made a member of the Polo Club and played with agreeable young men, who had their clothes and saddlery from London and their manners from the eighteenth century. A ball was given in their honour, where the most popular dance, to Janet’s amazement, was a form of Lancers. They met composed maidens who were still in bondage to their duennas: and young married women, languishing and voluble, or discreet and domesticated, among whose emphatic complexions Janet’s delicate colouring was like a wood-anemone among gardenias: and witty grandmothers running terribly to fat: and ancient hidalgos with beaks like birds of prey. It was a comfortable society, with the secure good manners of a tiny aristocracy, but it knew of no world beyond its pale, and was profoundly uninterested in its neighbours.

They went a little, too, into business circles, both Olifero and alien, the representatives of shipping and trading companies and the big foreign banks. This, too, was a pleasant world, good-tempered and prosperous. Here they heard much of politics, but it was business politics. The existing Government was spoken of with respect, but not with intimate knowledge; it functioned well, kept the country solvent, and left trade in peace. Politicians were a class by themselves, a dubious class, though it was believed that the present lot were honest. But they met none of the Copper people. These seemed to form an oligarchy apart, and were mentioned respectfully but distantly. When Archie asked about the Gran Seco he was only given statistics of output and an encomium on its efficiency. Of its President the commercial world of Olifa spoke as an ordinary automobile-manufacturer might speak of Henry Ford, as one who was a law to himself, an object to admire, but not to emulate.

“This is a queer place,” Archie told Janet. “It seems to have two Governors⁠—the Castor fellow and the President⁠—and the ordinary man don’t seem to know or care much about either. It’s about time we started out for the Gran Seco.”

But when Don Alejandro was approached on the matter he had to explain with many apologies that their permits had not arrived. There was some inconceivably foolish hitch, which he had not yet tracked down.

“But the American troupe got through straight away,” Archie complained. “They left a week ago.”

“I know. That is a way Americans have. Perhaps in your case the difficulty is Mr. Wilbur. Officiously and quite unnecessarily he interested himself in getting your passes, so he said⁠—and he may have exhausted his purchase in franking his countrymen through and raised a prejudice. As I have told you, his nation is not loved by our Government.”

Don Alejandro went on to explain that the delay could only be a matter of days. “Meantime, why not visit my cousin at Veiro? There you must go some time, and this hiatus gives you the chance.”

So to Veiro they went⁠—fifty miles by train and twenty by motorcar along a superb concrete highway, which suddenly gave out four miles from the house, so that the journey was completed by a sandy track over primeval prairie. They arrived just at sunset, when the place swam in a clear coppery gold. The house was low and white and seemed to cover acres, with its adobe outbuildings, its great corrals for the cattle, and its trim red-roofed stables built on the English model. The palms of the coast had been left behind, and at this elevation the tropics had faded from the landscape. The garden was ablaze with coverts of hibiscus and plots of scarlet zinnias among the rough lawns, and the windbreaks which flanked it were of acacias and walnuts. A big irrigation dam to the right caught the last rays of the sun, and beyond it the tender green of the alfalfa fields seemed a continuation of its waters. Far to the east, above the lifting savannahs, was a saw-like edge of tenuous white mountains which seemed to hang in the central heavens. There was a succession of thin spires now picked out with gold and rose. Archie asked their name.

“Los Doce Apóstolas⁠—the Twelve Apostles,” said the driver, and rattled off a list of uncouth syllables.

Don Mario Sanfuentes, the cousin of Don Alejandro, was small, spare, and blue-jowled, with the figure of a groom and the profound solemnity of the man who lives with horses. His wife was dead and his ranch and stables were to him both family and profession. He greeted his visitors with the grave courtesy of manner which needs no words to emphasise it. Their rooms were wide chambers with scrubbed wooden floors and windows looking across a broad verandah to a hundred miles of space, as bare and fresh as a convent dormitory. They had their meals in a dining-room which contained the remnants of the Sanfuentes heirlooms⁠—cabinets of lacquer and tortoiseshell, a Murillo which had been an altarpiece in one of the forgotten churches of the Conquistadors, fantastic tapestries now faded into a mellow confusion, an Italian triptych of carved ivory, and a great galleon of tarnished silver. But they sat mostly in Don Mario’s own room, where in the evenings a wood fire was lit in the wide fireplace⁠—a room where every table was littered with books and papers and cigar-boxes and quirts and crops and spurs, and from the walls looked down the delicate heads of those descendants of the Darley Arab, the Byerley Turk, and the Godolphin Barb whose fame has gone abroad wherever men love horses.

By day Archie and Janet rode with their host about his estate, examined his young stock, and tried out promising colts on the gallops, where by assiduous care a better turf had been got than in the ordinary savannah. At every meal the talk was of horses, but at night, when the fire was lit, Don Mario from the depths of his well-rubbed armchair would speak at large of the land. In modern Olifa he had little interest, but he told of the diversions of his youth⁠—his pack of foxhounds which had to be so constantly renewed from England that he gave up the game in despair, tiger hunting in the forest country, punitive expeditions against Indian horse-thieves from the hills. The time passed in a delicious calm: a combination, said Janet, of Newmarket and Scotland. And then on the last day of their stay came another visitor.

“I cannot tell you about this country,” Don Mario said, “for I am an old horse-breeder who lives apart. But I have bidden young Luis de Marzaniga to sleep the night. His mother was cousin to the husband of my great-aunt’s niece. Luis has travelled abroad and seen the world, but especially he has travelled in Olifa. No. He is no politician, nor is he engaged in business. He is like me⁠—what you call a country gentleman. But he has youth and inquisitiveness, both of which I have long since lost.”

So, when the Roylances, having bathed and changed after a long ride in the sun, came down to dinner, they found a strange young man awaiting them. Don Mario’s evening garb had been a little like that of a deaf-mute at a funeral, but this young man wore the trimmest of dinner-jackets and the neatest of patent-leather shoes. His hair was as fair as Archie’s; but some colouring in his skin had made him sunburn not to Archie’s brick-red but to a rich golden-brown. His eyes were brown, and the large expanse of white in them was the only foreign thing in his appearance. Otherwise he looked like a young English cavalry subaltern, whose duties permitted him to hunt three days a week.

Dinner that evening was a cheerful meal. Don Luis chaffed his distant kinsman, with whom he was obviously in high favour, and Don Mario expanded in silent laughter. All spoke English⁠—Don Mario very correct and stilted, Don Luis nobly ungrammatical but notably idiomatic. To Janet’s questions he replied that his education had been chiefly in Olifa, but that he had visited Europe seven times, and during the last six months of the War had had a commission in the French Air Force. He had only just returned from Paris.

The mention of flying woke up Archie, and for a little the room hummed with technicalities. Archie inquired concerning the Olifa Air Force, and was told that it was efficient but small⁠—not more than five squadrons. The Olifero did not take readily to the air, and the pilots were mostly foreigners⁠—Germans who had found their career cut short at home, and, Don Luis thought, one or two Russians. “It is like all our army,” he said, “a little force of expert mercenaries. Olifa needs no army. In the future she will fight her battles with gold.”

Don Luis was very ready to talk. He answered Archie’s many questions on sport with enthusiasm, and drew sketch-maps to illustrate the lie of the land. As to politics, he had not Don Mario’s apathy. He was ready with amusing portraits of Olifa’s statesmen and with cogent summaries of policy. He was also a humorist, and had a repertoire of tales. But he was a discreet young man, and ventured no opinion of his own. He was neither reactionary nor progressive, only an interested spectator.

On the Gran Seco he was highly informing. He described the nature of the copper deposits, and the new processes which had reduced costs and made it the Golconda of Olifa. Castor he knew only by sight. “We of Olifa do not meet him, but we worship him from afar. He is the god who dwells in the sanctuary.”

“The American Consul thought there might be trouble some day. The mine-labourers are rather a savage lot, aren’t they?”

Don Luis laughed.

“I think the wish may be⁠—how you say?⁠—mother to the thought. Señor Wilbur does not love the Gran Seco. No doubt it is a difficult place, but Señor Castor is beyond doubt a Napoleon and flourishes on difficulties. It will be all right.”

“Why does he keep the place so tightly shut? We have been waiting a fortnight for a permit to enter.”

“So! Then there must be some foolish mistake of clerks. Señor Castor is not likely to be uncivil⁠—least of all to a charming lady and to a member of the English Parliament. He is a lover of Europe.”

Don Luis had many questions to ask in turn, and it slowly dawned upon one of his hearers that this candid and friendly young man was taking in more than he gave out. Archie was drawn to speak of his own past⁠—his eastern travels, his experiences in the War, even of his friends, who could mean nothing to a South American who had only once been in England. He found himself quoting Sandy Arbuthnot by name, as if he had been in his club at home.

“I beg your pardon,” he said confusedly. “You can’t be interested in my yarning about people you never heard of.”

“But I am deeply interested. Your friend is a wise man. How do you call him⁠—Arbuttnot?”

“He was Sandy Arbuthnot, but his father is dead and he is Lord Clanroyden now.”

“A lord! Clan‑roy‑den. Por dios! That is a strange name.”

“Scotch,” said Archie.

“Ah yes⁠—Scotch. That is your Highlands? Your Gran Seco? This Lord Clay-roy-den, he is in Scotland?”

“I’m blessed if I know where he is at the moment. He’s never long off the road.”

Janet, too, to her surprise found herself talking to this stranger as if she had known him from childhood. She described vivaciously her encounter with the Moplahs.

“They are common as lentils in Olifa at certain seasons,” said Don Luis, “those noisy, emancipated American children. They have gone, you say, to the Gran Seco, where Americans are not loved. There may be work then for Señor Wilbur.”

“They are really rather nice,” said Janet. “I think I have met one of them before.⁠ ⁠… Archie, I didn’t tell you, but I believe the tall girl who was with the Moplahs the first day and whom we never saw again was the Miss Dasent who came to Strathlarrig. She was some sort of relation of Mr. Blenkiron.”

“Not really?” exclaimed the interested Archie. “That’s curious. Did you ever hear of Blenkiron, Don Luis? He died the other day⁠—American, rather a great man⁠—he was the chap I was telling you about in the Shark-Gladas affair.”

The other shook his head. “I do not think so. But American names are so difficult that it is hard to remember. They are worse than Clan-roy-den.”

Don Mario made it his habit to retire to rest at ten o’clock, and Janet, being very sleepy, followed soon after. Archie and Don Luis lit a final cigar, and in the smoking of it strolled into the moonlit verandah. On this side of the house the view was not broken by outbuildings, and beyond a string of paddocks the eye passed to an endless sweep of yellow savannah which faded in the distance into a golden haze. The air was fresh, and, though the night was still, cool wafts seemed to drift soundlessly down from the hidden mountains.

“My countrymen and yours fought each other for three hundred years,” said Don Luis, “but a Spaniard and an Englishman, when they meet, usually understand each other. I presume, with your permission, on that old sympathy, and I ask you boldly what are you doing here?”

The young man’s manner had changed from the debonair ease which had marked it at dinner. It had become at once confidential and authoritative.

“Fact is, I don’t know,” was Archie’s reply. “Principally, Janet and I are on a postponed honeymoon. I had a notion to pick up something about South American politics, which might be useful to me in Parliament.”

“And you find Olifa rather barren ground?”

“I did at first.⁠ ⁠… Now, I am not so sure.”

“Will you let me advise you? We are both young men and have served in war. Stay a little in Olifa if you have not yet exhausted the charm of the capital, and then take your delightful lady on board the first ship and go straight home.”

“Home? Why in the world?” Archie stared at the speaker.

“You can go to Valparaiso and Buenos Aires if they amuse you. But get out of Olifa.”

“But why?”

“I cannot tell you why. I am your friend, and a friend may venture to advise without reasons.”

“But what’s the trouble? Olifa is a great deal more peaceful than Europe. You don’t mean to say that there’s danger.⁠ ⁠…”

“Olifa is a mask⁠—you have not seen her face. Look in front of you. You see nothing but flat pastures. But beyond you know that there are wild mountains. So I tell you that behind the flatness of Olifa there are wild things.”

“Well, I’m blessed! D’you know, Don Luis, you are making Olifa rather attractive. You are giving me a very good reason why I should stay.”

“But madame⁠ ⁠…”

“I don’t know. For heaven’s sake, don’t tell her what you’re telling me, for if she gets a notion that there’s mystery abroad she won’t stop till she is up to the neck in it. But of course I can’t let her run any risks.⁠ ⁠…”

“I do not think that you will be able to help yourself⁠—if you stay. You may be caught up in a tide which will carry you to things very different from your respectable English politics.⁠ ⁠… And these things will not be a honeymoon.”

Archie stared at his companion’s face. The moon was very bright and the face which it revealed was grave and set.

“You are talking in riddles,” said Archie. “I wish you would be more explicit. You tell me to get out of the country, because if I stay I may have trouble. You can hardly leave it at that, you know. What kind of trouble? Perhaps it’s the kind that Janet and I might rather fancy.”

“That is why I warn you. You are a young man with a wife. It is easy to see that you are not the type which avoids danger. But a wife makes a difference⁠—especially such a lady as yours. You would not wish to involve her, and yet you may unwittingly, if you do not leave Olifa.”

“Supposing I were a bachelor, what would you say?”

Don Luis laughed. “Ah, then, I should speak otherwise. I should make of you a confidant⁠—perhaps an ally. You wish to visit the Gran Seco, but your passports are unaccountably delayed. I might offer to take you to the Gran Seco, but not by Santa Ana and the Company’s railway.”

Archie pondered. “Everything in this country seems to turn on the Gran Seco,” he said, “and we don’t seem to be able to get there.”

“It may be that that blunder of officialdom is doing you a service,” said Don Luis solemnly.

“Well, I’ve no desire to go there and get tangled up in a local shindy, which I take it is what you are hinting at. I remember Mr. Wilbur said that the miners seemed to be an ugly crowd. I’m very much obliged to you, Don Luis.”

“You will not tell anyone that I have warned you.”

“Certainly not.⁠ ⁠… I’m rather inclined to take your advice, and tell Gedd to drop the passport business. I didn’t come here looking for trouble⁠—and, besides, there’s my wife.”

But in this Archie was not wholly candid. He told himself that what he called a “dago revolution” had no charms for him, especially with Janet to take care of. But he realised that this phrase did not exhaust the mystery in Olifa, which had been slowly accumulating in his mind till the sense of it was like an atmosphere about him. Also he had taken a strong liking to Don Luis. The young man had a curious appeal in his alternate gaiety and gravity. There was that in him which seemed to beckon to wild and delightful things; he was such a companion as Archie a dozen years ago would have welcomed to ride with over the edge of the world. But Archie⁠—rangé, married, lame of one leg⁠—decided with a half-sigh that such visions and such comrades were no longer for him.

V

On their return to the city they were met by an incensed Don Alejandro. Not only had the permits for the Gran Seco not arrived, they had been definitely refused. It was not the work of the Government⁠—this he had ascertained from his second cousin, the Minister for External Affairs. The refusal came from the Company itself, and Don Alejandro was positive that it was due to the interference of the American Consul. No doubt Wilbur had meant well, but apparently he had pressed the request so that the Company had assumed that he was its principal sponsor, and had naturally refused, since they thought they had done enough for his unpopular country by permitting the entrance of the party from the Corinna. There was no doubt about it. Don Alejandro had heard from a friend who was deep in the Company’s affairs that Wilbur was the cause of the refusal.

To Janet’s surprise Archie seemed rather relieved than otherwise. “Just as well, perhaps,” he said. “We should probably have got fever or something, and we didn’t come six thousand miles to look at a mining district. We have plenty of them at home.”

He had not told Janet of Don Luis’s warning, but he had brooded over it, and with his separation from the giver its good sense seemed to grow more convincing. Why on earth should Janet and he waste time in visiting a dusty plateau, even though it was the source of Olifa’s prosperity and might have importance in Olifa’s future politics? He would learn little in a hurried tour, and it wasn’t his line to pick up gossip and go home and raise a racket in Parliament about Gran Seco atrocities.⁠ ⁠… They would go south to Cardanio and Alcorta, and might make a short trip into the mountains. The Twelve Apostles would bear inspection from closer quarters.⁠ ⁠… After that they would go home by Panama, and perhaps visit Jamaica. His mother’s family had once owned big plantations there, established by an ancestor who had left the country hurriedly after Culloden.

So they fell back upon Olifa society, and Archie played polo daily at the club, and they gave a dinner at the hotel; and were just preparing to set out for Cardanio, when they were bidden to luncheon by no less a person than the President. A superb card of invitation, surmounted by the Olifa arms in gold, gave Archie the title of “Right Honourable,” and designed Janet as the “Honourable Lady A. Roylance.” Archie consulted Don Alejandro as to his garments, and was informed that the manners of Olifa were English and that they might both wear what they pleased. So Janet and he appeared at the President’s mansion in their ordinary clothes, to find most of the men in evening dress with ribbons and stars, and all the women in Paris hats and what looked like wedding gowns. Janet promptly had a fit of giggles, and it was a flushed and embarrassed pair who made their bow to the heavy, sallow, bull-necked Excelentísimo.

The day was hot, the place where they sat was as heavily upholstered as a Victorian dining-room, and the conversation had the languor of a ceremonial banquet. Janet, as the guest of honour, sat on the President’s right hand, while Archie at the other end was sandwiched between a voluminous elderly woman who was the President’s wife and a sleepy Frenchwoman whose husband was Don Alejandro’s kinsman. His head had been confused by many introductions, but he had made out that kinsman, a Sanfuentes of the younger branch, and a tall man with a forked beard who was Aribia, the Minister of Finance. There was a vacant chair on Janet’s right side.

The meal seemed interminable. The food was pretentiously good, and the guests seemed to have been starved for days, for they refused none of the dishes. Sweet champagne was served, and the Olifa Tokay, but when Archie, greatly daring, asked for a whisky-and-soda, it was brought him, and to his surprise was prewar whisky. There seemed to be about twenty footmen, all in knee-breeches, mestizos who in their gaudy liveries had an air of comic opera. Archie tried his bad Spanish on his two ladies, and, having exhausted the beauties and greatness of Olifa, the distress of Europe, their families, and his visit to Veiro, was hard put to it for topics. Señora Sanfuentes received every mention of Don Alejandro with a shrug and a giggle, Madame la Présidente did not appear to have heard of him.

Suddenly there was a movement in the company. Someone had entered and taken the vacant chair by Janet’s side. The light in the room was very dim, and Archie saw only a tall figure, to greet whom the President and the other men rose and bowed. The man, whoever he was, was not in evening dress. Later, he saw Janet’s fair head inclined towards him, and from the vivacity of her manner she seemed to be finding interest in the new guest.

At last, with a marvellous course of fruits and sweetmeats, the meal came to an end. The hostess rose heavily and led the ladies from the room, and the men moved up to a semicircle round their host. Room was made for Archie next to the President, and beyond that impressive figure sat the late arrival. With a thrill he recognised the man he had seen the first day leaving the office in the Avenida, the great Señor Castor, the Gobernador of the province of the Gran Seco and the head of the Company.

Huge cigars had been provided, but the Gobernador had refused them, and, after asking his host’s permission, had lit a short briar pipe. It was some minutes before the President formally introduced them, being himself engaged in a whispered conversation, so Archie had the opportunity to study the great man’s features. Seen at close quarters they were not less impressive than in the fleeting view in the Avenida. The brow was broad and high, and had the heavy frontal development above the eyebrows which Archie had been told betokened mathematical genius. The complexion was pale, but clear and healthy; the nose short and finely formed, and springing from the forehead like the prow of a ship. The mouth was hidden by the beard, but it might be guessed that the lips were full. The eyes were the compelling feature. They were large and grey and set rather wide apart, and, though narrow-lidded, gave their possessor an air of steady, competent watchfulness. There was thought in them, and masterfulness, but no hint of passion, only a calm, all-embracing intelligence. Among the beady opaque eyes around him, this man’s were like pools of living light contrasted with scummed morasses. The face was grave and composed, but when Archie’s name was spoken it broke into a curiously pleasant smile.

The Gobernador of the Gran Seco addressed him in flawless English. He inquired after his journey, spoke of the pleasure with which he had made Janet’s acquaintance, and, on being informed by the President that Archie was a member of the British Legislature, asked one or two shrewd questions about current British politics. In five minutes’ talk across the table he seemed to take soundings of Archie’s mind, and elicited his special interests. He even detected his love of birds, and had something to say of the need for a sound ornithologist to investigate certain of the mountain areas. Archie had a feeling that this astonishing man, if he had been told that his hobby was marine zoology or Coptic antiquities, would have talked about it with the same intimate intelligence.

“You will visit us, I hope, in our little mountain kingdom. Perhaps you have heard of our Gran Seco?”

“I’ve heard about nothing else. But there’s a hitch somewhere, and I’ve been told that we can’t get passports for the present.”

The Gobernador frowned.

“What incomprehensible folly! That is a matter which shall at once be set right. I cannot think how the mistake has arisen. Your hotel? The Constitución? Permits shall be sent round to you this afternoon, and you have only to fix the day of your journey and we shall make all arrangements. What must you think of us, Sir Archibald? Believe me, we are not accustomed to treat distinguished strangers with impoliteness.”

The manner of the Gobernador was so open and friendly that Archie’s distaste for the Gran Seco and his memory of Don Luis’s talk straightway vanished. The President observed that in old days the Gran Seco had been a closed country, and that, as Sir Archibald would realise, it could not be thrown open in a day.

“I am positive Sir Archibald will understand,” said the Gobernador. “We have established, as it were, a Sheffield and a Birmingham in a rude hill-country, and we must limit our administrative problems. The sixteenth century and the twentieth can coexist only if the latter is given in small doses. Slowly they will harmonise⁠—but slowly. You have the same problem in your India. I understand that you do not permit tourists, however well accredited, even to enter some of the hill-states.”

“That’s true,” said Archie. “When I was there, they wouldn’t let me put a foot across the Nepal border.”

“Also we are a big business, with our secrets, and we cannot have agents of our rivals prowling about the place, which is, so to speak, all one workshop. But we welcome visitors who recognise our difficulties and submit to our modest rules.”

“It is the Yanquis who give trouble,” said the President darkly.

The Gobernador laughed. “Some Yanquis. I do not share his Excellency’s distrust of the whole of that great nation. The bright special correspondent on the lookout for a ‘scoop’ is the most dangerous of created things. But we welcome the reasonable journalist. You may have read a series of articles on Olifa in the Saturday Evening Post. There you had the Gran Seco accurately portrayed with our full assent. Yet on the whole it is not the journalist who perplexes us most. It is the Yanqui tripper on a circular tour. We cannot have them making drunken fools of themselves in a place where the prestige of the white man is his only security.”

“There was an American party at the hotel,” said Archie. “Noisy young devils from a yacht. I think they went up to the Gran Seco a week ago.”

The Gobernador shrugged his shoulders.

“We do not antagonise the great, we who are business men. But those young people will not be given the privileges which await you, Sir Archibald.”

Archie felt as if he were being treated with especial frankness and friendliness, and his susceptible soul was in a pleasant glow. Then the conversation became general, and he had leisure to observe the company. The Gobernador said little, the Olifero statesmen much, but it seemed to Archie that they all talked under his eye and for his approbation. After an argument there came a hush, as if they deferred to him for the ultimate word. But he scarcely spoke. He sat silent, watchful, now and then smiling tolerantly. Once only he intervened. The Minister of Finance was discoursing on some aspect of the policy of the United States, and his comments were caustic. The Gobernador looked across at Archie and spoke in English.

“Yanquis are unpopular in England?” he asked.

“No. I shouldn’t say that. Americans are popular with us, as they always have been. You see, we get the best of them. But the abstract thing, America, is unpopular. She always seems to have a rather left-handed Government.”

A spark seemed to kindle in the other’s eye.

“That is right. No section of humanity deserves blame. It is governments, not peoples, that offend.”

Then the spark died out.

As Janet and Archie walked back to the hotel they spoke of the luncheon party. They had taken the road through the old town, and were in the marketplace among the stalls.

“That man Castor doesn’t belong here,” said Archie. “He has nothing in common with those bland Oliferos. He’s nearer to that lot,” and he pointed to a group of Indians in shaggy ponchos squatted by the fountain.

“He is one of the most extraordinary people I ever met,” said Janet. “Can you guess what he talked to me about? Ossian⁠—Papa’s bête noire, you know⁠—Lord Balfour, and Marcel Proust! And I believe he could have talked just as well about clothes and Paris models.”

“I never in my life got so strong an impression of all-round competence.⁠ ⁠… I like him, too. I think he’s a good fellow. Don’t you?”

“I’m not so sure,” said Janet. “I should like to see him clean-shaven. I’ve an idea that the mouth under that beard of his might be horribly cruel.”

VI

The Gran Seco has not often appeared in the world’s literature. Francisco de Toledo first entered it in the sixteenth century, but after that there is no mention of it till Calamity Brown wandered thither from the coast in the late years of the eighteenth. That luckless and probably mendacious mariner has little good to say of it; it was the abode of devilish insects and devilish men, and, if we are to believe him, he barely escaped with his life. In the nineteenth century it was partially explored by the Spanish naturalist, Mendoza, and a Smithsonian expedition investigated its peculiar geology. Its later history is written in the reports of its copper companies, but Sylvester Perry visited it in his celebrated journey round the globe, and it has a short and comminatory chapter in his Seeing Eyes. Mr. Perry did not like the place, and in his characteristic way has likened it to a half-healed abscess, sloughed over with unwholesome skin.

Mr. Perry was partially right. The Gran Seco is not built to the scale of man and it has no care for his comforts. But it has its own magnificence. Its gate is the town of Santa Ana, in whose marketplace stands the colossal figure of the crucified Christ, first erected by Pizarro, many times destroyed by earthquakes, and always replaced, since it is the defiance of the plains to the mountains. But the gate is far from the citadel, for the avenue is a hundred miles long. The Gran Seco railway, now a double line most skilfully engineered, and wholly controlled by the Company, runs first up a long valley where only in midwinter a river flows. Then it passes over tiers of high desert, sinks into hollows where sometimes there are waters and forests, climbs again in tortuous gullies, till at length it emerges upon the great plateau; and always beside it can be traced the old highroad where once rode Toledo’s men-at-arms, and only the other day the ore from the mines jolted down-country on mule-back. But there are still many miles to go before the city of Gran Seco is reached, sunk in a shallow trough among its barren and blistered hills.

At first sight Sylvester Perry’s phrase seems to have a certain justice. Twenty years ago in the hollow there was only a wretched Indian puebla roosting among the ruins of an old city, for the copper from the distant mines was exported in its crude form. It was chiefly what is called virgin copper, with a certain amount of malachite and azurite ores. Ten years ago a new city began to rise, when the sulphuretted ores were first mined, and smelting was started. There was a furious rivalry among the companies till they were united in a great combine, and the whole mineral wealth gathered under a single direction. Process succeeded process, furnaces were multiplied till they covered many acres, wells were sunk and pumping-stations erected, great dams were built in the hills to catch the winter rains, and street after street rose in the dust. The Castor methods of calcination and electrolytic refining soon quadrupled its size. To one looking down from the surrounding ridges the place seems a hive of ugly activity: on one side a wilderness of furnaces and converters, with beyond them the compounds where the workmen are housed; on the other a modern city with high buildings and clanking electric trams. By day it is an inferno of noise and dust and vapours, with a dull metallic green the prevailing tint; by night a bivouac of devils warmed by angry fires. Mr. Perry is right. The place has the look of a gangrening sore, with for the surrounding skin the pale shaley hills. And the climate is in itself a disease. In winter the hollow is scourged and frozen, and in summer the sun’s heat, refracted from naked stone, strikes the face like a blow.

In the streets the first impression is of extreme orderliness. The traffic is methodically conducted by vigilant police in spruce uniforms⁠—for the most part of the Indian or mestizo type, with European superintendents. They are a fine body of men; too good, the spectator decides, for such an environment. The main street, the Avenida Bolivar, is broad and paved with concrete, and along it rise structures which would not disgrace New York. The Regina Hotel is larger than the Ritz, and there are others; the offices of the Company’s administration form a block scarcely smaller than Carlton House Terrace; there are clubs and many apartment houses, all built of the white local stone. But the shops are few and poor, and there are no villas in the environs, so that the impression grows that the Gran Seco is a camp, which its inhabitants regard as no continuing city. Hourly the sense of the bivouac expands in the traveller’s mind. The place is one great caravanserai for pilgrims. These busy, preoccupied people are here for the day only and tomorrow will be gone.

Other things will soon strike him. There seem to be no peasants. No neighbouring countryside obtrudes itself into this monastic industry. Every man⁠—there are few women⁠—is regimented by the Company. If the traveller is escorted to the area of the smelting and refining plant (and his passports must be very high-powered to ensure this privilege), he will see the unskilled work done by Indians and mestizos⁠—men with faces like mechanical automata⁠—but the skilled foremen are all European. He will puzzle over these Europeans, for however wide his racial knowledge, he will find it hard to guess their nationality, since their occupation seems to have smoothed out all differences into one common type with a preoccupation so intense as to be almost furtive. In the streets, too, in the clubs and hotels, he will be struck by the waxwork look of some of the well-dressed employees. They are inhumanly pale, and so concentrated upon some single purpose that their faces are expressionless and their eyes unseeing.

He will be much shepherded and supervised, and, though his permission de séjour is for only a few days, he will be apt to find these days pass heavily. If he is a mining expert, he will not be allowed to indulge his curiosity, for the Castor processes are jealously guarded. If he is the ordinary tourist, he will find no sights to repay him, and for the only amusement an occasional concert of austerely classical music, given by the Administration staff. He will probably leave the place with relief, glad to have seen the marvel, but thankful that his lines are cast among ordinary humanity. At the station, on his departure, he will be presented with a wonderful booklet, containing an eloquent speech of the Gobernador, and extracts (with illustrations) from the recent articles on the Gran Seco in the Saturday Evening Post.

The young party from the Corinna did not appear to find the time hang heavy on their hands. There were ten of them, five of each sex, with no older person to look after them, though a very moderate chaperonage seemed to be exercised by a tall girl with fine eyes and a pleasant Southern voice. That their purchase was considerable was shown by their entertainment, for they were shown everything and went everywhere; that they were unwelcome visitors, unwillingly privileged, was proved by their close oversight. Indeed they were uncomfortable guests, for they made a patch of garish colour in the drab of the Gran Seco and a discord in its orderly rhythm. The mere sight of them in the streets was enough to send the ordinary policeman to the Commissary to ask for instructions.

They were patently harmless, but deplorably silly. The Regina was turned by them into a cabaret. They danced every night in the restaurant to the disquiet of the diners, and they chaffed mercilessly an unsmiling staff. Bedroom riots seemed to be their speciality, and it was an unlucky official of the Company who had his quarters in their corridor. When they were entertained to luncheon by the Administration they asked questions so sublimely idiotic that the Vice-President, a heavy sallow man, called Rosas, of Mexican extraction, actually coloured, thinking that he was being made a fool of; and their visit to the smelting plant was attended by the same exasperating buffoonery. Presently it appeared that their idiocy was congenital and not a pose. Their jazz chatter and jazz manners were the natural expression of jazz minds, and must be endured because of the prestige of Mr. Burton Rawlinson. So “Baby” and “Bawby” and “Honey” and “Gerry” went their preposterous way, and the Gran Seco shrugged outraged shoulders and spat.

Nevertheless there were signs, had there been eyes to note them, that the yacht party was not quite what it seemed. In unguarded moments, as Janet had already observed, they could be betrayed into sanity and good breeding. At nights, too, when their ragging was over, there were odd discussions in the privacy of bedrooms. At least one of the young men would sit far into the dawn working at notes and plans.

Presently, as if they had had enough of the city, they extended their revels into the surrounding country. They procured two touring cars, and, after some trouble with the Commissary of Police, embarked on long excursions. The mines lie in three main groups⁠—the San Tomé, the Alhuema, and the Universum⁠—and they visited all three. There they seemed to find much to interest them, and the managers feverishly telephoned to headquarters for instructions. These children were imbeciles doubtless, they reported, but they were poking their noses into forbidden places. So on their return the troupe had to interview the Commissary of Police, who politely cautioned them against breaches of the regulations of the province.

Their next escapade was more serious. They packed luncheon-baskets and departed, as they said, for a visit to the caves of Marequito⁠—a permitted excursion. Then for three days they disappeared, the police were furious and anxious, and a posse was sent out in motorcars to discover their whereabouts. Six of the party⁠—five girls and a man⁠—and one of the cars were found two hundred miles off in a valley under the high peaks called the Spanish Ladies. They told a pitiful story; they had lost their road, exhausted their food, and had had to spend chilly nights on the ground. The other car had gone off the day before to find supplies, and had not returned.

The inspector of police wrung his hands. “Do you not know that in these parts the natives are dangerous? You have narrowly escaped throat-cutting.” The party was sent back to the city in disgrace, but they did not seem to feel their position. They were inordinately cheerful, and scarcely looked as if they had suffered a three days’ fast.

In spite of the police activity no word came of the other car, till two days later it returned brazenly of its own accord. The occupants told the same story⁠—a lost road, a breakdown, semi-starvation, a lucky meeting in the end with an intelligent vaquero who put them on the way to the San Tomé mine. This party did indeed show some signs of privation, and one of the four men had his arm in a sling, the result, he said, of a fall from a rock when he was trying to get a prospect.

There was a stern inquiry at the office of the Commissary, and the four were closely cross-examined about their journey. But they proved to be bewildered and obtuse. Their accounts conflicted, and when maps were placed before them they were quite unable to point out their route. “Can’t you realise that we were lost?” they repeated, “lost like a tick in a woodpile? What d’you keep worrying about? It’s no good quoting lists of your darned hills. We can’t locate them.”

After this episode the American party showed better behaviour. For the last days of their stay they confined themselves to the city, and got up a fancy-dress ball in the Regina, into which they dragged some of the unwilling residents. The young man with his arm in a sling did not appear at this function; indeed he did not leave his room, being a little fevered⁠—so he told the hotel servants⁠—by his accident, though he refused to see a doctor. This was perhaps natural, for in the small hours after his return there had been some rough surgery in his bedroom. One of his companions had cut out a pistol bullet from above his left elbow, and the tall girl, who had once nursed in a hospital, had done the bandaging.

Archie and Janet were very different visitors. It almost appeared as if they were welcome ones. A special coach was attached for them to the Santa Ana train, and this was shunted on to the Gran Seco line. It contained two compartments, in one of which they were given excellent meals, while the other was on the lines of an observation car, so filled with bridal flowers that Archie looked anxiously about for rice and slippers. They were also given a guide, a well-mannered young Olifero who unobtrusively offered information. He pointed out the objects of interest on the way to Santa Ana, and during the hour of waiting there conducted them over the cathedral, which has a famous altarpiece, and, under the great crucifix, told with pride the tale of the first Conquistadors. The long climb into the Gran Seco was enlivened by his anecdotes. He showed them the valley where Toledo’s men had been ambushed by Indians, the corner where the copper convoy had once been destroyed by a landslide, the gully which had long defied the railway engineers. At the frontier station he had managed their passes for them, and as the train crawled on to the plateau had sketched for them vivaciously the history of the mining industry.

“We can’t tip this fellow,” Archie whispered to Janet. “He’s a gentleman.” And his wife had agreed.

He saw them to their hotel, where rooms had been secured for them by the Administration. On parting, Archie and Janet warmly thanked him, and asked him his name. The young man smiled pleasantly. “That is nice of you, for I think we shall meet again. They call me Carlos Rivero.” He added, “I am a friend of Luis de Marzaniga,” and it seemed to Archie that his eyes said something confidential which he could not fathom.

The Moplahs were in the hotel, but in a somewhat chastened mood. The tall girl, whom Janet believed she had recognised, did not appear, nor did the young man in the starched linen knickerbockers, though Archie looked for him longingly. But the corybants of the Club de Residentes Extranjeros were there and greeted them with boisterous friendliness, though, somewhat to Janet’s surprise, they did not invite them to join their party.

In any case that would have been impossible, for the newcomers found a complex programme provided for their entertainment. They had no occasion to hire a car: the Administration provided one, a neat Daimler limousine which at all hours waited on their convenience. They were shown every phase of the great industry, and the day after their arrival they lunched with the Administration. The Gobernador himself appeared at the meal, an honour which, it was hinted, was almost unexampled. He apologised for the absence of the Vice-President, the same who had been made to blush by the Moplahs. “My colleague,” he said, “sends his profound apologies, but at the moment he is suffering from a slight attack of jaundice. He deeply regrets that he cannot be here to welcome you, for he has many friends in your country and in Europe. He is of Mexico, and a Mexican is like a Russian⁠—his country is so remote from the life of the world that he must needs adopt all countries. He is the true international.”

The meal was a Spartan one compared to the banquet at the President’s mansion, but the food was perfectly cooked, and, for a place in the heart of wild hills, extraordinarily varied. The company were all grave, pallid, perfectly mannered, with expressionless eyes and no gestures⁠—what Don Alejandro had called the “type Gran Seco.” There was nothing of the hustling liveliness which Archie associated with a luncheon of commercial magnates. Also all seemed to be in awe of their President, and hung on his lips. Castor talked indeed, brilliantly and continuously, but it was a monologue, and he went through a series of subjects, adorning each and then dropping it. There was none of the give-and-take of good conversation. Yet the time passed pleasantly, and when they rose from table Castor offered to show them his office.

It was on the first floor of the main building, lit by four large windows, into which travellers on the top of the tramcars could look and see the great man at his work. Here there was no seclusion or mystery. The big bright chambers gave its occupant no more privacy than an aviary gives a bird, for not only could it be looked into from the street, but at one end was a glass partition separating it inadequately from a room full of busy secretaries. There were maps and plans of the Gran Seco on the walls, a complicated mechanism of desk telephones, a bookcase full of mining reports, an immense safe, a cigar cabinet⁠—and that was all. It might have been the office of a real-estate agent in a provincial town in the United States or Canada. The contrast between Castor’s personality and his modest habitation was so startling that Janet laughed.

The Gobernador seemed to understand her feelings. “I have other lairs,” he said, smiling. “One, much grander, is in Olifa, and I have my rooms too in Paris and London. But this is my true workshop.”

He opened a door, which revealed a tiny bedroom and bathroom.

“Compact, is it not?” he said. “I need no more. I am a simple man.”

That night Archie and Janet dined in the hotel with the Financial Secretary, and afterwards went to hear Beethoven performed by a string quartet in the music-room of the Gran Seco Club. When they returned to their apartments, Archie was loud in his praises of his hosts.

“Odd, isn’t it? to find Castilian manners in business grandees! We didn’t find them at Veiro, for old Sanfuentes was just like the ordinary country gentleman at home. But these fellows here are all hidalgos. I feel noisy and rather vulgar among them. And, good Lord! what must they think of the Moplahs?

“Castor too!” he went on. “What rot it was Gedd and Wilbur making him out a mystery man! He’s an extraordinarily clever fellow, but as open as the day. A mystery man couldn’t live in a place like a cricket pavilion!”

“Did you ever read a poem called ‘How It Strikes a Contemporary’? Browning, you know.”

“No,” said Archie.

“Well, the poem is all about a tremendous mystery man⁠—the Corregidor, Browning calls him⁠—and he lived in just such a way as Mr. Castor. How does it go?⁠—

‘Poor man, he lived another kind of life
In that new stuccoed third house by the bridge,
Fresh-painted, rather smart than otherwise!
The whole street might o’erlook him as he sat
Leg crossing leg⁠—and⁠—’

I can’t remember it all, but anyhow he played cribbage every night with his housekeeper and went to bed punctually at ten.”

Their permit for the Gran Seco had specified no time-limit. For two days they explored the details of the industry, were conducted through vast laboratories, studied the latest type of furnace and converter, pored over blue prints in offices, and gave themselves vile headaches. Archie declared that the smelting works were like the Ypres Salient after a gas attack. He tried to be intelligent, but found himself gravely handicapped by his lack of all scientific knowledge. “I have had the meaning of a reverberatory furnace explained to me a dozen times,” he complained, “but I’m hanged if I can keep it in my head. And what Bessemerising is remains for me one of Allah’s secrets. It’s no good, Janet, this isn’t my pidgin. Thank God, we’re going to the Mines tomorrow. I think that should be more in my line.”

They were taken to the Mines through a sad grey country, a desert of shale and rock. “Calcined,” Archie called it, having just acquired that word, and Janet said that she supposed it must be like the landscapes in the moon. Every stream-course was bone-dry, and the big dams they passed, with the green water very low in their beds, only accentuated the desiccation. Yet, where wells had been sunk, the soil was not without fertility, and the thin grasses seemed to give a living to considerable flocks of sheep and goats. They passed many ruins⁠—not only old mine workings, but the remains of Indian villages, which suggested that at one time the Gran Seco had been a more habitable country.

At the Mines they were shown little, for there was little time. Managers were ready with sheafs of statistics, and at the Universum they lunched luxuriously. But of the miners at work they saw nothing. They returned invigorated by the keen air of the steppes, and Archie, who had caught from a ridge a glimpse of the snowy peaks of the Spanish Ladies, had had his appetite whetted for further travel. But the Administration was not encouraging. That was all Indian country⁠—policed, it was true, for it was the chief recruiting-ground of labour, but not open to ordinary travel. “We could send you there,” said an urbane secretary, “but you would have to take an escort, and you would have to submit to be treated like a schoolboy. You will understand, Sir Archibald, that this Gran Seco of ours is in parts a delicate machine, and the presence of ever so little extraneous matter might do harm.”

That evening after dinner Janet and Archie were in their sitting-room. The Regina was full of the preparations for departure of the Moplahs, who were going down-country by the night train, and their shrill cries could be heard in the corridor, since their rooms were on the same floor.

“We’re extraneous matter here,” said Archie. “What about it, Janet? They’ve given us a very good show, but I’m disillusioned about the Gran Seco. Wilbur must have been pulling my leg. The place is as humdrum as the Potteries, and just about as ugly. I should have liked to have had a shot at the high mountains, but I can see their reason for not encouraging visitors in their labour reserve. I rather like the crowd⁠—they behave well and they must be the last word in efficiency.⁠ ⁠… Confound those Moplahs! This is like living beside a hen-coop!”

Janet looked serious, and, as was her way in such a mood, she sat with her hands idle in her lap.

“Let’s get away from this place,” she said. “I hate it!”

“Why in the world⁠ ⁠… ?”

“I hate it. Those soft-spoken, solemn men have got on my nerves. I think there’s something inhuman about them. Most of the faces of the people at the smelting works and at the Mines were like masks.⁠ ⁠… And at that awful luncheon!⁠ ⁠… I believe that sometimes I saw the devil grinning out from behind them.⁠ ⁠… And in the streets. I saw one or two villainous ruffians, who should have been in rags, but were as spruce as bagmen. I felt as if I were in an orderly and well-policed Hell.⁠ ⁠… Why did they shepherd us away from the Mines, for remember we saw nothing there? Why won’t they let us go into the back country? I believe it is because they are concealing something, something so bad that the world must never know of it.”

Archie stared.

“I must say you’ve got a lively imagination,” he began, but Janet was not listening.

“Let us go away⁠—at once⁠—tomorrow morning. I should like to be going tonight.⁠ ⁠… Ring up the Administration and say we must get home in a hurry.⁠ ⁠… I think there’s something infernal about this big, noiseless machine. I want to be back at Veiro, where there are human beings. I want to be with the honest silly little Moplahs. I want something more peaceful.⁠ ⁠…”

“I should have thought that the Gran Seco was more peaceful than the Moplahs.”

“No, it isn’t, for there is death here and death is unsettling.”

“Well, we’ll go off tomorrow, if you wish it. We’re not likely to want for peace in the next few weeks. The thing is how to avoid boredom.⁠ ⁠… By the way, oughtn’t we to go downstairs and say goodbye to the Americans? They’re friendly souls.”

But Janet was in a strange mood. “You go. I don’t think I’ll come.” She still sat with her hands in her lap, looking straight before her.

But the Americans were already packed into the station omnibus, and Archie could only shout to them from the doorway, and receive in return blown kisses from the ladies and hand-waves from the men. They seemed to be waiting for a member of their party, and as Archie turned into the hall he met the laggard charging through the crowd of waiters and porters. It was the one who had not yet shown himself, and Archie realised that it must be the driver of the car in the Avenida de la Paz, the youth in the linen knickerbockers. What his present clothes were could not be guessed, since he wore a tweed ulster, but he had the same preposterous, broad-brimmed hat on his head.

To his surprise the young man, whom he had never met, made straight for him, and gave him his hand. Something passed from it, and Archie’s fist held a crumpled paper.

The next second he was gone, but not before Archie had had another shock. For this was not the youth of the Avenida de la Paz. It was Don Luis de Marzaniga, and in their moment of contact his eyes had looked into his and they had commanded silence.

Deeply mystified, Archie went upstairs with the paper pellet tight in his fingers. When his door closed behind him, he opened it. The scrap contained a scrawl in pencil in a large, irregular hand. It read: “Please be both in your sitting-room at eleven o’clock.”

He showed it to Janet.

“I said there was no mystery in the Gran Seco, but it seems I spoke too soon. I’m hanged if I can make it out. It was Luis that gave me this paper, but it was Luis pretending to be that American lad in the linen knickerbockers. You remember he was the one of the Moplahs we never saw.”

“We never saw the tall girl either. I am positive that she was Miss Dasent.” Janet looked at her wristwatch. “Eleven, the note said. A quarter of an hour to wait.”

That quarter of an hour was spent by Janet in the same contemplative immobility, while Archie tried to read, smoked two cigarettes feverishly, and occupied a few minutes in washing his hands. The bedroom opened from the sitting-room, and beyond it was the bathroom which he used as a dressing-room. He was just about to begin a third cigarette when he saw that the hands of the sham ormolu clock on the mantelpiece pointed to eleven. After that he kept his eyes on the door which led to the corridor.

But that door did not open. It was an exclamation from Janet that made him turn his head.

A waiter had appeared suddenly, entering from the bedroom. He carried a tray with three cups of maté, which he placed on the table at Janet’s elbow.

“Look here, you’ve made a mistake,” Archie said in his halting Spanish. “We gave no orders.”

The man replied in English.

“Didn’t you? All the same, you’d be the better for a cup. I’m going to have one myself. You might lock that door, Archie, and give me a cigarette.”

While Archie stared thunderstruck, Janet laughed⁠—a laugh which began as a low gurgle and ended in riotous merriment. She rose from her chair and stood before the waiter, her shoulders shaking, while she dabbed her small handkerchief on her eyes. Then, suddenly, she became grave. “You have been having a rough time, Sandy,” she said, and she laid a hand on his shoulder. He winced, and drew back.

“So-so,” he said. “That arm is still tender.⁠ ⁠… What malign fate brought the pair of you here?”

The waiter was to all appearance an ordinary mestizo, sallow-skinned, with shaggy dark hair, handsome after a fashion because of his pleasant eyes. He wore ill-fitting dress trousers, a shirt not too clean, a short alpaca jacket, and slippers rather down at heel. He smiled on Janet as he poured out the maté, and then from Archie’s case he took a cigarette.

“Yes. I want to know just how you managed it,” he continued. “Wilbur did his best to prevent you, and Luis told me he thought he had dissuaded you, and in spite of everything you bubble up. You’re an incorrigible pair!”

“But why shouldn’t we come here if we want?” Janet asked.

“Because it’s deadly danger⁠—for yourselves and for others. You go to lunch with the Administration, and the Vice-President hears of it just in time to have a touch of jaundice. You blunder into this hotel, and I can only save myself by making this assignation. You two innocents have been complicating my life.”

Enlightenment broke in on Archie. “You were the bounder in the linen bags⁠—the fellow that drove the car.”

“I was. You were within an ace of recognising me, if I hadn’t tilted my hat.”

“Then what was Luis doing, got up in your rig?”

“He took my passport. This is a country of passports, you know, much more efficient than anything we had in the war zone in France. He came into the Gran Seco by a back door, and so didn’t require one. But it was essential that mine should be used and that I should be believed to be out of the place. It was equally essential that I should remain here.”

“How did you manage your present camouflage?”

The waiter looked down with pride at his spotty shirt. “Rather successful, isn’t it? I have a bit of a graft in this line. My weeks in the Café de l’Enfer were not altogether wasted.”

He finished his maté and lit a cigarette. He looked at the two before him, Janet with her girlish windblown grace, Archie with his puzzled honesty, and he suddenly ceased to be a waiter. His brows bent, and his voice from friendly banter became the voice of authority.

“You must clear out at once,” he said. “Tomorrow morning. Do you know that you are walking gaily on a road which is mined in every yard?”

“I knew it,” said Janet. “I felt in my bones that this place was accursed.”

“You don’t know it. You cannot know just how accursed it is, and I have no time to explain. What I have to tell you is that you must go down to Olifa tomorrow morning. You will be encouraged to stay longer, but you must refuse.”

“But look here, Sandy”⁠—it was Archie who spoke⁠—“they have nothing against us. Janet and I can’t be in any danger.”

“No, but you are a source of danger to others. Myself, for example, and the Vice-President, Señor Rosas.”

“Rosas⁠—I never heard of him.”

“A very pleasant Mexican gentleman. You once knew him as Mr. Blenkiron.”

“Good Lord! But he’s dead!”

“He is officially dead. That is why it won’t do for him to meet old friends.”

“Sandy dear,” said Janet, “you mustn’t treat us like this. We’re not babies. We’ll do what you tell us, but we deserve more confidence.”

The waiter compared his Ingersoll watch with the sham ormolu clock.

“Indeed, you do, but the story would take hours, and I have only three minutes left. But I will tell you one thing. Do you remember my showing you at Laverlaw the passage in the chronicle about the Old Man of the Mountain, the King of the Assassins, who lived in the Lebanon, and doped his followers with hashish and sent them about the world to do his errands? Well, that story has a counterpart today.”

“Mr. Castor!” Janet exclaimed. “Archie liked him, but I felt that he might be a devil.”

“A devil! Perhaps. He is also a kind of saint, and he is beyond doubt a genius. You will know more about him some day.”

“But you are sending us away.⁠ ⁠… Sandy, I won’t have it. We are too old friends to be bundled off like stray dogs from a racecourse. You are in some awful pickle and we must help.”

“I am sending you away,” said the waiter gravely, “because I want your help⁠—when the time comes. There’s another woman in this business, Janet, and I want you to be with her. I want you both. I pay you the compliment of saying that I can’t do without you. You will go back to Olifa to the Hotel de la Constitución, and you will make friends with an American girl there. She is expecting you and she will give you your instructions.”

“I know,” said Janet. “She is Mr. Blenkiron’s niece⁠—a Miss Dasent. What is her Christian name?”

The waiter looked puzzled. “I’m afraid I don’t know. I never asked her.”

VII

The waiter at the Regina was an exemplary servant. He dispensed the morning meal of fruit and coffee with soft-footed alacrity. At the midday déjeuner, when it was the custom of the Company’s officials, including some of the greatest, to patronise the hotel, he had the big round table in the north window, and in a day or two had earned the approval of his fastidious clients. Miguel was his name, and presently he was addressed by it as if he had been an old feature of the establishment. Those solemn gentlemen talked little, and at their meals they did not ransack the wine-list or summon the cook, but each had his little peculiarities of taste which Miguel made it his business to remember. He was always at their elbow, smiling gravely, to anticipate their wants. In the evening the restaurant was less full, only the guests living in the hotel and a few junior officials, for it was the custom of the magnates to dine at the club. In the evening Miguel was frequently off duty in the restaurant, engaged in other branches of hotel work, and twice a week he had his time after 7 p.m. to himself.

The waiter did not spend his leisure hours in his attic bedroom, which was like an oven after the sun had beat all day on the slatted roof. Once or twice he joined his fellow-employees in a visit to the cinema or to a shabby little gaming-room where one drank cheap aguardiente and played a languid kind of poker. But generally he seemed to have business of his own, and the negro porter at the back entrance grew familiar with his figure arriving punctually on the stroke of midnight, and chaffed him heavily about an imaginary girl. It was no one’s business to keep a watch on this humble half-caste, whose blood showed so clearly in his shadowy fingernails and dull yellow skin. But if he had been followed, curious things might have been noted.⁠ ⁠…

He generally made for a new block of flats on the edge of the dry hollow which separated the smelting works from the city, and he frequently varied his route thither. The place, with its concrete stairs and whitewashed walls, was not unlike a penitentiary, but it housed many of the works engineers and foremen. He would stop at a door on the third landing, consult his watch as to the hour, wait a minute or two, and then knock, and he was instantly admitted. Thence he would emerge in half an hour, generally accompanied by someone, and always in a new guise. Sometimes he was a dapper Olifero clerk with a spruce collar and an attaché case; sometimes in rough clothes with big spectacles, so that his former half-caste air disappeared, and he might have been an engineer from Europe; sometimes a workman indistinguishable from an ordinary hand in the furnaces. He always returned to the same door about half past eleven, and issued from it once more the waiter at the Regina.

Between the hours of 7:30 and 11 p.m. the waiter seemed to have a surprising variety of duties. Occasionally he would pass the evening in one of the flats, or in a room in another block which adjoined the costing department. There he would meet silent people who slipped in one by one, and the conversation would be in low tones. Maps and papers would lie on the table, and there would be much talk of the names on certain lists, and notes would be pencilled alongside them. Sometimes there would be a colloquy of one or two, and then the waiter would do most of the talking⁠—but not in Spanish. Sometimes the meeting would be at a café in a back street, which could only be entered by devious ways, and there, over glasses of indifferent beer, the waiter would make new acquaintances. His manners were odd, for he would regard these newcomers as a sergeant regards recruits, questioning them with an air of authority. There were strange ceremonies on these occasions, so that the spectator might have thought them meetings of some demented Masonic lodge. Sometimes, too, the waiter in one of the rooms of the big block of flats would meet a figure with the scorched face of a countryman and the dust of the hills on his clothes⁠—often in the uniform of the Mines Police and once or twice dressed like a mestizo farmer. Then the talk would be hard to follow⁠—strings of uncouth names, torrents of excited description, and a perpetual recourse to maps.

But the waiter’s most curious visits⁠—and they happened only twice during his time at the Regina⁠—were to a big house behind the Administration Headquarters, which stood in what for the Gran Seco was a respectable garden. At such times the waiter became the conventional clerk, very dapper in a brown flannel suit, yellow boots, and a green satin tie with a garnet pin. He was evidently expected, for, on giving his name, he was admitted without question, and taken to a little room on the first floor which looked like the owner’s study. “Señor Garcia from the Universum”⁠—thus he was ushered in, and the occupant greeted him gruffly with “Come along, Garcia. Say, you’re late. Have you brought the figures I asked for?”⁠—followed by the injunction to the servant, “I can’t be disturbed for the next two hours, so I guess you’d better disconnect the telephone. If anyone calls, say I’m mighty busy.”

Then the occupant of the room would lock the door and pay some attention to the windows, after which he would greet the waiter like a long-lost brother. He was a big man, with a sallow face but a clear healthy eye⁠—a man who looked as if he would have put on flesh but for some specially arduous work which kept him thin. He would catch the so-called Garcia by the shoulder as if he would hug him, then he would pat his back, and produce such refreshments as are not usually offered to a junior clerk. Strangely enough, there would be no mention of the awaited figures from the Universum.

“How much longer can you stick it?” he asked on the second occasion. “You’re looking peaked.”

“I’ve another week here. Then I break for the open. I doubt if I could keep it up for more than a week, for people are asking questions. Have you squared it with old Josephs and notified the Universum people?”

The big man nodded. “But after that you’re beyond my jurisdiction. Peters in the Police is prepared for you, but it’s up to you to slip over to him without exciting comment. The cook-boy at the Universum has got to perish. Can you manage that neatly?”

“I’ll try. I’ll have to do a lot of perishing in the next fortnight, before Luis picks me up. I’m terrified of going sick, you know. The Regina hasn’t done me any good, and the Tierra Caliente isn’t exactly a health-resort.”

The other looked at him with affectionate anxiety.

“That’s too bad.⁠ ⁠… I haven’t an easy row to hoe, but yours is hell with the lid off, and the almighty vexation is that I can’t do much to help you. Just at present the game’s with you. For the love of Mike keep on your feet, sonnie. You don’t mean to go far into the Poison Country?”

“Not a yard farther than I can help. But Luis says I must be at least a couple of days there. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of myself.”

After that the conversation was conducted in low tones, as if even the locked door and the guarded window might have ears. But had that talk been overheard, one phrase would have puzzled the eavesdropper, a phrase which constantly recurred and was spoken by both with a certain hesitation, even in that secret room. It was “Los Patios de la Mañana,” which, being translated, means “The Courts of the Morning.” It might have been a mere password, or the name of some authority to which the speaker was subject, or a poetic description of a place. Most likely the last, for a map was produced⁠—an amateur map neatly drawn and coloured, inscribed not with names but with letters. It showed steep gradients, so it must have referred to some mountain district.

At their parting the Roylances were mentioned. “They’re back in Olifa,” said the big man, “and Babs is looking after them good and sure. I’m mighty relieved that Babs has got a wise lady to keep her company. You’re certain you can make use of Sir Archibald?”

“I can use him right enough,” was the answer, “if he’ll stay quiet on the ice till I want him.”

A week later the waiter Miguel was seen no more at the Regina. When the occupants of the big table in the north window inquired of M. Josephs, the proprietor, as to his absence, they were told that he had been lent to the mess at the Universum Mine.

Miguel was four days at the Universum. He had a variety of tasks, for not only did he wait at table in the big adobe mess-room, but he lent a hand in the kitchen, for he was the soul of friendliness. Indeed he carried his willingness too far, for he was found in the kitchens of the compounds, where the Indian miners were fed like pigs at troughs, and was peremptorily ordered back. He had little leisure these days, but he managed to do various things not quite within the sphere of his duties. For one thing, he became intimate with the engineering staff, which contained two Scots, one American, and three Italians, and he used to gossip with them at their table when the room emptied at the end of meals. Also he was found sometimes in their office among blue prints and specimens of ore, and on these occasions the door happened to be locked. If he was not permitted inside the compounds, he used to fossick about the mines themselves, when the shifts of sallow, hollow-eyed labourers were going up or down. Occasionally he talked to them when no overseer was at hand, and he seemed to know something of their patois, for they replied, furtively, and once or twice volubly, when no one was looking.

The cheerful inquisitiveness of the mess waiter was his undoing. For on the evening of the fourth day there was a sad accident. Through a mysterious blunder a small packet of lentonite was detonated, and a corner of the compound wall was blown down and a great crater made in the earth. For some inexplicable reason Miguel seemed to have been in the neighbourhood at the time and he was the only casualty. Fragments of his clothing were found, and a bit of a hat which he was known to be wearing, and it was assumed that his remains were dispersed among the two acres of debris. The fatality was duly reported to the Administration and to M. Josephs, and the agreeable half-caste waiter ceased to be on the register of the Gran Seco.

Next morning a certain Featherstone Peters, a captain of the Mines Police, whose station was ten miles or so from the Universum, introduced at breakfast to his troopers a new recruit, who had just arrived to report. Peters was a tough, grizzled fellow of fifty, who had fought for the Boers in the South African War, had been in the old Macedonian gendarmerie, and was believed by his friends to have done a good deal of gunrunning in Morocco. The new recruit, whose name was Black, was a sallow youngish man, who looked as if he had fever in his blood. He spoke English fluently but ungrammatically, and gave out that his father had been in the Italian Consulate at Alexandria. He was good company, and entertained the men with yarns which enthralled even that collection of hard citizens.

For the next week Black was engaged on patrols far up into the Indian country. The map shows that east of the city of Gran Seco lies the land of rolling desert hills where the copper is mined, but beyond that the traveller enters a region of deep-cut desiccated valleys⁠—a plateau, but with the contours of highlands. It is the Indian territory, whence the Mines’ labourers are drawn, a place of sparse tillage but much pasturage, a place, too, which in recent centuries has been drying up, since the wretched pueblas are often on the site of what, from the ruins, must once have been considerable cities. It is called the Tierra Caliente, for there is little shade from a merciless sun, and the stages are long from water to water. The midday heat falls like a suffocating curtain, and does not lift till night arrives with the speed of a wind from the far snows.