iii 

 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 
 TAYLOR, Bert Leston, author; b. Gosh- 
 en, Mass., Nov. 13, 1866; s. A. O. and Kath- 
 erine (White) .T. ; ed. New York City pub. 
 schs. and Coll. City of New York; m. Mans 
 field, Mass., Nov. 16, 1895, Emma Bonner. 
 Engaged in journalism until recently, now 
 on staff of Puck. Author: The Well In the 
 Wood, 1904 B6; The Log of the Water 
 Wagon (with W. C. Gibson), 1905 C35; Mon 
 sieur D'en Brochette (in collaboration), 
 1905; also booklets The Bilioustine and The 
 Book Booster, 1901 L29. Address: Cos Cob, 
 Conn.
 
 UNDER THREE FLAGS 
 
 \ J ^ 
 
 B! L.^AYLOR^AND A. T. THOITS. 
 
 CHICAGO AND NEW YORK: 
 
 RAND, McNALLY & COMPANY 
 
 MDCCCXCVI. 

 
 THE NEW YORK 
 PUBLIC LIT.' ^ 
 
 TIL)), 
 
 A PRIZE STORY 
 
 In THE CHICAGO RECORD'S series of "Stories of Mystery. 
 
 UNDER THREE FLAGS 
 
 B. L. TAYLOR AND A. T. THOITS. 
 
 (This story out of 816 competing was awarded the THIRD PRIZE in 
 THE CHICAGO RECORD'S "$30,000 to Authors" competition.) 
 
 Copyright, 1896, by B. L. Taylor and A. T. Thoits.
 
 PS 
 
 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 "OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY." 
 
 . 
 
 "No; I am not tired of life. Who could be on such a 
 day? I am weary simply of this way of living. I want 
 to get away away from this stagnant hole. It is the 
 same dull story over and over again, day after day, world 
 without end, amen!" 
 
 "Would you be a bit more contented in any other 
 spot?" 
 
 "I think so. I cannot believe that mankind in general 
 is so selfish, so hypocritical, and, worst crime of all, so 
 hopelessly stupid as it is here. The world is 25,000 
 miles in circumference. Why spend all one's days in 
 this split in the mountains?" 
 
 "But, tell me, what is your ambition, then? Have 
 you one?" 
 
 "You would smile pityingly if I told it you." 
 
 "No; I'll be as serious as as you." 
 
 "Then incline thine ear. I would I were the ruler of 
 a savage tribe, in the heart of far-away New Zealand, 
 shut in by towering mountains from the outer world.'' 
 
 "But why spend all one's days in a valley?" 
 
 "Oh, well, if you're going in for a valley, why not 
 have a good one?" 
 
 She throws herself down beside him on the grass and 
 clasps her arms about his neck. "You foolish boy; you 
 don't know what you want." 
 
 "Don't I?" He draws the glowing face to his and 
 kisses it. 
 
 67188
 
 6 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 The two are idling in a grassy nook on the slope of 
 one of Vermont's green hills, sheltered by a clump of 
 spruce from observation and the slanting rays of the sun. 
 
 There is an infinite calm in the late spring air, and 
 the golden afternoon drifts by on lazy pinions. Away 
 in the west, across the vale, the main spur of the Green 
 Mountain range awaits the last pencilings of the low- 
 descending sun. Southward Wild River sings its way 
 through buttercup and daisy flecked meadows; to the 
 north the smoke from the chimneys of Raymond blurs 
 the lines of as fair a landscape as earth can boast. 
 
 Derrick Ames pulls his hat over his eyes, stretches 
 himself on the greensward and gazes long and lovingly 
 at his companion. The fair face, browned by many ram 
 bles among the hills; the rippling hair, tumbled in con 
 fusion about mischievous and laughter-laden brown 
 eyes; the rounded arms; the slim, girlish figure, about 
 which even the coarse dress donned for mountain climb 
 ing falls in graceful lines; the dainty feet and the per 
 fectly turned ankles, make a picture for an artist. 
 
 She picked up the book which lies open upon the 
 grass and glances over its pages, dreamily. 
 
 The sun goes down in a golden haze, and still the 
 lovers tarry in their sylvan trysting-place. 
 
 "It is getting late and damp; we had better be mov 
 ing," he says, finally. 
 
 They arise and take their way across the pasture, their 
 arms clasped about each other's waist. Derrick is talk 
 ing in low, earnest tones, with an infrequent interruption 
 by his companion. 
 
 "It's no use," he exclaims, impatiently, in reply to a 
 protest on her part. "Twice I have spoken to your 
 father, with the same result. I have been refused and 
 insulted. He is selfish, overbearing " 
 
 She places one hand upon his lips. "But will you not 
 make a third trial for my sake," she pleads. 
 
 "For your sake I would do anything," he answers, 
 pressing the soft hand to his lips. "There is no time 
 like the present. Will you wait for me here?" She 
 nods. "Where will I find your father?"
 
 OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY. 7 
 
 "At the bank. I think he said he would be there all 
 the evening." 
 
 "I will return shortly, for I know what the answer 
 will be." 
 
 She watches the erect form of her lover as he strides 
 down the road leading into the village. 
 
 The shadows deepen in the valley. The opalescent 
 light that hangs over the range fades into the darkening 
 gray. The moon rises in full, round splendor and trans 
 forms the river into a silver torrent. 
 
 The clanging of the Raymond town clock, as it ham 
 mers out the hour of 8, rouses the girl. "Derrick should 
 be here soon," she murmurs. Then she clutches her 
 heart with an exclamation of pain and terror. 
 
 It is a swift, sharp spasm, that passes away as quickly 
 as it came, and which leaves the girl for several minutes 
 afterward somewhat dazed. Footsteps echo in the road. 
 
 "The result?" eagerly, anxiously queries the girl as 
 Derrick reaches her side. 
 
 He must have walked swiftly. He is breathing hard 
 and his face is pale as the moonlight. Or is it the re 
 flection of that light? 
 
 "Come away from here, for God's sake!" he exclaims 
 in a harsh, unnatural voice, half-dragging her into the 
 road. "I beg your pardon; I did not mean to be rough,'' 
 he adds, as the astonished eyes of the girl look into his. 
 "Will you come for a walk, dear?" And as she follows, 
 mechanically, wonderingly, he walks swiftly away from 
 the village. 
 
 "I am all out of breath," she protests, after a few mo 
 ments of the fierce pace he has set. And they stop to 
 rest at a spring beside the road. 
 
 "You have quarreled with father," asserts the girl, half 
 questioningly; but Derrick remains silent. 
 
 He stops suddenly, and, holding her in his arms, 
 smooths back the dark ringlets from her moist brow. 
 "Helen, darling, do not press me for an answer to-night. 
 Let us be happy in the present. God knows it may not 
 be for long." He presses a passionate kiss upon the 
 girl's unresisting and unresponsive lips, and then lifts
 
 8 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 to the moonlight a face as troubled as the tossing river 
 behind the dusky willows. As he releases her he ex 
 tends his arm toward the ball of silver that is wheeling 
 up the heavens. "See!" he cries. "The moon is up 
 and it is a glorious night. Shall we follow that pathway 
 of silver over the hills and far away?" 
 
 A loving look is her willing assent. 
 
 The witchery that the moon is said to exert o'er mor 
 tals must be more than a poet's myth. A strange peace 
 has come upon the girl. Her senses are exalted. She 
 seems to be walking on air. Nor does she now 
 break upon the silence of her companion, whose agita 
 tion has been replaced by a singular calm. 
 
 What a stillness, yet what a busy world claims the 
 woods they are crossing to-night! The crawling of a 
 beetle through the dead leaves is distinctly heard, and a 
 thousand small noises that the day never hears fill the 
 forest with a strange music. 
 
 A short distance farther and the wanderers emerge 
 into the open and pause to marvel at the picture spread 
 before them. 
 
 It is a wondrous night. Bathed in a radiance that 
 tips with silver every dew-laden spear of grass, the pas 
 ture slopes down to a highway, and the brawling of the 
 brook beside it comes to their ears as a strain of music. 
 
 Silently the lovers take their way through this fairy 
 land, clamber over the wall into the road, and continue 
 on. 
 
 "I am cold," complains the girl, with a little shiver. 
 Derrick wraps his light overcoat about her shoulders. 
 
 The striking of a town clock causes them both to 
 start. 
 
 "Where are we?" asks the girl, looking about her in 
 bewilderment. The moon passes behind a cloud. The 
 spell is over. 
 
 "Why, this is Ashfield, isn't it? There is the station, 
 and the church and the Derrick! Derrick, where have 
 we been wandering? Five miles from home and mid-
 
 OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY. 9 
 
 night! What will Louise and father say? We must 
 go home at once." 
 
 "Home," he repeats, bitterly, pointing to the north. 
 "There is no home yonder for me. Listen, Helen!" 
 He draws her to him fiercely. "If we part now it must 
 be forever. I shall never go back. 1 cannot go back! 
 Will you not come away with me somewhere any 
 where? Hark!" 
 
 The whistle of the Montreal express sounds from the 
 north. 
 
 The girl seems not to hear him. The long whistle of 
 the express again echoes through the night. 
 
 "Helen, darling!" There is a world of yearning and 
 entreaty in his voice. 
 
 She throws her arms about him and kisses him. "Yes, 
 Derrick; I will go with you to the end of the world." 
 
 The station agent regards the pair suspiciously. In 
 the dim light of the kerosene lamps of the waiting-room 
 their features are only partially discernible. 
 
 "Sorry," he says, "but this train don't stop except for 
 through passengers to New York." 
 
 "But we are going to New York," almost shouts Der 
 rick. "Quick, man!" The train has swept around the 
 curve above the village and is thundering down the 
 stretch. 
 
 "Wall, I guess I kin accommerdate ye," drawls the 
 station master. He seizes his lantern and swings it about 
 his head and No. 51 draws up panting in the station. 
 
 "Elopement, I guess," confides the station agent to 
 the conductor, as Derrick and the girl clamber aboard 
 the train. 
 
 The latter growls something about being twenty min 
 utes late out of St. Albans, swings his lantern and No. 
 51 rumbles away in the mist and moonlight.
 
 10 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE PRISONER OF WINDSOR THE TRAGEDY OF A 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 "Stanley, I have good news for you.' 1 t 
 
 "All news is alike to me, sir." 
 
 Warden Chase of the Vermont state prison regards 
 the young man before him with a kindly eye. 
 
 "Your sentence of three years has been shortened by 
 a year, as the governor has granted you an unconditional 
 pardon," he announces. 
 
 "His excellency is kind," replied the young man in a 
 voice that expresses no gratitude and may contain a 
 faint shade of irony. 
 
 He is a striking-looking young fellow, even in his 
 prison garb, his dark hair cropped close and his eyes 
 cast down in the passive manner enjoined by the prison 
 regulations. His height is about five feet ten inches 
 and his figure is rather slender and graceful. His face 
 is singularly handsome. His eyes are dark brown, al 
 most black, and the two long years of prison life have 
 dimmed but little of the fire that flashes from their depths. 
 A square jaw bespeaks a strong will. The rather hard 
 lines about the firm mouth were not there two years 
 before. He has suffered mentally since then. There 
 are too many gray hairs for a man of 28. 
 
 Warden Chase touches a bell. "Get Stanley's things," 
 he orders the attendant, who responds. 
 
 "Sit down, Stanley." The young man obeys and the 
 warden wheels about to his desk. 
 
 "I am authorized to purchase you a railroad ticket 
 to any station you may designate within reason, of 
 course," amends Mr. Chase. "Which shall it be?'' A 
 bitter smile flits across Stanley's face and he remains 
 silent. 
 
 "North, east, south or west?" questions Mr. Chase, 
 poising his pen in air.
 
 THE PRISONER OF WINDSOR. 11 
 
 "I have no home to go to," finally responds Stanley, 
 lifting his eyes for the first time since his entrance to 
 the room. 
 
 ''No home?" repeats the warden, sympathetically. 
 "But surely you must want to go somewhere. You 
 can't stay in Windsor." 
 
 Stanley is thoughtful. "Perhaps you had better make 
 the station Raymond," he decides, and he meets squarely 
 the surprised and questioning look of the warden. 
 
 "But that is the place you were sent from." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "It is not your home? No; I believe you just stated 
 that you had no home." 
 
 "I have none." 
 
 "And you wish to revisit the scene of your your 
 trouble?" 
 
 Stanley's gaze wanders to the open window and across 
 the valley. 
 
 "Well, it's your own affair," says the warden, turning 
 to his desk. "The fare to Raymond is $2.50. I am also 
 authorized to give you $5 cash, to which I have added 
 $10. You have assisted me about the books of the 
 institution and have been in every respect a model pris 
 oner. In fact," supplements Mr. Chase, with a smile, 
 "under different circumstances I should be sorry to part 
 with you." 
 
 "Thank you," acknowledges Stanley, in the same im 
 passive tones. 
 
 "And now, my boy," counsels the warden, laying one 
 hand kindly on the young man's shoulder, "try to make 
 your future life such that you will never be compelled to 
 see the inside of another house of this kind. I am 
 something of a judge of character. I am confident that 
 you have the making of a man in you. Here are your 
 things," as the attendant arrives with Stanley's effects. 
 
 Mr. Chase resumes his writing and Stanley withdraws. 
 Once within the familiar cell, which is soon to know him 
 no more, his whole mood changes. 
 
 "Free!" he breathes, exultingly, raising his clasped 
 hands to heaven. "What matter it if my freedom be of
 
 12 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 a few days only, of a few hours? It will be enough for 
 my purpose. Heavens! Two years in this hole, caged 
 like a wild beast, the companion of worse than beasts 
 a life wrecked at 28. But I'll be revenged! As surely 
 as there is a heaven above me, I'll be repaid for my 
 months of misery. An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a 
 tooth!" 
 
 He throws his prison suit from him with loathing. 
 Then he sinks back into his apathy and the simple toilet 
 is completed in silence. 
 
 A suit of light gray, of stylish cut, a pair of well-made 
 boots, a neglige shirt and a straw hat, make considerable 
 change in his appearance. He smiles faintly as he dons 
 them. 
 
 He ties his personal effects in a small package. They 
 are few half a dozen letters, all with long-ago post 
 marks, a couple of photographs, and a small volume of 
 Shakespeare given him by the warden, who is an admirer 
 of Avon's bard. 
 
 "Off?" asks Mr. Chase, as he shakes hands. "Well, 
 you look about the same as when I received you. A 
 little older, perhaps" surveying him critically "and 
 minus what I remember to have been a handsome mus 
 tache. Good-by, my boy, and good luck. And, I say/' 
 as Stanley strides toward the door, "take my advice and 
 the afternoon train for New York. Get some honest 
 employment and make a name for yourself. You've got 
 the right stuff in you. By the way, do you know what 
 day it is?" 
 
 "I have not followed the calendar with reference to 
 any particular days." 
 
 "The 3Oth day of May Memorial day," says Mr. 
 Chase. 
 
 "It will be a memorial day for me," responds Stanley. 
 "Good-by, Mr. Chase, and thank you for your many 
 kindnesses." 
 
 "I'm rather sorry to have him go," soliloquizes the 
 warden, as his late charge walks slowly away from the 
 institution. "Bright fellow, but peculiar very peculiar." 
 
 Stanley proceeds leisurely along the road leading to
 
 THE PRISONER OF WINDSOR. 13 
 
 the station. His eyes are bent down, and he seemingly 
 takes no note of the glories of the May day, of the 
 throbbings of the busy life about him. A procession 
 of Grand Army men, headed by a brass band that makes 
 music more mournful than the occasion seems to call 
 for, passes by on the dusty highway. 
 
 "Homage for the dead; contumely for the living," he 
 murmurs, bitterly. 
 
 The train for the north leaves at 4:30. Stanley spends 
 the time between in making some small purchases at 
 the village. 
 
 "At what hour do we arrive at Raymond?" he asks 
 the conductor, as the train pulls out. 
 
 "Seven forty-five, if we are on time." 
 
 "Thank you," returns the young man. He draws his 
 hat over his eyes, and turns his face to the window. 
 
 At 7:45 o'clock in the evening Sarah, the pretty house 
 maid at the residence of Cyrus Felton, answers a sharp 
 ring at the door bell. In the semi-darkness of the vine- 
 shaded porch she distinguishes only the outlines of a 
 man who stands well back from the door. The gas has 
 not yet been lighted in the hall. 
 
 "Is Mr. Felton at home?" inquires the visitor. 
 
 "The young or the old Mr. Felton?" 
 
 "The young or the old?" repeats the man to himself. 
 
 Sarah twists the door-knob impatiently. "Well?" she 
 says. 
 
 "I beg your pardon; I was not aware that there were 
 two Mr. Feltons. I believe the elder is the person I wish 
 to see. 
 
 "He is not at home." 
 
 "He is in town?" 
 
 "Oh, yes. He went down-street about 7 o'clock, but 
 we expect him back before long." 
 
 "Would he be likely to be at his office?" 
 
 Sarah does not know. Mr. Felton rarely goes to the 
 office evenings. Still, he may be there. 
 
 "And the office is where?"
 
 14 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "In the bank block." Sarah peers out at her ques 
 tioner, but, with a "thank you," he has already stepped 
 from the porch. As he strides away in the dusk and the 
 house door slams behind him, a second figure leaves 
 the shadow of the trellis, moves across the lawn and 
 pauses at the gate. 
 
 "In the v bank building," he muses. "One visitor ahead 
 of me. Well, there is no need of my hurrying/' and he 
 saunters toward the village, the electric lamps of which 
 have begun to flash. 
 
 At 8:05, as Sarah afterwards remembers, Cyrus Fel- 
 ton arrives home. Sarah comes into the hall to receive 
 him. 
 
 "A gentleman called to see you, sir, about ten min 
 utes ago. Did you meet him on your way?" 
 
 "Probably not. I have been over to Mr. Good- 
 enough's. Did he leave any name?" 
 
 "No, sir. Oh, and here is a letter that a boy brought 
 a little while ago." Sarah produces a note from the hall 
 table and disappears upstairs. 
 
 Mr. Felton opens the note, glances at its contents 
 and utters an exclamation of impatience. He crumples 
 the paper in his hand, seizes his hat and hurries from 
 the house and down the street. 
 
 In the brightly lighted room of Prof. George Black, 
 directly over the quarters of the Raymond National Bank, 
 a party of young men are whiling away a few pleasant 
 hours. The professor is lounging in an easy-chair, his 
 feet in another, and is lost in a "meditation" for violin, to 
 which Ed Knapp is furnishing a piano accompaniment. 
 Suddenly the professor rests his violin across his knees. 
 
 "Hark!" he exclaims and bends his head toward the 
 open window. "Wasn't that a shot downstairs?" 
 
 "Probably," assents one of the group. "The boys in 
 the bank have been plugging water rats in the river all 
 the afternoon." 
 
 "But it's too dark to shoot rats." 
 
 "Oh, one can aim pretty straight by electric light. Go 
 ahead with your fiddling, George. Get away from that 
 piano, Knapp, and let the professor give us the cavatina.
 
 THE PRISONER OP WINDSOR. 16 
 
 That's my favorite, and your accompaniment would ruin 
 it. Let 'er go, professor." 
 
 As the strains of the Raff cavatina die away, a man 
 comes out of the entrance of the Raymond National 
 Bank. He glances swiftly up, then down the street. Then 
 he crosses the road in the shadow of a tall building and 
 hurries toward the station. 
 
 "There is no train, north or south, before 1 1 :5O," says 
 the telegraph operator, in response to a query at the win 
 dow. He is clicking off a message and does not turn 
 his head. His questioner vanishes. 
 
 "Jim, Mr. Felton wants to see you,'' the clerk of the 
 Raymond Hotel informs the sheriff of Mansfield County, 
 who is playing cards in a room off the office. Sheriff 
 Wilson is a man with a game leg, a war record, and a 
 wild mania for the diversion of sancho pedro. When he 
 sits in for an evening of that fascinating pastime he dis 
 likes to be disturbed. 
 
 "What's he want?" he asks absent-mindedly, for he 
 has only two more points to make to win the game. 
 
 "Dunno. He seems to be worked up about some 
 thing." 
 
 "High, low, pede!" announces the sheriff triumph 
 antly. "Gentlemen, make mine a cigar." He throws his 
 cards down and goes out into the office. Cyrus Felton 
 is pacing up and down excitedly. He grasps the offi 
 cer by the arm and half drags him from the hotel. When 
 they are out of hearing of the loungers he exclaims, 
 in a voice that trembles with every syllable: 
 
 "Mr. Wilson, a fearful crime has been committed. Mr. 
 Hathaway has been murdered!" 
 
 "Murdered !" The sheriff's excitement transcends that 
 of his companion, who is making a desperate effort to 
 regain his composure. 
 
 "He is at the bank. I discovered him only a few 
 moments ago. Come, see for yourself." 
 
 They soon reach the bank, which is only a stone's 
 throw from the hotel. After passing the 'threshold of
 
 16 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 the cashier's office in the rear of the banking-room the 
 two men stop and look silently upon the grewsome 
 sight before them. 
 
 Lying upon the floor, one arm extended toward and 
 almost touching the wide-open doors of the vault, is 
 the body of Cashier Roger Hathaway. His life has 
 ebbed in the crimson pool that stains the polished 
 floor. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 JACK ASHLEY, JOURNALIST. 
 
 A loud pounding on the door of his room in the 
 tavern at South Ashfield awakens Mr. Jack Ashley from 
 a dream of piscatorial conquest. 
 
 "Four o'clock!'' announces the disturber of his slum 
 bers, with a parting thump. Ashley rolls out of bed and 
 plunges his face into a brimming bowl of spring water. 
 
 It is early dawn. A cool breeze, laden with the scent 
 of apple blossoms, drifts through the window. 
 
 "God made the country and man made the town," 
 quotes the young man, as he descends to the hotel office. 
 
 "Ain't used to gittin' up at this hour, be ye?" grins the 
 proprietary genius of the tavern. 
 
 "The habit, worthy host, has not fastened upon me 
 seriously. This is usually my hour for going to bed. 
 Hast aught to eat?" 
 
 "Breakfas' all ready," with a nod toward what is 
 known as the dining-room. 
 
 Ashley shudders as he gazes at the spread. It is the 
 usual Vermont breakfast weak coffee, two kinds of 
 pie on one plate, and a tier of doughnuts. 
 
 "Gad! This country is a howling wilderness of pie!" 
 he mutters, surveying the repast in comical despair. "And 
 to flash it on a man at 4 a. m.! It is simply barbarous!" 
 
 During his short vacation sojourn Mr. Ashley's epi 
 curean tastes have suffered a number of distinct shocks. 
 But the ozone of the Green Mountains has contributed
 
 JACK ASHLEY, JOURNALIST. 17 
 
 toward the generation of an appetite that needs little 
 tempting to expend its energies. He makes a hearty 
 breakfast on this particular morning, drowns the mem 
 ories of the menu in a bowl of milk, and announces 
 to Landlord Howe that he is ready to be directed to the 
 best trout brook in central Vermont. 
 
 Mr. Howe surveys the eight-ounce bamboo* with mild 
 disdain. "Them fancy rigs ain't much good on our 
 brooks," he declares. "Ketch more with a 75-cent rod." 
 
 "I am rather inclined to agree with you on that point, 
 most genial boniface; but it's the only rod I happen 
 to have with me, and. I expect to return with some 
 fish unless the myriad denizens of the brook which you 
 enthusiastically described last night exist only in your 
 imagination. By the way, what do you think of the 
 bait?" passing over a flask. 
 
 Mr. Howe's faded blue eyes moisten and a kindly smile 
 plays over a countenance browned by many summers in 
 the hay field. 
 
 "Didn't buy that in Vermont," he ventures. 
 
 "Hardly. I'm not lined with asbestos." 
 
 The landlord grins. It is a habit he has. 
 
 "I keeps a little suthin' on hand myself," he confides 
 in a cautious undertone, although only the cattle are 
 listening. "But fact is, there ain't no use er keepin' 
 better'n dollar'n a half a gallon liquor. The boys want 
 suthin' that'll scratch when it goes down. Now that, I 
 opine," with an affectionate glance at the flask which 
 Ashley files away for future reference, "must a cost nigh 
 outer $3 a gallon." 
 
 "As much as that," smiles Ashley. "That, most ap 
 preciative of bonifaces, "is the best whisky to be found 
 on Fulton street, New York. Well, I must be 'driving 
 along.' Where's this wonderful brook of yours?" 
 
 "Follow that road round through the barnyard and 
 'cross the basin to the woods. Good fishin' for four 
 miles. And mind," as Ashley saunters away, "don't bring 
 back any trouts that ain't six inches long, or the fish 
 warden will light on ye."
 
 18 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "Thanks. If I should run across the warden " and 
 
 Ashley holds up the flask. 
 
 "That'd fetch him, I reckon," chuckles Mr. Howe. 
 Ashley vaults over the bars and strides across the 
 meadows. 
 
 Ashley is in high feather. "This air rather discounts 
 an absinthe frappe for stimulative purposes," he solilo 
 quizes. "Ah, here's the wood, there's the brook, and 
 if I mistake not, yonder pool hides a whopper just ach 
 ing for a go at the early worm." But it doesn't and Ash 
 ley enters the forest. 
 
 The farther he plunges into the spice-laden wilder 
 ness the more is he enchanted with his surroundings. 
 Picture a cleft in the mountain whose sides drop almost 
 sheer to a gorge barely wide enough to accommodate a 
 wood road and a brook that parallels and often en 
 croaches upon it. Tall pines interlace and shut out the 
 direct rays of the sun and every now and then a cascade 
 comes tumbling somewhere aloft and plunges into a 
 broad, pebble-lined basin. 
 
 As Ashley sits by one of these pools, his wading boots 
 plunged deep in the crystal liquid, and pulls lazily on a 
 briar pipe, the reader is offered the opportunity of be 
 coming better acquainted with him. 
 
 He is a prepossessing young fellow of something like 
 27, medium height and rather well built. Blue eyes and 
 an aggressive nose, on which gold-bowed eyeglasses are 
 airily perched, are characteristics of a face which has 
 always been a passport for its owner into all society 
 worth cultivating. A well-shaped head is adorned with 
 a profusion of blond curls, supplemented by a mustache 
 of silken texture and golden hue, which its possessor 
 is fond of twisting when he is in a blithesome humor, 
 which is often, and of tugging at savagely when in a re 
 flective mood, which is infrequent. 
 
 Ashley is noted among his friends for chronic good 
 humor and unbounded confidence in his own abilities. 
 He is one of the brightest all-round writers on the New 
 York Hemisphere, and he knows it. The best of it is, 
 City Editor Ricker also knows it. All the office sings
 
 JACK ASHLEY, JOURNALIST. 19 
 
 of his exploits and "beats" and does their author rever 
 ence. Jack always calls himself a newspaper man. That 
 is the sensible title. Yet he might wear the name of 
 journalist much more worthily. 
 
 Ashley is in Vermont for his health. Five years of 
 continuous hustling on a big New York daily has neces 
 sitated a breathing spell. He was telling Mr. Ricker that 
 his "wheels were all run down and needed repairing," 
 and that he believed he would take his vacation early 
 this year. 
 
 "I'll tell you where you want to go/' volunteered the 
 city editor, who was "raised" among the Green Moun 
 tains and served his apprenticeship gathering locals on 
 a Burlington weekly. 
 
 "All right; let's have it." 
 
 "Take three weeks off and go up into Vermont." 
 
 "Vermont Vermont where's Vermont? O, yes, that 
 green daub on the map of New England. Railroad run 
 through there?" 
 
 "Now, see here, Jack," retorted Ricker, "you're not 
 so confoundedly ignorant as you imply. That's the 
 trouble with you New Yorkers who were born and bred 
 here. You consider everything above the Harlem River 
 a jay community. You're a sight more provincial than 
 half the inhabitants of rural New England." 
 
 Jack laughed. "Come to think of it, you hailed from 
 there." 
 
 "Yes, and it's a mighty good State to hail from. Now, 
 you run up to Raymond it's a little town about in the 
 Y of the Green Mountain range. You'll not have Broad 
 way, with its theaters, and restaurants, and bars, but 
 you'll get a big room, with a clean, airy bed to sleep 
 in none of your narrow hall-chamber cots and good, 
 plain, wholesome food to eat. Those necessities of life 
 which Vermont does not supply, good tobacco and good 
 whisky, you can take with you. You'll come back feeling 
 like a righting cock." And before his chief finished paint 
 ing the attractions of the Green Mountain State, with 
 incidental references to John Stark and Ethan Allen,
 
 20 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 Ashley was willing to compromise and two days later 
 found him en route for Raymond. 
 
 Jack fishes the brook as he does everything else 
 without any waste of mental or physical exertion. 
 
 Landlord Howe did not deceive him. It is an excel 
 lent trout brook, and by the time the sun is well up 
 he has acquired a well-filled creel. He is sauntering 
 along to what he has decided shall be the last pool, when, 
 as he turns a bend in the road, he runs upon a man 
 lying beside the path, with one arm shading his face and 
 clutching in the other hand a package. 
 
 "Hello!" sings out Ashley, stopping short in surprise. 
 The man arises and passes his hand over his eyes in 
 bewilderment. 
 
 "Off the main road, aren't you?" queries Ashley. The 
 stranger makes no reply. He bestows upon Ashley a 
 single searching glance and hurries down the road in the 
 direction of the village. 
 
 "He'll be likely to know me again," is Jack's com 
 ment. "Gad! What eyes! They went through me like 
 a stiletto. What the deuce is he prowling around here 
 for at this time o' day? He isn't a fisherman and he 
 can't be farming it with those store clothes on. Well, 
 here goes for the last trout." 
 
 The last trout is not forthcoming, however, so the 
 fisherman unjoints his rod, reloads and fires his pipe and 
 strolls slowly back to the hotel. Landlord Howe sees 
 him as he comes swinging across the basin and waits 
 with some impatience until the young man gets within 
 hailing distance, when he informs him dramatically: 
 
 "Big murder at Raymond last night." 
 
 "How big?" asks Ashley, with lazy interest Murders 
 are frequent episodes in his line of business. 
 
 Well, it is the largest affair that Mr. Howe has known 
 of "round these parts since dad was a kid." Roger 
 Hathaway, cashier of the Raymond National bank, has 
 been found murdered and the bank robbed of a large 
 sum of money, and there is no clew to the murderer. 
 The details of the tragedy have come over the telephone
 
 JACK ASHLEY, JOURNALIST. 21 
 
 wires early this morning, and the whole county is in a 
 fever of excitement. 
 
 "No clew?" muses Ashley, and his interest in the affair 
 grows. Then he thinks of the man he encountered on 
 the brook an hour ago. "Seen any strangers around 
 here?" he inquires of Mr. Howe. 
 
 "No one 'cept you/' replies that worthy, contributing 
 a broad grin. 
 
 "Oh, but I can prove an alibi/' laughs Jack. "I came 
 down from Raymond on the early evening train, and 
 everyone was alive in the town then, I guess. Are the 
 police of this village on the lookout?" 
 
 "Well, rather. The local deputy sheriff is on the alert 
 as never before in his life." 
 
 "It is not impossible that my early morning friend on 
 the brook was mixed up in last night's affair," thinks 
 Ashley. But he says nothing of the meeting. What is 
 the use? If the unknown was fleeing he must be pretty 
 well into the next county by this time. But in what di 
 rection?" 
 
 The Raymond murder is the one topic of the day at 
 South Ashfield. The villagers are gathered in force 
 about the hotel veranda and Ashley fancies that they 
 regard him a trifle askance as he hunts up a chair and 
 kills an hour while waiting for the up-train, in listening 
 to the rural persiflage of the group and the ingenious 
 theories of the local oracle. 
 
 "At what time did the killing occur?" he inquires of 
 one of the loungers. Somewhere around 8 o'clock the 
 night before, he is informed. 
 
 "And no clew to the murderer/' he meditates. "Now, 
 if this was New York I'd take hold of the affair and work 
 it for all it was worth." 
 
 He little dreams what effect the "affair" is to have on 
 his future. Yet as the train bears him to Raymond the 
 instinct of the newspaper man tells him that it is a cast 
 possessing phases of peculiar interest. And he is not 
 wholly unprepared for the telegram that is thrust into his 
 hands when he leaves the train. 
 
 "One of the disadvantages of telling your paper where
 
 22 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 you intend spending your vacation," he remarks as he 
 glances at the dispatch. Then to the telegraph operator: 
 "I'll have a story for you after supper." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 THE STORY OF A CRIME. 
 
 The following dispatch appeared in the columns of the 
 New York Hemisphere, under the usual sensational head 
 lines : 
 
 "Raymond, Vt, May 31. This quiet town among the 
 Green Mountains had cause indeed to mourn upon this 
 year's occurrence of the nation's Memorial Day. Last 
 evening, at the close of the most general observance of 
 the solemn holiday yet undertaken in Raymond, the com 
 munity was horror-stricken by the discovery of the foul 
 est crime ever committed within the limits of the state. 
 
 "Roger Hathaway, cashier of the Raymond National 
 Bank and treasurer of the Wild River Savings Bank, 
 was found murdered at the entrance of the joint vault 
 of the two institutions, which had been rifled of money 
 and securities aggregating, it is thought, not less than 
 $75,000. The crime had apparently been most carefully 
 planned and evidenced not only thorough familiarity 
 with the town and the interior arrangements of the 
 banks, but also the possession of the fact that the national 
 bank had on hand at the time an unusual amount of 
 ready money. The position of the murdered cashier and 
 the conditions of the rooms indicated also that the 
 official had met his death while endeavoring to protect 
 the funds entrusted to his care, his lifeless body, in fact, 
 barring the entrance to the rifled vault, a mute witness 
 to his faithfulness even unto death. 
 
 "The Raymond National and Wild River Savings 
 Banks occupy commodious quarters on the ground floor 
 of Bank Block, a three-story brick structure on Main
 
 THE STORY OF A CRIME. 23 
 
 Street, the principal business thoroughfare of the town. 
 The banking rooms are in the northern portion of the 
 block, occupying the entire depth of the building, the 
 only entrance being from Main Street. The north wall 
 of the block is parallel with a tributary of the Wild River, 
 which joins that stream, about 300 yards distant. The 
 interiors of the banking-rooms are plainly but conven 
 iently arranged. A steel wire cage extends east and west, 
 separating the officials of the institutions from the public, 
 with the customary counter and two windows for the 
 savings and national bank, respectively. At the rear 
 of the room is the private office of the cashier, separated 
 from the main room in part by the vault, an old-fashioned 
 brick affair, built into the partition in such a manner as 
 to be partly in both rooms. The iron doors to the vault 
 open into the cashier's private office, although originally 
 designed to be entirely within the main office. Some 
 years prior the office of the cashier was enlarged to ac 
 commodate the meetings of the directors, and the parti 
 tion was moved east, bringing the major portion of the 
 vault within the enlarged room. Two doors communicate 
 with the cashier's room, one opening from the public 
 office, the other from the interior of the main banking- 
 room. Two large windows, looking respectively west 
 and north, afford light for the cashier's office. Both 
 these windows are heavily barred, as indeed are the two 
 windows on the north side of the main office. A dark 
 closet, four by six feet, in the southwest corner of the 
 cashier's room, serves in part as a storage-room for old 
 ledgers, account-books and supplies, and as a wardrobe 
 for employes. 
 
 "It was in the cashier's room that the tragedy that has 
 so sadly marred the evening of Memorial Day took place, 
 that witnessed the awful struggle between the assassin 
 and the white-haired custodian of the bank's funds. The 
 details of that struggle may never be known, but the 
 circumstances tell plainly that Cashier Hathaway either 
 surprised the assassin in the dark closet, where he had 
 perhaps concealed himself to await an opportunity to 
 work upon the combination of the safe, or had himself
 
 24 UNDER THREE FLAGS 
 
 been surprised while about to close the door of the 
 vault. 
 
 "The crime was committed in the vicinity of 8 p. m., 
 and its early discovery within less than half an hour 
 thereafter, indeed singularly enough was due to a letter 
 which the murdered cashier had previously sent to the 
 president of the bank, requesting his immediate presence 
 to confer on a business matter. The president, the Hon. 
 Cyrus Felton, upon returning to his residence shortly 
 after 8 o'clock, found a note from Cashier Hathaway 
 asking him to call at the bank at once. The note had 
 been left by a messenger, the servant stated, about fifteen 
 minutes before. Mr. Felton hastily repaired to the bank, 
 about ten minutes' walk. He found J:he outer door ajar, 
 but the door to the cashier's private office was locked. 
 This was not unusual, and, presuming that the cashier 
 was busy within, Mr. Felton used his own key and 
 opened the door without knocking. Then the awful dis 
 covery of the murder was made. 
 
 "Cashier Hathaway lay face downward in front of the 
 open safe door, his right arm partially drawn up beneath 
 the body and his heavy oaken desk chair overturned 
 near by. His first thought being that the cashier had 
 fallen in a shock, Mr. Felton hastened to raise the re 
 cumbent form. As he turned the body over, the soft 
 rays from the argand lamp on the cashier's desk revealed 
 an ominous pool upon the polished floor, even now 
 augmented by the slight moving of the body. Roger 
 Hathaway lay weltering in his own blood, slowly oozing 
 from a bullet hole directly over the heart. 
 
 "It was several moments before Mr. Felton could pull 
 himself together to take cognizance of the circumstances. 
 He then noted the unmistakable evidences of a desperate 
 struggle. As stated, the cashier's own chair lay over 
 turned near the body; one of the side drawers in the 
 desk was partially drawn out, and the orderly row of 
 directors' chairs were now disarranged as if a heavy body 
 had been flung violently against them. The door of the 
 dark closet was wide open and a lot of old ledgers that 
 had been piled upon its floor were toppled over into the
 
 THE STORY OF A CRIME. 25 
 
 room. The doors of the safe were open, and a glance 
 within revealed the principal money drawer half-with 
 drawn, and empty save of two canvas bags of specie and 
 nickels; a goodly bunch of keys with chain attached 
 hanging in the lock. The story was told. Cashier Hatha 
 way had been murdered and the bank robbed. 
 
 "Mr. Felton immediately notified Sheriff Wilson, and 
 the legal machinery of the town was at once set in 
 motion to encompass the capture of the murderer and 
 robber. It was thought that with the short start ob 
 tained the feat would be a comparatively easy matter. 
 
 "Nearly $50,000 in available cash, and half as much 
 more in securities, part negotiable and part worthless to 
 the robber, were secured by the murderer. The presence 
 of this unusually large amount of ready money was due 
 to the fact that $50,000 of Mansfield County bonds ma 
 tured to-day and were payable at the Raymond National 
 Bank. 
 
 "The presence of Cashier Hathaway in the bank at that 
 particular time was by the merest chance, and the con 
 clusion is therefore irresistible that the murder was not 
 premeditated. The savings and national banks, though 
 both among the most prosperous and stable fiduciary 
 institutions in the state, are comparatively small, the 
 capital of the national bank being $50,000 and employing 
 but a small clerical force. The latter comprise, besides 
 the cashier, the teller of the bank, Frederick Sibley; the 
 bookkeeper of the savings bank, Ralph Felton, son of the 
 president, and one clerk, a youth named Edward Max 
 well. For the last two weeks the teller, Mr. Sibley, has 
 been confined to his residence by illness, and consider 
 able extra labor has necessarily devolved upon the 
 cashier. Memorial Day, a legal holiday in Vermont, the 
 bank had been closed, and on returning from the services 
 at the cemetery, in which he had taken part for Mr. 
 Hathaway had been a gallant soldier in the famous Ver 
 mont brigade the cashier had dropped into the bank, 
 apparently to complete some work upon the books. It 
 is possible that the robber the opinion is general that 
 there was but one engaged in the enterprise had pre-
 
 26 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 viously entered the bank, and upon the entrance of the 
 cashier concealed himself in the only place available, 
 the dark closet. He may have remained an unobserved 
 spectator of the cashier through the partly opened door 
 and as the latter finished his work and prepared to close 
 the safe, the robber may have concluded, by a coup de 
 main, to save himself the trouble of attempting to solve 
 the combination, and, noiselessly stepping from the 
 closet, have sought to surprise the cashier. On this 
 hypothesis the presumption is that Mr. Hathaway became 
 aware of his danger, and turning sought to ward off the 
 blow, when the struggle ensued that was ended with his 
 death. Or the cashier may have discovered the presence 
 of some intruder in the closet, and seizing his revolver, 
 which he kept in a drawer of his desk, he may have 
 approached the closet, when the robber sprung upon him 
 and, wresting the weapon from the feeble hands of the 
 old banker, turned it against the latter's breast. 
 
 "The fatal shot was fired at so close range that the 
 clothing of the victim was scorched by the explosion. 
 No weapon was found in the room; the revolver which, 
 as noted above, the cashier was known to have kept in 
 his desk, is also missing. The wound was made, the 
 physicians state, by a 32-caliber bullet, which penetrated 
 the breast directly above the vital organ, and death must 
 have been instantaneous. The shot was fired at about 
 8 o'clock. Prof. Black, who occupies rooms directly over 
 the cashier's office, heard a shot at that time, as did sev 
 eral friends who were in the room with him, but they 
 attributed it to boys shooting water rats from the bridge 
 beneath the professor's window. 
 
 "Thus far the tragedy possesses few extraordinary fea 
 tures. But what has become of the murderer? Ray 
 mond is not so populous that the presence of a stranger 
 would be unnoted. Yet no one has volunteered informa 
 tion of any suspicious characters in town. Within fifty 
 minutes of the commission of a daring crime the per 
 petrator disappeared, leaving not a trace for the local 
 sleuths. The last seen of Mr. Hathaway alive, so far as 
 known, was about 7:45 o'clock, when he stepped to the
 
 THE STORY OF A CRIME. 27 
 
 door of the bank, and, calling a boy who was standing 
 on the bridge, throwing stones into the stream, asked him 
 to take a letter to President Felton at his house. Half an 
 hour later he was found shot through the heart in his 
 office. 
 
 "President Felton was seen by the Hemisphere repre 
 sentative to-day, and told the story of the finding of the 
 dead cashier substantially as outlined above. He was 
 terribly affected by the tragedy and could hardly be in 
 duced to converse regarding it. 
 
 "Roger Hathaway was one of the best known and 
 highly esteemed residents of Raymond. He was 63 years 
 of age and had been identified with the national and 
 savings banks ever since their organization, the last 
 twenty years as cashier and treasurer respectively. He 
 was prominent in Grand Army and church circles; a 
 deacon in the Congregational Church. Of a severely 
 stern but eminently just disposition, it was not known 
 that Deacon Hathaway possessed an enemy in the world. 
 He lived in a plain but substantial mansion, the family 
 homestead of several generations of Hathaways, with his 
 two daughters, his wife having died some ten years before. 
 He was one of the founders of both the savings and 
 national banks, which under his management had pros 
 pered to an unusual degree and stood high among the 
 banking institutions of the state. He had held several 
 important positions in the gift of his townspeople, and as 
 town treasurer his rugged honesty, economic conserva 
 tism and strict observance of the letter of the law in the 
 handling of the town's funds, had earned for him the 
 sobriquet of 'watchdog of the treasury,' a title which he 
 sealed even with his life blood. 
 
 "Up to a late hour this evening no clew to the mur 
 derer has been discovered. The theory is held by the 
 local police that the deed was clearly that of an expert 
 bank robber, and they are inclined to think that he may 
 be a member of the same gang that has broken into 
 numerous postoffices in New Hampshire and Vermont 
 within the last few months. The officials cite the fact that 
 the local papers had advertised that $50,000 in Mansfield
 
 28 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 County bonds were to be redeemed at the Raymond 
 National Bank upon this particular date, and the natural 
 presumption that the bank would have on hand a large 
 amount of currency, with the knowledge that yesterday 
 was a holiday, when the bank would be closed and afford 
 an unusual opportunity to work upon the safe, would 
 form a strong inducement to a daring burglar." 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE. 
 
 (By telegraph to tne ISlew York Hemisphere.) 
 "Raymond, Vt, June I. A startling sequel to the 
 murder of Cashier Hathaway and the robbery of the Ray 
 mond National and Wild River Savings Banks was de 
 veloped to-day in the mysterious disappearance of Miss 
 Helen Hathaway, the younger daughter of the dead 
 banker, and Derrick Ames, a well-known young man 
 of Raymond. 
 
 "Ames is about 27 years old, and occupied a respon 
 sible and lucrative position in the local office of the Ver 
 mont Life Insurance Company. While not possessing a 
 positive reputation for evil, Ames was regarded askance 
 by the more staid and conservative residents of the town, 
 and his position socially was somewhat anomalous. He 
 had resided in Raymond some five or six years and was 
 known to have been a warm admirer of Miss Hathaway. 
 But it was equally apparent to the gossip-loving towns 
 people that Deacon Hathaway regarded the young insur 
 ance clerk with distinct disfavor, and had forbidden his 
 daughter's continuing the intimacy. It was likewise 
 well known that the missing girl had frequently met 
 Ames clandestinely. 
 
 "Neither Miss Hathaway nor Derrick Ames was seen 
 after the discovery of the bank tragedy. Ames was at 
 his boarding house at noon on the day of the murder, 
 but did not return to supper. His room, with all his
 
 A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE. 29 
 
 effects, was left as usual and gave no indication that he 
 contemplated a hasty departure. Even at the office where 
 he was employed he left some personal effects and half a 
 month's salary was to his credit. 
 
 "In the case of Miss Hathaway, also, there are abso 
 lutely no indications of premeditated departure. Her 
 sister states that she has taken not even a wrap, only the 
 clothes she wore that afternoon as she left the house. 
 Neither man nor maiden was seen by any person to leave 
 Raymond. No vehicle was secured for either of them, 
 and no one answering their description boarded the train 
 at the Raymond Station. They have disappeared as com 
 pletely, as suddenly and as mysteriously as did the mur 
 derer of Cashier Hathaway. 
 
 "The knowledge of these circumstances has intensified 
 the excitement occasioned by the murder and robbery. 
 The coincidence, if it be but a coincidence, of the unpre 
 meditated elopement of Helen Hathaway upon the very 
 day, nay, perhaps the very hour, that her aged father 
 was stricken by the bullet of the assassin, is sufficiently 
 startling of itself to cause the most intense excitement. 
 
 ''Is there any connection between the disappearance 
 of Derrick Ames and Helen Hathaway and the shooting 
 of Cashier Hathaway and the subsequent looting of the 
 bank vault? Why did the couple, if they simply ran 
 away to get married without the parental* sanction, do so 
 manifestly on the spur of the moment, without any pre 
 arranged plans, without notification to even their inti 
 mate friends? And why, if they went innocently away, 
 have they failed to acquaint any one with their present 
 whereabouts, when they must be aware of the cruel mur 
 der of Miss Hathaway's good father, the details of which 
 have been published far and wide, not only in the pro 
 vincial newspapers, but throughout the metropolitan 
 press? 
 
 "There is not a resident of Raymond who will hint at 
 even the possibility of any guilty knowledge of the taking- 
 off of her father by Helen Hathaway, before or during 
 her hurried flight. For although regarded as unusually 
 high-spirited and impetuous, she was loving and lovable
 
 30 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 to a degree and the idol of her sister. The only indiscre 
 tion that can be attributed to the missing girl was her 
 occasional meetings with Derrick Ames without the sanc 
 tion of her father. 
 
 "Her companion in flight, on the other hand, was not 
 especially favorably known in Raymond. While he 
 came to the town with excellent credentials, he was not 
 a favorite in any particular set or society. Handsome in 
 face and figure, an athlete of considerable local repute, 
 with alternate moods of extreme depression and satirical 
 good humor, he was such a one as might be expected to 
 turn the head of a romantic young girl like the absent 
 Miss Hathaway. Ames was free with his money, and 
 while not a drinking man, in the sense of the term in 
 this part of the country, he occasionally wooed the wine 
 cup with great energy and originality. He had enemies 
 in plenty and but a week before the tragedy had abruptly 
 resigned the lieutenancy of the Raymond Rifles because 
 of a trifling disagreement with the captain. It must be 
 stated, however, that no mean or ignoble act or petty 
 crime had ever been attributed to him, the chief cause of 
 his unpopularity proceeding from his reserve, the sharp 
 ness of his tongue and the irascibility of his temper. 
 
 "Had Derrick Ames disappeared alone, on the evening 
 of the murder, there would have been but one opinion as 
 to his guilt or innocence. But the unaccountable flight 
 of Miss Hathaway this is the one flaw in the chain of 
 circumstantial evidence. Some people will explain this 
 away on the universal theory for every inexplicable 
 action of the human mind hypnotism. It is said that 
 Ames placed Miss Hathaway within the spell of his own 
 powerful will, and unknowingly, unwittingly, blindly 
 obedient, beautiful Helen Hathaway accompanied the 
 cold-blooded slayer of her own father in his flight from 
 the scene of his crime. 
 
 "Did Ames and Miss Hathaway leave Raymond to 
 gether? While .there is no evidence that they did, the 
 presumption is so strong as to compel the inference. 
 In any event Raymond has practically convicted Derrick
 
 A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE. 31 
 
 Ames of complicity, if not actual participation, in the 
 murder of Roger Hathaway. 
 
 "It is possible that the murder was not premeditated, 
 as was intimated in these dispatches yesterday. Ames 
 may have called upon the cashier at the bank, to plead 
 again his suit for the hand of Helen Hathaway. A blunt 
 refusal, hasty words, a bitter quarrel, Ames' temper, 
 quick and ungovernable, a brief struggle, the fatal shot 
 and the older man lay dead upon the floor. What more 
 natural than that the young murderer, fully appreciating 
 his terrible situation, and cognizant of the large amount 
 of ready money in the safe, should wrench the familiar 
 bunch of keys from the pocket of the dead cashier and 
 possess himself of the treasure? It requires something of 
 a stretch of the imagination to fancy the assassin, his 
 hand yet reeking with the blood of her father, inducing 
 the young girl to accompany him in his flight for life and 
 liberty, yet it is not impossible and in the belief of 
 many it is just what Derrick Ames did do. 
 
 "There is but the faintest possible clew as yet to con 
 nect any one else with the crime. Besides a few hotel 
 arrivals commercial men comparatively well known 
 one stranger, and one only, is believed to have been in 
 Raymond on the day of the murder. No one saw him 
 come, no one saw him leave the town. Inquiry was 
 made at the depot, the telegraph operator states, shortly 
 after 8 o'clock, as to the time of departure of the next 
 train south. The operator did not notice the questioner 
 particularly, although he is positive he was a stranger 
 in Raymond. 
 
 "The theory of a prearranged plot to rob the bank on 
 the night the cashier was shot has been assiduously 
 worked by the local authorities. It was known that there 
 would be a large amount of money in the bank on the 
 night preceding the paying off of the matured county 
 bonds. Was it not worth while for an organized gang of 
 bank robbers to plan a descent on the Raymond institu 
 tion? Was it not possible that they did so plan; that 
 they had already secured access to the banking-room 
 while the populace was watching the parade in the after-
 
 32 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 noon; that they were awaiting the cover of darkness to 
 begin work upon the safe, when all unexpectedly the 
 cashier arrived and entered the bank; that the robbers 
 retreated to the dark closet; that here they remained hid 
 den while Mr. Hathaway performed some pressing work 
 upon the books, meanwhile sending the note requesting 
 the presence of the president; that while he stepped to 
 the front door to secure a messenger for the letter the 
 robbers may have conceived the daring scheme of seizing 
 the cash drawer from the vault ; that the cashier returned 
 while they were in the very act of executing their design ; 
 that he rushed to his desk and had already possessed 
 himself of his revolver, when he was seized by the rob 
 bers and shot dead before he could succeed in making 
 use of his own weapon, which was subsequently picked 
 up and carried off by the robbers? 
 
 "More careful investigations of the scene of the mur 
 der developed the fact that the struggle between the 
 cashier and his assailant, or assailants, must have been not 
 only a severe one, but of several minutes' duration. 
 There were marks of violence on the body of the dead 
 banker, the physicians report, which must have been 
 made by an exceptionally strong man. The right wrist 
 showed quite severe abrasions, as if it had been grasped 
 fiercely by a strong hand, and on the other side of the 
 wrist was a purple mark that was evidently made by 
 a seal ring pressed into the flesh by the tremendous force 
 with which the hand had been seized. The snow-white 
 and abundant hair of Mr. Hathaway was also disheveled, 
 when the body was first discovered, and the chain to 
 which his bunch of keys had been attached was snapped 
 off, only about two inches remaining upon his person. 
 No signs of a weapon or any burglarious tools were dis 
 covered in or about the bank premises, but evidence of 
 the extreme coolness and sang-froid of the murderer is 
 afforded by the fact that, apparently in searching for 
 suitable paper in which to wrap the big package of bills 
 two or three full pages of the big bank ledger were torn 
 out and used for the purpose. 
 
 "Nothing was missing from the person of the dead
 
 A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE. 33 
 
 man, except, singularly enough, a curiously fashioned 
 locket which Mr. Hathaway wore as a watch charm. 
 It contained miniatures of his two daughters, Louise and 
 Helen. No reason for its being carried off is apparent. 
 The link which held it to the watch-chain was broken as 
 if the locket had been violently removed. 
 
 "The exact amount of money stolen cannot as yet 
 be stated. President Felton alleges that, until the trial 
 balance is drawn off, it will be impossible to give figures. 
 Certainly not less than $40,000 in greenbacks was 
 secured, and probably half as much more in securities, 
 which, however, are not negotiable and are therefore 
 worthless to the robbers. The bank is perfectly solvent, 
 President Felton states, and will resume business at an 
 early date. 
 
 "Mr. Felton is well-nigh prostrated by the shock of 
 his awful discovery on the evening of Memorial Day and 
 has aged visibly in the last two days. He does not attach 
 so much importance to the dual disappearance of Derrick 
 Ames and Helen Hathaway as do most of the citizens, 
 and expresses the opinion that it is a simple elopement 
 and that the couple will return shortly. 
 
 "The directors of the savings and national banks, at a 
 meeting this morning, authorized the offer of a reward of 
 $4,000 for the capture and conviction of the murderer or 
 murderers, in addition to the purse of $1,000 'hung up' 
 by the town. 
 
 'The coroner's inquest will be begun to-morrow." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE CORONER'S INQUEST. 
 
 For a town the size of Raymond, 3,ooo-odd inhab 
 itants, the Mansfield County court house is an unusually 
 large and commodious structure. But the spacious room 
 is not nearly adequate to the demands of the pushing
 
 34 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 crowd that seeks admittance to the inquest that has been 
 summoned by Coroner Lord to sit upon the body of the 
 dead cashier, Roger Hathaway. George Demeritt, the 
 town's sole day police force, is literally swept off his feet 
 by the surging assemblage, and in less than five min 
 utes after the throwing open of the doors the room is a 
 solid mass of perspiring humanity. 
 
 With much difficulty Sheriff Wilson makes a passage 
 for the dozen witnesses under his charge, the crowd gaz 
 ing, with the sympathetic impudence of an inquest audi 
 ence, at the statuesque form of Miss Hathaway, heavily 
 veiled, and the bowed figure of President Felton of the 
 Raymond Bank. 
 
 The jury selected by Coroner Lord files in from the 
 judges' room, and after the customary preliminaries the 
 autopsy performed by Drs. Robinson and Dodge is read 
 by the latter. The document, stripped of its verbiage 
 and medical terms, alleges that Roger Hathaway died 
 from a bullet wound, the leaden missile having entered 
 the left breast almost directly over the heart, and that 
 death must have been instantaneous. There were signs 
 of violence on the person of the dead man, a severe con 
 tusion on the forehead that might have been inflicted by a 
 blow or might have been caused by the fall to the floor. 
 There were also slight abrasions on the right wrist. 
 
 Dr. Dodge states, in reply to an inquiry from the coro 
 ner, that Mr. Hathaway had probably been dead an hour 
 when he reached his side. Rigor mortis had not begun. 
 
 "Mr. Cyrus Felton.'' 
 
 There is a craning of necks in the court room as the 
 coroner calls to his feet the aged bank president. Jack 
 Ashley, who is sitting at the lawyers' table, jotting down 
 a few notes, begins to take a lively interest in the case. 
 
 Mr. Felton slowly walks to the witness stand. That he 
 is greatly moved even the least observant in the throng 
 can but notice, and his hand trembles visibly as he 
 replaces his pince-nez and turns to face Coroner Lord. 
 
 The usual formal questions as to his acquaintance with 
 the dead man, his connection with the bank, etc., are 
 asked and answered.
 
 THE CORONERS' INQUEST. 35 
 
 "I visited the bank in response to a note which I found 
 when I returned home from my from the postoffice," 
 Mr. Felton states. 
 
 "The note was from Mr. Hathaway?" 
 
 "It was." 
 
 "And its contents?" 
 
 "The note merely said: 'Come to the bank imme 
 diately.' " 
 
 "Have you the note with you?'' 
 
 "No; I tore it up," replies Mr. Felton, and the expres 
 sion which accompanies his words is noted by Ashley, 
 who is scanning narrowly the countenance of the banker. 
 
 "The note had been left at my house a short while 
 before I returned home, my servant tells me," proceeds 
 Mr. Felton. "I went at once to the bank." The witness 
 has grown so agitated that he is obliged to seat him 
 self, and his voice is hardly audible in the stilled room. 
 
 "The front door was slightly ajar and I walked through 
 the bank to the directors' room. The door to this apart 
 ment was locked; I unlocked it and entered. Mr. Hath 
 away lay face downward in the middle of the floor, I 
 should think. I thought he might have fallen in a shock 
 and went to lift him up, when I saw the blood. I felt 
 for his pulse, but there was no motion." The voice of 
 the witness breaks as he utters these words and he covers 
 his face with his handkerchief. 
 
 "Were there any evidences of a struggle?" the coro 
 ner asks, after a moment. 
 
 "Yes. Mr. Hathaway's office chair was overturned 
 and the directors' chairs were disarranged. One of the 
 drawers in Mr. Hathaway's desk had been pulled so far 
 out that it had dropped to the floor and the contents 
 were spilled. A lot of old ledgers that had been piled in 
 the closet were toppted over into the room. I glanced 
 into the closet and then turned my attention to the open 
 vault. I found the cash drawer in the safe withdrawn 
 and empty except for a couple of canvas bags of silver 
 and nickels. I then hastened to find Sheriff Wilson." 
 
 "What hour was it when you entered the bank?" asks 
 Coroner Lord.
 
 36 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "About 8:20 o'clock." 
 
 "And at what time did you notify Sheriff Wilson?" 
 
 Mr. Felton hesitates a moment and glances inquiringly 
 at that official. "It did not seem more than a minute 
 that I spent in the bank. But I was so shocked and 
 I and I stopped to gather up the papers on the floor 
 perhaps it was five minutes before I got to the hotel." 
 
 "Did you notice any weapons on the floor of the cash 
 ier's room?" 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "What amount of money do you estimate was stolen 
 from the safe?" 
 
 President Felton debates a moment, as if making a 
 mental calculation, and replies: "At least $37,000 in 
 currency and gold, and some securities. The exact 
 amount of the latter we cannot tell until we have listed 
 our papers." 
 
 "That is all, Mr. Felton." 
 
 A suppressed murmur of intense interest runs around 
 the crowded room as Louise Hathaway takes the witness 
 stand. As she raises the veil that has concealed her fea 
 tures the townspeople marveled at the composure her 
 marble countenance evinces. Ashley glances at her with 
 interest and draws a long breath. "Gad! she's a beauty," 
 he decides, and then drops his eyes as they encounter 
 the calm gaze of the witness. 
 
 Her father left the house to go to the bank about 6:30 
 o'clock, Miss Hathaway testifies. Tea was served at 6 
 o'clock. Her sister Helen had not returned at that time, 
 but at her father's request they had not waited the tea, 
 because he said he had some work to do at the bank. 
 It was an unusual thing for him to go to the bank even 
 ings, but the illness of the teller had necessitated extra 
 work. 
 
 "Miss Hathaway, do you know where your sister is?'' 
 The silence in the court room is intense as the coroner 
 asks the question. 
 
 "My sister did not return that afternoon," declares 
 Miss Hathaway, after a brief pause. "I have reason to 
 think that she has gone with Mr. Ames to be married."
 
 THE CORONERS' INQUEST. 37 
 
 "And you do not know where they now are?" 
 
 Miss Hathaway shakes her head, as her fingers clasp 
 and unclasp nervously in her lap. The ordeal is a trying 
 one. 
 
 "When did you last see your sister?" 
 
 "About 2 o'clock in the afternoon." 
 
 "And when did you last see Mr. Ames?" 
 
 A slight flush replaces the pallor for a moment; then 
 as suddenly recedes, leaving her paler than before. 
 
 "I have not seen Mr. Ames for a fortnight," she replies 
 in a tone barely audible. 
 
 "Did your sister indicate to you her intention of elop 
 ing?" is the next question. 
 
 "I had no reason to think that she contemplated a 
 clandestine marriage. But I should prefer not to dis 
 cuss the matter further, Mr. Lord," says the witness, in 
 evident agitation. "I am sure Helen's departure can have 
 no possible connection with with that awful deed. It 
 was only an unfortunate coincidence that they went away 
 on that afternoon. I I am sure they will return in due 
 time." 
 
 Coroner Lord glances irresolutely at the state's attor 
 ney, and after a moment's deliberation permits Miss 
 Hathaway to retire. 
 
 Sheriff Wilson, the next witness, describes minutely the 
 appearance of the bank and vault and of the body of 
 the dead cashier. 
 
 Sarah Johnson, the maid at Mr. Felton's residence, tes 
 tifies that the note referred to by Mr. Felton was left at 
 the house shortly before 8 o'clock by a lad named Jimmie 
 Howe. A few minutes later a stranger inquired for Mr. 
 Felton at the house. There is a slight buzz of excite 
 ment among the audience at this first mention of the 
 presence of a stranger in the village on the evening of 
 the tragedy. 
 
 "How do you know he was a stranger?" sharply in 
 quires the coroner. 
 
 "For the reason that when I asked him which Mr. 
 Felton he wished to see he replied that he did not know
 
 38 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 there were two Mr. Feltons." That evidence is conclu 
 sive. It is, so far as the audience is concerned. 
 
 "He asked where he could find Mr. Felton, and I told 
 him perhaps at his office in the bank building," con 
 tinues Sarah. 
 
 Miss Johnson is closely questioned as to the demeanor 
 of the stranger, but she knows little of importance, as she 
 had not seen the visitor's face. He was of medium 
 height, she says, and his voice was pleasant. Sheriff 
 Wilson, who has first learned of this clew, smiles pat 
 ronizingly upon Ashley and the other newspaper men. 
 
 A bright-faced lad of 12 is Jimmie Howe, whom Coro 
 ner Lord next calls to the stand. Jimmie was playing 
 on the bridge when Mr, Hathaway called to him from 
 the bank door and asked him to take a note to Mr. 
 Felton and to hurry about it. After he delivered the note 
 he went home. 
 
 Prof. George Black, Edward Knapp and three others, 
 who were in Prof. Black's room in the bank building, 
 testify to hearing a shot about 8 o'clock, but whether 
 before or after that hour they cannot agree. 
 
 Alden Heath, the telegraph operator at the depot, 
 stated that some one he was busy at his key at the time 
 asked somewhere around 8 o'clock when the next train 
 left. He answered without looking up, and when he 
 did glance at the window the inquirer was gone. It was 
 a strange voice; of that he was positive. 
 
 George Kenney, who states that he is the station 
 agent at Ashfield, is next sworn. His testimony estab 
 lishes the probable fact that Derrick Ames and Helen 
 Hathaway boarded the midnight train for New York. 
 
 There is an involuntary but quickly suppressed ex 
 clamation from the witnesses. Miss Hathaway is trem 
 bling and Ralph Felton, who is sitting near her, is sav 
 agely biting his mustache. 
 
 As Coroner Lord calls the name of Richard Chase and 
 the stalwart warden of the State prison at Windsor 
 appears on the witness stand there is a hush of expect 
 ancy. 
 
 "Ernest Stanley, a convict in the Vermont State prison,
 
 THE CORONERS' INQUEST. 39 
 
 was released at noon of Memorial Day,'' Warden Chase 
 says succinctly. "He asked for and was given a ticket 
 to Raymond, and left on the north-bound afternoon 
 train. He was five feet ten inches in height, of medium 
 build, dark complexion, smooth face, and had closely 
 cropped dark hair. He wore a light tweed suit and a 
 straw hat." 
 
 As Mr. Chase concludes his testimony the coroner 
 consults for a few moments with the state's attorney and 
 then summons Ralph Felton, son of President Felton, 
 and the bookkeeper of the Wild River Savings Bank. 
 
 As the young man steps to the stand Ashley glances 
 at him interestedly, and after a good look decides that 
 he does not like him. There is a certain shiftiness of eye 
 that the New Yorker does not fancy, and the notes which 
 he takes of the witness' testimony are nearly verbatim. 
 
 Young Felton answers in the briefest phrases the ques 
 tions of the coroner. He had seen no strangers in the 
 bank in the last few days. He had last seen Mr. Hath 
 away the afternoon before the tragedy, when the bank 
 closed for the day. On the afternoon of Memorial 
 Day 
 
 The witness stops abruptly and a flush overspreads his 
 features as he nervously bites his tawny mustache. 
 
 "On the afternoon of Memorial Day," invites the coro 
 ner. 
 
 "I was around town as usual," finishes Felton. 
 
 For some reason the momentary hesitation of the wit 
 ness apparently impresses Mr. Lord, and he seems dis 
 posed to make minute inquiry. 
 
 "Where did you say you were on the afternoon of 
 Memorial Day?" he again interrogates. 
 
 Ralph Felton looks straight at the coroner an instant, 
 and then his gaze wanders over the stilled room and 
 finally rests upon his father, who, roused from the impas 
 sive attitude in which he has sunk after completing his 
 own testimony, casts a startled look upon his son. 
 
 The sudden hush that has involuntarily accompanied 
 Mr. Lord's question is intensified, as father and son gazo 
 at each other, apparently oblivious of the unanswered 
 coroner,
 
 40 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 FATHER AND SON. 
 
 An almost imperceptible raising of the eyebrows by 
 the elder man, and Ralph Felton turns quickly to the 
 coroner. 
 
 "Really, Mr. Lord, I cannot furnish a detailed state 
 ment of my every movement during the last week," he 
 says, nonchalantly. "I witnessed the procession, or at 
 least the local post, on its way to the depot to meet the 
 Ruggbury contingent, and later went to the Exchange 
 for dinner. In the afternoon I was in the billiard room 
 of the hotel, and I believe I visited the postoffice in the 
 evening." 
 
 "What time did you last see Mr. Hathaway?'' The 
 persistence of the coroner in questioning the bookkeeper 
 is inexplicable to the audience, who have not observed 
 the little slips of paper that State's Attorney Brown has 
 passed along the table to Mr. Lord. 
 
 "About noon on the day of the murder." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 Ralph Felton is for the first time manifesting signs of 
 impatience. "He was in the bank. I went to get some 
 thing which I had left there, and while I was there Air. 
 Hathaway came in. I left him there and a short time 
 afterward saw him in the procession." 
 
 "Mr. Felton, where were you between 7:45 and 8:30 
 o'clock the evening of Tuesday?" 
 
 A dull red replaces the slight pallor on the face of the 
 young man. 
 
 "Mr. Lord, I cannot say where I was during that par 
 ticular time. I have my own personal reasons not con 
 nected with this case, I assure you for not desiring to 
 answer your question." 
 
 The murmur which has begun to overspread the room 
 is quickly but only temporarily hushed as the coroner 
 announces:
 
 FATHER AND SON. 41 
 
 "The inquest is adjourned until to-morrow morning at 
 9 o'clock." 
 
 "You know why I did not answer Coroner Lord's 
 question. I am tired of this hypocrisy. I simply will not 
 go on the stand again and that settles it!'' 
 
 Within the richly furnished library of Cyrus Felton's 
 home the inquisition so abruptly broken off by Coroner 
 Lord has been resumed. 
 
 The president of the Raymond National Bank now 
 bears little resemblance to the bowed old man who, with 
 trembling lips and pallid brow, testified regarding the 
 murder of Cashier Hathaway a few hours before. There 
 is an angry flush upon his face and a stern setting 
 of the chin that causes one straight line to mark the 
 location of his lips. 
 
 At the last defiant words of his son a spasm as of 
 sudden pain for a moment distorts his patriarchal face, 
 and his hand involuntarily presses his heart. 
 
 "I am going to leave Raymond at once to-night. 
 Leave as Derrick Ames left," continued Ralph Felton, 
 with an imprecation. "It's no use talking. My mind is 
 made up and you should be the last man to urge me 
 to remain. You know " 
 
 "Ralph, this is madness," interrupts his father. "There 
 can be no necessity for your leaving town, least of all 
 while matters are as they are. The bank " 
 
 "The bank needs both of us I don't think," rejoins 
 the younger man flippantly. "As the boodle is gone 
 I guess you can get along without a bookkeeper for a 
 time maybe forever. But go I shall, and money I must 
 have. Oh, I know what you are going to say," as Mr. 
 Felton opens his lips. "It doesn't make any difference 
 where it has gone. Suffice it to say, it is planted. If you 
 have ever had any experience with but here it is getting 
 on toward n o'clock, and at 12:10 I must take the Mon 
 treal express. 'I don't propose to board it here. I shall 
 drive to South Ashfield. Now, understand me, father," 
 as Cyrus Felton again seeks to interrupt him, "it is just
 
 42 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 as much for your interest for me to be a couple of thou 
 sand miles from Raymond as it is mine. It is bound to 
 come out why, what's the matter?" 
 
 Once again that ashen pallor accompanies a spasm of 
 severest pain, and this time Cyrus Felton emits a slight 
 groan as his fingers sink into the heavily upholstered 
 arms of the sleepy-hollow chair into which he has sunk. 
 
 "Nothing nothing but a pleurisy attack," he faintly 
 replies. 
 
 There is silence for a moment, broken only by the 
 sonorous ticking of the mantel clock. 
 
 "Well, the money?" 
 
 "Ralph, you know that I can ill afford to spare any 
 considerable amount just now. But your safety must, of 
 course, be considered, and I will endeavor to send you 
 funds later. What I can spare now ought to be sufficient 
 to start life anew in some western city.'' 
 
 Ralph Felton smiles sardonically as his father steps 
 to the little safe set in the wall, and, moving the screen 
 from the front, turns the combination. He lounges 
 toward the receptacle, and, leaning on the screen, gazes 
 down at his father, who has withdrawn one of the two 
 drawers which the safe boasts and is running over a 
 package of bills. The contents of the lower drawer are 
 exposed by the withdrawal of the upper one, and the 
 light from the chandelier is reflected back from some 
 shining substance in the till. It catches young Felton's 
 eye and his long arm passes over the stooping figure of 
 his father and picks the gleaming metal from the drawer. 
 It is a loaded revolver of the bull-dog variety, 32 caliber, 
 and one chamber has been discharged. 
 
 Cyrus Felton raises his head. The shining little engine 
 of destruction in the clasp of his son is almost before and 
 on a level with his eyes. 
 
 With a shudder the elder man turns his head and 
 slowly and laboriously rises to his feet. He seems to 
 have suddenly aged even in the last few moments. 
 
 Ralph Felton examines the revolver critically, looks at 
 his father's averted face, and, without speaking, lays the 
 weapon in the drawer. There is silence in the room,
 
 FATHER ,AND SON. 43 
 
 broken at last by the almost apologetic tones of the father. 
 "How will you reach South Ashfield?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh, Sam must drive me over with the mare. I will 
 start him up now." 
 
 As his son leaves the room Cyrus Felton sinks into 
 an easy chair and his head drops upon his bosom. Who 
 can tell the thoughts that surge through his troubled 
 mind at the moment? The clatter of hoofs on the con 
 crete driveway beside the window arouses him from his 
 reverie, and a moment later Ralph Felton enters, a 
 satchel in his hand. 
 
 "Well, father, Sam is ready and I must go. We shall 
 have little more than an hour to make the ten miles and 
 catch the express. Good-by; it is all right, sir; believe 
 me, father/' the younger man drops his disengaged hand 
 not unkindly on the other's shoulder, "my sudden de 
 parture will do nobody here any harm, and least of all 
 will it affect you. One thing I will say; I will find the 
 scoundrel who took Helen Hathaway from Raymond, if 
 he is above ground, and when we meet he will have 
 occasion to remember that time." Ralph Felton's face 
 is darkened by a savage scowl as he speaks, and he raises 
 a clenched fist with a gesture so suggestive that his 
 father involuntarily steps back. "Yes, I have two objects 
 in cutting the town. One reason you know, the other 
 is to seek and find the hound who has stolen Helen 
 Hathaway from me. I cared for her as I shall never 
 love another woman, and I meant to have her. Now " 
 
 The musical chime of the clock begins to strike the 
 hour. Ralph Felton seizes the package of bills that lies 
 upon the table and places it in an inner pocket. 
 
 "I will return sometime, father, when this bank affair 
 has ceased to be a subject of investigation," he says, with 
 his hand on the door-knob. "Good-by. Just keep a stiff 
 upper lip and you'll be all right. I'm off." 
 
 The outer door closes with a sharp click and a moment 
 later the impatient stamping of hoofs is succeeded by 
 the even footfalls of the fastest mare in Mansfield County. 
 
 As the sound grows fainter and fainter Cyrus Felton 
 suddenly starts as if aroused from a stupor.
 
 44 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "Why did I let him go? Idiot that I am! It is mad 
 ness worse than madness. It is confession. Am I 
 losing my senses, that I did not insist upon his remain 
 ing and completing his testimony? At the worst it could 
 never be proved. The wages of sin! The wages of sin!'' 
 he groans, as he sinks back in his chair and buries his 
 face in his hands. 
 
 "Mr. Ralph Felton to the stand/' orders Coroner Lord. 
 
 As on the preceding day, the court room is packed 
 with the people of Raymond. There is a craning of 
 necks toward the settees reserved for witnesses. Ralph 
 Felton is not there, and there is a death-like stillness as 
 Coroner "Lord again calls this now most interesting of 
 witnesses. 
 
 "Mr. Coroner!" The lank figure of the station agent 
 at South Ashfield elevates itself above the crowd. "If 
 it please your honor, Ralph Felton boarded the Montreal 
 express at South Ashfield last night." 
 
 Of course there is a sensation, a murmur of voices that 
 the coroner quickly checks. The few remaining wit 
 nesses are unimportant and the inquest is adjourned until 
 afternoon. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 A PROPOSITION OF PARTNERSHIP. 
 
 The usual congress of village gossips is in session 
 to-night at the Exchange Hotel. It is the fourth day 
 since the Raymond Bank affair, and the details of the 
 tragedy are discussed with an animation and a wealth of 
 clew that brings a smile to the face of John Barker, the 
 New York detective, who retreats to a quiet corner of the 
 hotel veranda to finish his cigar and muse upon the 
 affair with the calm contemplation characteristic of men 
 in his calling. 
 
 The detective's face expresses a shade of annoyance as
 
 A PROPOSITION OF PARTNERSHIP. 45 
 
 Jack Ashley ascends the steps to the veranda, draws a 
 chair opposite his, lights a cigar and tilts his seat back 
 at a comfortable angle. 
 
 "You are John Barker, the detective," began Ashley. 
 Barker assents with a nod. 
 
 "1 haven't a card with me, but my name is Jack Ash 
 ley, and I am attached to the staff of the New York 
 Hemisphere." Barker looks duly impressed. 
 
 "You are an ordinary detective, I presume?" Barker 
 stares. "What I mean is, if you will pardon my frank 
 ness, you are not a Sherlock Holmes or a M. Lecocq?" 
 It is apparent from his face that the detective is in doubt 
 whether to laugh or express his displeasure. He com 
 promises with a faint smile and accepts the proffered 
 cigar. 
 
 "My reason for asking," goes on Ashley, "is that I 
 have a proposition to offer you." 
 
 Barker strikes a match to touch off his weed. "That 
 proposition is " 
 
 "That we work this bank case together." Barker 
 drops the lighted match and gazes at his new acquaint- 
 ance in astonishment. 
 
 "Have another match," remarks the other, passing 
 it over. 
 
 The detective lights his cigar and puffs away on it for 
 some moments in silence. "I am not in the habit of 
 taking in partners," he observes finally. 
 
 "I always take a deep interest in an affair like the 
 Hathaway case/' resumes Ashley, without reference to 
 the other's remark. "In fact, my special line on the 
 Hemisphere has been the running down of mysterious 
 crimes. I have trailed quite a number of them, and you 
 will pardon my egotism when I say I have been quite 
 successful in my dual capacity of sleuth and newspaper 
 man." Barker looks a trifle bored. 
 
 "To be candid, however, this case is a bit too big for 
 me to handle alone. It spreads out too much. It is too 
 much of a job for one man to look after." 
 
 "Indeed?" The irony in the detective's voice is thinly 
 veiled. He says:
 
 46 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "Then on the strength of your intimation that you are 
 a devilish clever fellow you will pardon my frankness 
 this time I am asked to take in an assistant who will 
 gladly share with me the $5,000 reward in the event of 
 the murderer being apprehended." 
 
 "No; I sha'n't bother about the reward. I am simply 
 looking for glory." 
 
 "You are young in the newspaper business?" 
 
 "About twelve years." 
 
 "And looking for glory?" 
 
 Ashley laughs. "For my paper; not for myself." He 
 passes over a telegram received that day. It read as 
 follows: 
 
 "Jack Ashley, Raymond, Vt.: Work up case at any ex 
 pense, and discover murderer if possible. Chambers." 
 
 "Now," says Ashley, as he replaces the dispatch in his 
 pocket, "I will tell you why I think it would be to your 
 advantage to join forces with me." Barker evinces 
 some interest. 
 
 "I am in possession of some facts which you not only 
 do not know, but are not likely to get hold of unless I 
 enlighten you." 
 
 "Ah!" The detective draws his chair nearer his com 
 panion and glances about to make sure there are no 
 outside listeners. 
 
 "When I finish, if you consider my information as val 
 uable as I appraise it, you can do as you please about 
 the partnership idea. At any rate you will be so much 
 ahead. Come up to my room. We will not be disturbed 
 there." When they are comfortably seated and fresh 
 cigars lighted Ashley begins his story. 
 
 "I have run onto two clews. One of them I consider 
 important; the other less so. By the way, how long 
 have you been in town? Come in on the after-dinner 
 train?" 
 
 "Yes, I have acquainted myself with the known facts 
 in the case and the result of the coroner's inquest. De-
 
 A PROPOSITION OF PARTNERSHIP. 47 
 
 ceased came to his death at the hands of some person 
 unknown." 
 
 "But who will be known ere long. But to resume. 
 As you know, a man called at the house of Cyrus 
 Felton shortly before 8 o'clock of the night of the killing. 
 To the inquiry of the housemaid as to which Mr. Felton 
 was wanted the man replied that he 'did not know there 
 were two.' Not long after 8 o'clock that same evening 
 a man appeared at the ticket office of the railroad station 
 and inquired when the next train left. These incidents, 
 while not startling in themselves, seem to prove that in 
 each case the questioner was a stranger to Raymond. 
 Every one around these parts knows that there are two 
 Feltons, father and son, and the natives are also pre 
 sumed to know that there is no night train through the 
 town before 11:50." 
 
 "Very well reasoned/' remarks Barker. 
 
 "As you also know, on the afternoon of Memorial Day 
 a chap named Ernest Stanley was liberated from the 
 State prison at Windsor, after serving two of a three 
 years' sentence for forgery. Despite the fact that Ray 
 mond was not his home and that he had not, so far as 
 known, a friend or acquaintance in the place, and con 
 trary to the advice of the warden, who took an interest 
 in the fellow, he Bought a ticket to this town and started 
 north on the afternoon train. That latter fact was proved 
 by the ticket agent at Windsor, who sold him the ticket 
 and saw him board the train. I went to Windsor this 
 forenoon, after the inquest, saw a photograph of this 
 Stanley, and secured a pretty accurate description of 
 him." ' 
 
 "But there is no evidence that he left the train at this 
 station. Or if he did " 
 
 "He could have been, as I believe he was, the visitor 
 at Felton's house.'' 
 
 "I am not so sure of that," contends the detective. "On 
 the evening of Memorial Day the agent of a granite man 
 ufacturers' journal, published at Chicago, stopped at this 
 hotel. He arrived on the afternoon train from the north, 
 and after supper, the clerk told me when I quizzed him,
 
 48 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 he inquired where Cyrus Felton lived. Felton, you 
 know, is the principal owner in the Wild River Granite 
 Quarries. It is more than likely, is it not, that he was 
 the visitor at the Felton residence?'' 
 
 "Still he may not have called that night." 
 
 "True. Admitting the caller to have been Stanley, 
 what then? A motive must be assigned." 
 
 "We will discuss that later. For the present suffice it 
 to be known that Stanley was sentenced to State prison 
 for forging the name of Cyrus Felton two years ago." 
 
 "Well, what of it? If Stanley's thoughts were of 
 revenge they were apparently directed against Felton, 
 not the man who was murdered." 
 
 "That is precisely the point that is not clear to me," 
 confesses Ashley. 
 
 "Now, listen. Here's a proposition for you: If Stan 
 ley was not concerned in the bank affair, what was he 
 doing at 6 o'clock next morning asleep in the bushes in 
 a lonely gorge near South Ashfield village?" 
 
 "The devil!" 
 
 "With a package of papers clutched fast in his hands, 
 about the size that a bundle of treasury notes and securi 
 ties would make." 
 
 "You know he was there?'' 
 
 "I met him." 
 
 Barker is thoughtful. "You said nothing to the author 
 ities or in your dispatches about the incident?" 
 
 "No. I didn't consider it worth while. The authori 
 ties were already scouring the country round about, and 
 I did not exploit it in my dispatches because I concluded 
 to save it for a longer and better story when we run down 
 the criminal beg pardon, when the criminal is run 
 down. But/' continues Ashley, as Barker remains silent, 
 "that is the clew to which I attach the less importance. 
 
 "I had heard from some source that Ralph Felton had 
 been seen at this hotel a good share of Memorial Day, 
 and I started in on a pumping expedition, beginning 
 with John Thayer, the clerk. Thayer was noticeably 
 uncommunicative; I thought I'd bluff him a bit, so I 
 remarked: 'Well, you've concluded to tell me what you
 
 A PROPOSITION OF PARTNERSHIP. 49 
 
 know, eh?' The bluff appeared to work, for he flushed 
 a little and replied: 'I'll tell you all about it if you will 
 agree to keep it out of the paper.' As I had suspended 
 all dispatches to the Hemisphere pending the discovery 
 of a story worth filing, I readily enough agreed to refrain 
 from publishing his secret to the world. Then he ex 
 tracted a promise that I should not divulge a word to 
 any one in the village. 
 
 '' 'Ralph Felton is as innocent of that crime as you or 
 I.' asserted Thayer when all the conditions for secrecy 
 had been satisfactorily arranged. 
 
 " 'That is possible, but why did he refuse to answer 
 the coroner and why did he cut the town?' said I. 
 
 " 'He had a good reason for wanting to keep dark, 
 and I suppose he ran away to prevent being compelled 
 to testify where he was Memorial Day afternoon and 
 evening.' 
 
 " 'You know where he was, then?' 
 
 " 'Yes; he was here at the hotel. I tell you this because 
 I want you to know that he is innocent Felton is a good 
 friend of mine, and I thought perhaps if you knew how 
 the facts were you might see your way clear to letting 
 him down as easy as possible in the paper.' I assured 
 him that my specialty was setting folks right and then 
 Thayer told off the following story : 
 
 "About 2 o'clock on the afternoon of Memorial Day 
 a woman arrived at Raymond on the afternoon train 
 from the south, came to this hotel and registered as 'Isa 
 bel Winthrop.' She was superbly dressed and displayed 
 an abundance of jewels. According to Thayer, whose 
 head was completely turned by her appearance, she was 
 magnificently, phenomenally beautiful. You can take 
 that for what it is worth. Thayer assigned her a room 
 and showed her to it. As she passed in she requested 
 him to send a messenger to acquaint Ralph Felton that 
 a lady desired to see him. Finding him was an easy 
 task, as he was at that moment playing poker in a room 
 in the hotel. Felton appeared somewhat surprised when 
 called out, but threw up the game and went to the 
 woman's room. That was the last Thayer saw of him
 
 50 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 for an hour, when Felton left the hotel. His face was 
 flushed and he seemed to be laboring under strong excite 
 ment. Before he left he called Thayer to one side. 'John,' 
 said he, 'if you are a friend of mine say nothing about my 
 caller to-day. You understand?' 
 
 "I remarked casually: 'Then he returned to the hotel 
 that afternoon?' 
 
 " 'Oh, yes,' said he. 
 
 "'And was there during the evening?' 
 
 " 'Yes, I noticed him in the office at the time the alarm 
 over the bank affair was sounded. He left the hot^l then 
 and I did not see him again that night.' 
 
 " 'Well,' I asked pointedly, 'can you swear that Felton 
 was in the hotel between 7:45 and 8:30 the evening of 
 Memorial Day?' I never saw a chap so taken back as 
 was Thayer. He could not locate Felton at any particu 
 lar time during the evening; moreover, he could not say 
 positively that the Winthrop woman spent the evening 
 in her room. He supposed she did. The only point that 
 Thayer was sure of was that the woman left for the south 
 on the first train the next morning. 
 
 " 'Thayer,' said I, consolingly, 'the only way I see 
 to clear your absent friend is to find this Winthrop 
 woman. Describe her to me as accurately as you can.' 
 He did so and I have a pretty good pen portrait of the 
 unknown in my memorandum-book, marked 'Exhibit 
 A.' 
 
 "'Oh, by the way,' said Thayer, 'she left a handker 
 chief in the room.' 
 
 ' 'The deuce she did ! I must have that,' said I. And 
 here it is," said Ashley, passing over a dainty lace crea 
 tion for Barker's inspection. In one corner is the letter 
 "I" curiously embroidered in silk. 
 
 "There are thousands of such handkerchiefs," com 
 ments the detective. 
 
 "Yes, but not scented with that variety of perfume." 
 The detective sniffs it. "Did you ever smell anything 
 just like that?" queries Ashley. Barker allows that he 
 never did and his acquaintance with scents is an extended 
 one.
 
 LOUISE HATHAWAY. 51 
 
 "If Isabel Winthrop is found," declares Ashley, "that 
 handkerchief, and especially that perfume, may play an 
 important part in her discovery." Barker smiles. 
 
 "Truth is stranger than fiction, my boy,'' retorts Ash 
 ley. "Well, what do you think of my clews?" 
 
 The detective wraps himself in cigar smoke and 
 thought for several minutes. Then he extends his hand. 
 
 "I believe I'll accept your proposition." Ashley 
 returns the pressure warmly. 
 
 "I think we'll make a strong pair to draw to/' he says. 
 
 "But," adds Barker, "you will see that I am more or 
 less disinterested when I tell you that I incline to the 
 belief that neither of your clews, good as they are, is the 
 correct one." 
 
 "No? Whom do you suspect?'' 
 
 Barker rises. "Ashley," says he, "you are young, 
 enthusiastic and clever. How are you fixed for pa 
 tience?" 
 
 "Job was a chronic kicker in comparison," is the 
 prompt reply. 
 
 "Well, then, about to-morrow evening I shall be ready 
 to talk with you and lay out the campaign. Satisfac 
 tory?" 
 
 "Perfectly. Let's go down to the billiard room and 
 knock the balls around for an hour." 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 LOUISE HATHAWAY. 
 
 "Good afternoon. Will you walk in?" 
 
 "Thank you. I will detain you but a short time." Jack 
 Ashley follows Miss Hathaway into the half-lighted 
 drawing room, accepts the offered chair and seats him 
 self beside the big bay window. She sinks quietly into 
 a chair opposite him and glances at the bit of pasteboard 
 in her hand. 
 
 Ashley has seen Louise Hathaway at the inquest and
 
 52 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 has remarked that she is an unusually attractive woman. 
 And now, as his glance for an instant sweeps over her, 
 he votes her superb. 
 
 Brief as is his admiring gaze, it is critical. It rests 
 upon the twined mass of golden hair, drifts over the face 
 to the long white throat and the strong shoulders, thence 
 to the faultless figure and sweep of limb. She is as differ 
 ent from her sister Helen as the placid morning is unlike 
 the beauteous night. Louise is the morning. There is 
 a strong sunlight in her glorious blue eyes, but now 
 they are shadowed by the grief of the last few days. 
 
 She lifts her eyes from the visiting card. "You are 
 a reporter," she says, with a shade of weariness in her 
 voice. 
 
 "I have the honor of representing the New York Hem 
 isphere. I do not desire to cause you any annoyance, 
 but there were some matters not brought out in the 
 inquest which I wish to investigate." 
 
 "And you have come all the way from New York for 
 this?" 
 
 "No; I have been spending my vacation in Raymond, 
 and, of course, when the news of the tragedy reached our 
 paper I was instructed to look after it. I know that the 
 errand on which I have come must be a painful one for 
 you to discuss, but I assure you that I have more than 
 a reportorial interest in the case/' 
 
 "Yes?" She looks at him inquiringly. 
 
 "You must be aware that the case is an unusual one," 
 he goes on. "My interest in it has grown into a deter 
 mination to run down and bring to justice the slayer of 
 your father." 
 
 He tries to read in the glance she gives him a trace 
 of gratitude, of approval. Failing, he decides that Louise 
 Hathaway is an extraordinary young woman. 
 
 "Have you discovered anything anything that the 
 local authorities they are so stupid have overlooked?" 
 she asks, and he fancies there is something of anxiety in 
 the calm, slow tones of a very musical voice. 
 
 "Yes," he replies. "We, the detective and myself, are 
 engaged on several clews. But it is necessarv that we
 
 LOUISE HATHAWAY. 53 
 
 should be in possession of every bit of knowledge obtain 
 able concerning all the persons who have any bearing, 
 near or remote, upon the case." 
 
 Miss Hathaway turns upon Ashley a pair of blue eyes 
 in whose depths he can read naught but purity and 
 honesty. "I fear I can tell you little," she says. 
 
 "Derrick Ames " 
 
 "Is innocent," she interrupts. 
 
 "I am of the same opinion. Derrick Ames and your 
 sister were lovers?" She nods. 
 
 "Your father, I am told, strongly opposed the young 
 man's attentions. There was a more favored suitor." 
 
 Miss Hathaway regards him with mild surprise. "You 
 knew then " 
 
 "What I have come to ask you about more particu 
 larly," finishes Ashley, unblushingly, regarding his digres 
 sion from the truth as a bit of diplomacy. 
 
 "I was not very well acquainted with him," avers Miss 
 Hathaway, "although we 'have lived in the same town 
 nearly all our lives. But father regarded him as a model 
 young man, and until lately encouraged his attentions to 
 Helen in every way." 
 
 "Now, who the deuce is she talking about?" wonders 
 Ashley, who has simply chanced it in his assertion that 
 there was a more favored suitor than Derrick Ames. 
 
 "I never fancied him, and Helen disliked him exceed 
 ingly," continues Miss Hathaway. "But the more she 
 discouraged him the more persistent he became. One 
 night Helen came to my room in tears. They had had 
 a fearful scene, she stated. She should marry him or 
 none, he had declared, and had made all sorts of wild 
 threats." 
 
 "I did not know he was such a desperate character," 
 remarks Ashley tentatively. 
 
 "I do not believe the people of this town knew what 
 his true character was. Helen said he seemed to have 
 torn off the mask that night and that his face was that 
 of a demon. He was wild with rage and left the house 
 
 with curses. I sometimes think " Miss Hathaway 
 
 pauses and her face wears a troubled expression.
 
 54 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "What on earth does she think?" meditates Ashley, 
 who is becoming a trifle bewildered. 
 
 "I sometimes think it was his hand that struck down 
 our poor father. But then he could have had no motive, 
 and there was in my eyes a reason for his action which 
 other people could not surmise." 
 
 "And yet that action seemed unexplainable?" hazards 
 Ashley. 
 
 "To others, yes. It seemed perhaps a confession of 
 guilt. But after what Helen told me I firmly believe that 
 he has gone to search for her. And when he and Der 
 rick Ames meet, I shudder to think of what may happen." 
 
 Ashley sees the light at last. So Ralph Felton was the 
 favored suitor Ralph Felton, whom nearly every one in 
 Raymond regarded as a model young man, and who, 
 despite his unaccountable flight, found plenty of people 
 willing to explain it in a dozen charitable ways. 
 
 "You say that until lately Mr. Hathaway regarded 
 Felton's attentions to your sister with favor. Had he 
 any reason for suspending his approval?" 
 
 "I imagine so. During the last month or so he rarely 
 spoke of him, and once, when his name was mentioned 
 at table, he frowned." 
 
 "I suppose you know that the case looks black against 
 Ames; that not half a dozen people in the town have a 
 good word to say for him?'' 
 
 "I do not care what is said against Derrick Ames. I 
 am sure that 'he is innocent of any connection with my 
 father's death. What he was to others I cannot say, but 
 in the eyes of Helen and myself he was a noble-hearted 
 young man, incapable of an unworthy thought or act" 
 
 "She pleads for him as if for a lover," thinks Ashley, 
 regarding with admiration the girl before him. The flash 
 in the blue eyes and the flush in the cheeks tell of warm 
 sympathies and a loyal heart. 
 
 "Your sister never intimated to you the likelihood of 
 an elopement?" Ashley inquires. 
 
 "Never. Had she a thought of such a thing I should 
 have known it. We kept nothing from each other." 
 
 "You knew that they met clandestinely?"
 
 LOUISE HATHAWAY. 55 
 
 "I did." 
 
 Ashley shifts the line of questioning to return to it at 
 a more favorable opportunity. It is apparent that it is 
 becoming painful to the girl. 
 
 "What were the relations between your father and Mr. 
 Felton the elder Felton?" 
 
 "Almost wholly of a business nature." 
 
 "They were friends?" 
 
 "Yes. I had noticed, however, that during the last 
 few weeks they did not meet as often as before. 1 ' 
 
 "Was Mr. Felton at your house within a short time 
 previous to the murder?" 
 
 "He was here the evening before it.'' 
 
 "Anything out of the ordinary in the visit?" 
 
 "Nothing, except that Mr. Felton appeared to be 
 angry." 
 
 "Will you make an effort to recall what happened on 
 that particular evening?" Louise is thoughtful for a few 
 moments. 
 
 "I fear I can recall but little," she replies slowly. "I 
 was passing through the hall on my way upstairs, and 
 as I stepped by the library door I glanced in. Father 
 was sitting in his desk chair and Mr. Felton was stand 
 ing near the door, with his hat in his hand." 
 
 "Did you hear any of the conversation?" queries Ash 
 ley, with the keenest interest in the new scent. 
 
 "Let me see yes; I remember Mr. Felton said: 'I 
 can't and I won't!' I think those were his words." 
 
 "Did he appear to be excited?" 
 
 "Perhaps so. He spoke very loudly." 
 
 "And your father's reply did you hear that?" 
 
 "Yes: I remember I paused an instant from curiosity. 
 Father said, and I recall that his voice sounded rather 
 harsh : 'Then there is but one alternative.' Then I went 
 upstairs to my room. A few minutes afterward I heard 
 the front door slam. Father did not retire until several 
 hours afterward." 
 
 "It was not his practice to do so?' 
 
 "No; he usually retired early. I dgn't see what this
 
 66 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 has to do with the mystery but then I am not a detective 
 or a newspaper man." 
 
 "It may have much to do with it," murmurs Ashley. 
 Miss Hathaway looks at him inquiringly. 
 
 "What do you think?" she asks. 
 
 "Candidly, I don't know what to think," he confesses. 
 
 "Will you permit me to turn inquisitor for a few mo 
 ments?" Miss Hathaway requests. "There are one or 
 two questions I should like to have answered." 
 
 "I will answer a thousand," replies Ashley cheerfully, 
 as he meets the direct gaze of the young lady. 
 
 "Is there any evidence against Derrick Ames, other 
 than was brought out at the coroner's inquest?" 
 
 Ashley notes the anxiety in the voice and hesitates. 
 It may be cruel, but it also may be profitable, so he 
 replies slowly to Miss Hathaway: 
 
 "I regret to say that there are a great many things 
 about Ames' movements that will have to be explained 
 away." 
 
 Miss Hathaway covers her face with her hands. A 
 less keen observer than Ashley could note the hopeless 
 ness in the face that she finally lifts. 
 
 "But you said that you believe him innocent/' she 
 exclaims, almost eagerly. 
 
 "I said so, surely," admits Ashley. "But in order to 
 prove his innocence it will be necessary to produce him." 
 
 A silence. Miss Hathaway's troubled gaze is fixed 
 upon him. His quick brain has been working and he has 
 arrived at a conclusion. "This woman believes in the 
 possibility of Ames' guilt and she has some reason other 
 than the evidence that has been produced. Ah, why 
 didn't I think of that before?" 
 
 "Miss Hathaway," says Ashley, speaking deliberately, 
 "you said a moment ago that you would do anything to 
 assist me in tracing the slayer of your father." She nods. 
 
 "Then will you show me the letter which you received 
 from your sister upon her arrival in New York?" 
 
 If Ashley expects any result from this haphazard ques 
 tion he is assuredly not prepared for what really happens. 
 Miss Hathaway's face turns ashen and a great fear
 
 MR. BARKER'S DISCOVERIES. &7 
 
 springs into her eyes. She rises to her feet, her hands 
 clenched. 
 
 "Who told you I received a letter?" she demands in a 
 trembling voice. 
 
 "We newspaper men have many means of obtaining 
 information," replies Ashley. 
 
 "Mr. Ashley," the girl says she is quite calm now 
 "I appreciate your efforts fully and thank you for them. 
 God grant that they may be crowned with success. As 
 for my sister's letter, I cannot show it to you, as I have 
 destroyed it. Its contents I shall never reveal." 
 
 "I shall hope to see you again before I leave Ray 
 mond," remarks Ashley, as he rises to take his leave; for 
 the interview has reached its natural limits. 
 
 "I am at home to you at any time," responds Miss 
 Hathaway, acknowledging gravely his pleasant adieu. 
 
 As Ashley saunters back to the hotel his mind is in a 
 more bewildered condition than at any other time since 
 he has begun work on the Hathaway case. 
 
 "Now that I am in it, I shall stay, if it occupies the 
 rest of my natural life," he determines. "What a mag 
 nificent young woman! Fortunate that I am not sus 
 ceptible, else I should already be idiotically in love with 
 this queen of the morning, whose sad blue eyes haunt 
 me still, in the words of the old song." 
 
 Oh, the self-sufficiency of youth! 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 MR. BARKER'S DISCOVERIES. 
 
 After supper Ashley retreats to the most secluded 
 corner of the veranda and amuses himself blowing smoke 
 rings over the railing. Barker has been gone ever since 
 morning. He must have struck a warm trail. Twilight 
 gathers ere Ashley beholds the familiar figure swinging 
 down the street toward the 'hotel.
 
 58 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 The detective draws a chair beside that of Ashley, and, 
 after making certain that no listeners are about, remarks 
 complacently: "My boy, I believe we are on the trail 
 of Roger Hathaway's murderer." 
 
 "Indeed! I confess that I am deeper in the woods 
 of speculation than ever.'' 
 
 "Ah, but when I give you the result of my day's work 
 I think you will find yourself out of the forest and on 
 the broad highway of conviction." 
 
 "Then you must have put in a more profitable after 
 noon than I spent, and I accomplished considerable. Had 
 your supper?" 
 
 "No. Guess I'll run in and have supper and then we'll 
 adjourn to my room for a smoke talk." 
 
 Half an hour later finds the New Yorkers comfort 
 ably settled in Barker's second-floor. 
 
 "I may as well state at the outset that, as you inti 
 mated when you introduced yourself last evening, I am 
 not a Sherlock Holmes," begins Barker. "But I have 
 had considerable experience in ferreting out criminals. 
 A good memory for faces, an extensive acquaintance with 
 the brilliants and lesser lights of the crook world, a 
 knack of putting two and two together with a view to 
 obtaining four as a result, more or less analytical abili 
 ties, an excellent physique, a fair amount of sand and an 
 unlimited stock of patience are my qualifications for 
 the profession upon which I have thus far brought no 
 discredit" 
 
 "Pretty good stock in trade, I should say," com 
 ments Ashley. 
 
 "Thank you. Now, every detective waits patiently for 
 what he regards as his big case. I think this Hathaway 
 affair is mine or ours, as we are working together. 
 Now, I'll get down to business and tell you what I have 
 discovered to-day. We may as well begin with a com 
 prehensive study of the cast of characters. Unfortu 
 nately, three of the leading ones are beyond our reach." 
 
 "Then you figure Derrick Ames extensively in the 
 case?'' 
 
 "Rather. We will begin with him and consider his
 
 MR. BARKER'S DISCOVERIES. 59 
 
 probable relation to what is destined to be a celebrated 
 case. 
 
 "It is unfortunate that the people in the world whose 
 photographs one is likely to want at some time or 
 another are the very people who seldom run to pictures," 
 resumes Barker. "There isn't a picture of Ames in ex 
 istence. So far as known he never had one taken. Nor 
 are there any photos of Helen Hathaway to be had. The 
 only portraits of her in existence are the miniature in the 
 locket missing from the dead cashier's watch-chain and 
 a crayon portrait which, I am informed, hangs in a room 
 at her late home. 
 
 "I find that Ames was regarded as an odd stick by the 
 discriminating inhabitants of Raymond principally be 
 cause he did not associate with them more than was 
 absolutely necessary. He is said to be well educated 
 and is of a high-strung, poetic temperament. Heaven 
 knows how he came to locate in such a prosy town as 
 Raymond, but the explanation of his remaining here as 
 long as he did, is simpler; he was apparently devoted to 
 Helen Hathaway. I say apparently for want of knowl 
 edge of what his exact sentiments were. Of his early 
 history I learned little, save that he came here some three 
 years ago from New York State, studied law with a local 
 counsellor, and finally took an excellent position with the 
 Vermont Life Insurance Company. 
 
 "Oddly enough, the one male companion that Ames 
 chose was a chap about as opposite in temperament and 
 every other way as one can imagine. Sam Brockway is 
 the name of the fellow, and he is employed as a cutter 
 in the sheds of the Wild River Granite Company. And 
 Ames hunted him up only when he got into one of his 
 periodical fits of the blues, and the two would start off 
 on a racket that would last several days. It was this 
 habit of drinking, combined with a cynical skepticism 
 upon matters and things dear to the heart of a deacon, 
 that made Ames objectionable to Mr. Hathaway, and 
 the antipathy was cordially returned. Helen, however, 
 was a loyal little woman, and despite her father's com 
 mands she continued her intimacy with Ames. An elope-
 
 60 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 ment was a logical sequence of such a companionship, 
 and were it not for certain damning evidence that I 
 extracted from this Brockway and discovered myself, I 
 should dismiss Ames, temporarily at least, as having 
 no connection with the bank case." 
 
 "Yet you say Brockway is a friend of Ames'," remarks 
 Ashley. 
 
 "He is. But while a good-hearted chap and loyalty 
 itself, he is not especially astute and by shrewd ques 
 tioning and judicious bluffing I discovered that he was 
 probably the last man who saw Ames before he disap 
 peared from Raymond, Roger Hathaway excepted.'' 
 
 "You mean " 
 
 "I mean that Derrick Ames was seen to enter the Ray 
 mond National Bank about 8 o'clock on the evening 
 of Memorial Day." 
 
 "H'm! That is serious. Yet his mission may have 
 been an innocent one." 
 
 "True. But to continue. This forenoon I visited the 
 station at Ashfield, where Ames and the girl there can 
 be no question that they were the pair boarded the night 
 express south. While I was lounging about the station, 
 waiting for the train back to Raymond, my eye caught 
 the glitter of an object lying between the inside rail of 
 the track and the south end of the platform, and partly 
 under the latter. It was a revolver, 32 caliber, and one 
 chamber was empty. With that for a basis, I questioned 
 the station agent on another tack, and he finally suc 
 ceeded in remembering that just as the train pulled into 
 the station that memorable night the girl handed Ames 
 his coat, and as he threw it over his arm an object dropped 
 from one of the pockets, which Ames quickly recovered 
 and replaced in the coat as he and his companion clam 
 bered aboard the train. Might not this revolver have 
 been the object dropped by Ames, and might he not when 
 he put it back in his coat have slipped it into the sleeve, 
 through which it dropped as he stepped upon the train?'' 
 
 "Well, the theory is ingenious, even if wrong," muses 
 Ashley. 
 
 "I clinched it a bit more," continues Barker. "Where
 
 MR. BARKER'S DISCOVERIES. 61 
 
 had Ames and the girl boarded the train? The station 
 agent remembered that it was at the south end of the 
 platform, as the New York sleeper was made up next 
 behind the engine and baggage car." 
 
 "I beg to remark," puts in Ashley, "that the fact of 
 one chamber in a revolver being empty is not at all 
 unusual. I have in my pocket a gun in that condition, 
 but as it is a 38 caliber, that lets me out of any connec 
 tion with the tragedy.'' 
 
 "Of course," smiles Barker, "I take all these bits of 
 evidence for what they are worth. While waiting for my 
 train I argued in thiswise: Derrick Ames was in love 
 with Helen Hathaway, and the attachment resulted in 
 an elopement. Neither was seen after 2 o'clock of 
 Memorial Day, and the inference is that they were to 
 gether somewhere all the afternoon and evening. The 
 elopement was apparently unpremeditated, as they took 
 nothing with them, so far as known, except the clothes 
 they wore. There must have been some cause for such 
 an impromptu exit. People do not elope that way no 
 matter how love-mad they may be. Where was Helen 
 when Ames was seen going into the bank? Waiting 
 for him somewhere. What was his errand? To make 
 a final appeal for the girl's hand, with an elopement in 
 mind as the last resort, perhaps. But even failing in 
 that, why elope that particular night? There must have 
 been a cause for hurrying him away. But if you assume 
 that Ames committed the crime, even as the upshot of a 
 fierce quarrel, even perhaps in self-defense, you must 
 figure him a moral monstrosity, for only such could strike 
 down a father and elope subsequently with the daughter. 
 And then there is the missing money. You see it argues 
 a villainy more despicable than a man like Ames could 
 have been guilty of." 
 
 "Yet pathology records even more singular instances 
 of moral distortion." 
 
 "Even so. But is it not more reasonable to believe that 
 Ames may have been only a witness to the murder, or 
 a spectator on the scene of the tragedy after it had oc 
 curred, and that he was hurried away by the horror of
 
 62 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 the affair? But in either event would he not have argued 
 that to fly would be the worst possible thing he could do? 
 I confess that when I arrived at Raymond I was in doubt 
 as to Ames' possible guilt, but my afternoon's investiga 
 tions have about convinced me that Derrick Ames had 
 nothing to do with the death of Cashier Hathaway." 
 
 "Then you must have substituted some other person 
 as the object of your suspicion." 
 
 "Yes; but the substitution is not especially recent. Be 
 fore I give you the result of my afternoon labors let me 
 tell you of a discovery that I made yesterday, not three 
 hours after my arrival in town. 
 
 "After I had posted myself from the stenographic 
 notes of the inquest I dropped into the bank to have a 
 talk with the officials. President Felton took me into the 
 directors' room, where the tragedy occurred, and I sat 
 in the cashier's chair and glanced around to get a few 
 bearings. While Felton was retelling his story of the 
 finding of Hathaway's body I toyed with a blotter on the 
 desk. It was the ordinary blotter, larger than the aver 
 age, with the advertisement of an insurance company on 
 one side. As I glanced carelessly at it I noticed that 
 it had taken up the ink of some unusually plain charac 
 ters. 
 
 "Felton was called out of the room for a moment and 
 I slipped the blotter in my pocket to examine it at my 
 leisure. When I returned to the hotel I made an inves 
 tigation, and I discovered but I will let you see for 
 yourself. Hand me that small mirror on the wall." 
 
 Ashley does so. The detective takes his prize from 
 a bundle of papers in his pocket, smooths it flat on the 
 table, and places the mirror perpendicularly before it. 
 Then he draws the lamp over and remarks complacently: 
 "Look here upon this picture!" 
 
 And this is what Ashley sees as he gazes upon the 
 reflecting surface. There are three groups of characters. 
 The first group reads: 
 
 "Come to the bank immediately " 
 
 The second: 
 
 "Your personal account overdrawn "
 
 A SIFTING OF EVIDENCE. 63 
 
 And the third: 
 
 "These things I charge you fail not, Cyrus Felton, at the 
 peril of your good name. Roger Hathaway." 
 
 "Jove! It reads like an accusation!" cries Ashley, 
 dropping back into his chair. 
 
 "It is an accusation!" declares the detective, with the 
 ring of triumph in his voice. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 A SIFTING OF EVIDENCE. 
 
 Both men smoke on in a brief silence that Ashley 
 breaks with an inquiring "Well?" 
 
 "Much," is Barker's smiling response. "Now, my 
 boy," he adds briskly, as he extracts a bunch of writing 
 paper from his grip and sharpens his pencil, "tell me 
 everything you know concerning the dramatis personae 
 in this drama. We will get our facts together, and then 
 I'll give you my theories for I have more than one. Go 
 ahead." 
 
 When Ashley has exhausted his stock of information 
 and has hazarded one or two ingenious theories, the de 
 tective leans back in his chair and for the space of five 
 minutes says not a word. Finally he turns to Ashley. 
 
 "This Hathaway mystery," he begins, "is either sim 
 plicity itself or it is shrouded in a veil that only the 
 patient search and unceasing effort of months will lift. 
 My first glance at the case led me to believe that the 
 murder was the work of a professional, so swiftly had it 
 been accomplished and so completely had the work of 
 the operator been covered up. But the most earnest 
 search has failed to discover the presence in town on 
 Memorial Day of any person who could possibly be 
 regarded as a suspicious character, except Ernest Stan 
 ley, of whom more anon. 
 
 "Then the deed must have been committed by some
 
 64 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 one in Raymond. Thus far we have evidence affecting 
 four men Derrick Ames, Cyrus Felton, Ralph Felton, 
 and Ernest Stanley. If two of the four were implicated 
 it could have been only the Feltons, father and son. I do 
 not say that any of the four is the guilty man. But a 
 chain of evidence must be forged about the slayer of 
 Roger Hathaway, and in order that this chain shall be 
 complete, minus not a single link, it becomes necessary 
 for us to establish the innocence of these four men, if 
 they are innocent, as well as the presumptive guilt of a 
 fifth party, if a fifth party committed the crime.'' 
 
 "In other words, we are hampered by a superabund 
 ance of clews." 
 
 "Exactly. I will pardon your interruption, but no 
 more of them, unless they are good ones. Now, your 
 attention." 
 
 "Roger Hathaway was killed in his office in the bank 
 on the evening of Memorial Day, some time between 
 7:45 and 8:30 o'clock. No definite minute or five min 
 utes can be fixed. Two of our characters were, we know, 
 and the other two may have been, at the bank between 
 7:45 and 8:30. To begin with Ames. Sam Brockway 
 tells me that he saw Ames enter the bank after Hatha 
 way had handed a note to the boy, Jimmie Howe. Brock- 
 way did not stay to see Ames come out; when the latter 
 did emerge he was unseen. It is not unreasonable to 
 assume that Ames killed Hathaway as the climax of a 
 bitter quarrel over the latter's daughter, and that, to 
 facilitate his escape, he helped himself to the bank's funds. 
 But it is unreasonable to assume that subsequently he 
 induced the daughter to elope with him. That is the 
 weak link in that chain." 
 
 "But suppose that the elopement was already under 
 way; that everything had been arranged for, hour of de 
 parture, route and conveyance," debates Ashley. "Would 
 not Ames argue that solitary flight, and a failure to 
 carry out the prearranged plans must weigh heavily 
 against him? An elopement is an excellent excuse for 
 leaving town hurriedly, you know." 
 
 "Possible," returns the detective. "Now, the letter
 
 A SIFTING OF EVIDENCE. 65 
 
 which you say Louise Hathaway received from her sister, 
 but the contents of which she refuses to reveal, must 
 have contained some reference to Ames which Miss 
 Hathaway has reasons for concealing. At any rate, there 
 is good ground for suspecting that Ames knows some 
 thing of the murder of Roger Hathaway, whether or no 
 his own hand was stained with the cashier's blood. Now," 
 says Barker, turning to the blotter and the mirror on 
 the table, and propping up the reflector with the water 
 pitcher, look that over carefully, Ashley, and tell me what 
 you find.'' 
 
 As'hley draws his chair up to the table and examines 
 critically the characters on the blotter as reflected in 
 the mirror. 
 
 "All of the words which are distinguishable were not, 
 when blotted, on the same sheet of paper," he asserts. 
 "At least two and perhaps three sheets of paper were 
 used. The words, 'your personal account overdrawn,' 
 must have been at the bottom of one sheet and those 
 with the signature attached upon another, but whether 
 top, middle, or bottom of the page is of no consequence." 
 
 "Very good," approves Barker. "That was the first 
 conclusion I arrived at when I examined the blotter. 
 Now, how about those words, 'Come to the bank imme 
 diately'?" 
 
 "Their position is not so clear to me. Their nature 
 would indicate that they began the letter, but if so I 
 cannot see why they should blot and the words following 
 them should not appear." 
 
 "But if they were part of another letter what then?'' 
 
 "Ah," remarks Ashley, thoughtfully. 
 
 "I am assuming, and I think reasonably, that the blot 
 ter was first used upon the letter or letters whose con 
 tents we are attempting to guess," says Barker. "There 
 are many faint marks around the legible words, but nat 
 urally only the words concluding each page would be 
 distinguishable. Those above would be either dry or 
 in process of drying. But what else do you deduce, Ash 
 ley?" 
 
 "Well, the writing does not display, in my opinion,
 
 66 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 undue haste or agitation. I am not an expert in hand 
 writing, but I should say that this letter was written at 
 a normal speed and by a man in a comparatively calm 
 condition of mind. The signature is bold and firm, as 
 are all the legible characters. I should also say that this 
 letter was the one which Roger Hathaway sent to Cyrus 
 Felton half an hour or so before he was found dead 
 in his office." 
 
 "You remember Felton's testimony at the inquest?" 
 
 "Perfectly. He stated that the note he received con 
 tained the simple request: 'Come to the bank imme 
 diately.' " 
 
 "Then you think he lied to the coroner?" 
 
 "It would seem so. Unless " 
 
 "Unless the note he received at his house on the even 
 ing of Memorial Day did contain only that brief sum 
 mons, which is contained in the five words at the top 
 of the blotter." 
 
 "Precisely," agrees Ashley. "That brings us to the 
 question, when was the other letter written? It must 
 have been previous to the note referred to at the inquest, 
 but how many hours or days before? Let me have your 
 theory, Barker. My mind is already shaping a shad 
 owy one." 
 
 The detective chews his cigar reflectively. "Suppose 
 that Roger Hathaway discovered, some time ago within 
 a few weeks, we will say that the affairs of the bank 
 were not in the condition that they should be?" he haz 
 ards. "An examination of the books showed not only 
 that the president's personal account was overdrawn, but 
 that certain operations of the latter had jeopardized the 
 soundness of the institution. The knowledge might have 
 been expected or unexpected. In either case the cashier 
 realized that something had to be done, and at once. 
 So on the day before Memorial Day, or even earlier, 
 he wrote a letter to the president and couched it in plain 
 English. He instanced the overdrawal of the president's 
 personal account and a number of other unpleasant con 
 ditions, and urged upon that gentleman the necessity for 
 an immediate adjustment of the critical affairs, closing
 
 68 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 with the admonition, 'Fail not, Cyrus Felton, at the peril 
 of your good name.' 
 
 "Having dispatched his letter to the president, the 
 cashier waited anxiously for a reply. It came in the 
 form of a call by Felton at the residence of Hathaway 
 the evening before Memorial Day. The interview was a 
 stormy one. At least we know it was not harmonious. 
 The cashier again set forth the necessity for immediate 
 action. Ways and means were discussed, but no way out 
 of the tangle seemed clear. In desperation the cashier 
 suggested some unpleasant but safe method of salvation. 
 The president responded angrily, 'I can't and I won't!' 
 and the cashier answered decisively, Then there is only 
 one alternative.' Without waiting to discuss this alter 
 native, the president left the house in a temper and the 
 cashier sat up in his library for hours afterward, medi 
 tating on the crisis. 
 
 "Now, what was this 'one alternative' indicated by the 
 cashier? Clearly publicity of the bank's condition and 
 its subsequent wreck. The next day was Memorial Day. 
 The cashier took part in the solemn services and in the 
 evening he went to the bank to perform some necessary 
 work upon the books, the teller being ill. No word had 
 come from the president, no intimation that he was 
 prepared to follow out the course pointed out the night 
 before, and avoid the disgrace which the wreck of the 
 bank would entail. Again the desperation of the situation 
 flashed upon the cashier. The president must act, and at 
 once. So the cashier indited a brief but peremptory note 
 to the president: 'Come to the bank immediately.' This 
 he delivered to Jimmy Howe, whom he found on the 
 bridge tossing pebbles into the stream. 
 
 "The president answered the summons. Within the 
 cashier's office the accusation, apparently so plainly indi 
 cated on this blotter, was repeated verbally. A sharp dis 
 pute followed. Hot words led to blows. The drawer 
 of the cashier's desk was open and his revolver lay in 
 view. Can you supply the rest?" 
 
 "But the open vault and the missing money and secu 
 rities?" contends Ashley.
 
 FURTHER CONSIDERATION OP CLEWS. 69 
 
 "The vault may have been, probably was, already open. 
 The missing funds had been missing for some little 
 time," replies Barker, with a significant smile. Then he 
 resumes: 
 
 "Felton testified that on the night of the tragedy he 
 reached the bank about 8:20. As he left his house about 
 8:05 he must have got to the bank not far from 8:15. It 
 is not more than ten minutes' walk, even at an ordinary 
 pace. He told Sheriff Wilson, when he found the latter 
 at the hotel, that he discovered Hathaway 'only a few 
 moments ago.' Yet the sheriff stated to me that he was 
 positive it was 8:35 when he was informed of the affair. 
 He looked at his w r atch when he was accompanying Fel 
 ton to the bank. Again, Felton told the coroner that 'it 
 did not seem more than a minute that I spent in the 
 bank,' so that here we have a hiatus of fully a quarter of 
 an hour. Now, where was Felton during that fifteen 
 minutes if not in the company of Roger Hathaway? If 
 Hathaway was dead when Felton reached the bank, why 
 was not the sheriff informed earlier? You see there is 
 an apparent discrepancy that might be explained on the 
 theory that Hathaway was alive when Felton entered the 
 bank, and that an interview of ten or fifteen minutes was 
 ended by the death of the cashier." 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 FURTHER CONSIDERATION OF CLEWS. 
 
 Having allowed Ashley to digest the food for thought 
 furnished by the detective, the latter resumes his story: 
 
 "Upon my return from Ashfield I called upon Cyrus 
 Felton, found him at his residence and interviewed him 
 in his library for fully an hour. When I introduced my 
 self as a detective he started visibly. In place of the 
 extreme agitation which characterized his testimony at 
 the inquest, he betrayed a nervousness rather peculiar,
 
 70 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 to say the least, in one whose knowledge of the crime 
 embraced only what he related to the coroner. 
 
 "I questioned him minutely, avoiding any direct query 
 that would be likely to arouse his suspicions. To my 
 question, 'When did you last see Mr. Hathaway?' he 
 replied that it was on the afternoon of Memorial Day, 
 when the Grand Army post marched to the cemetery. 
 
 " 'And before that when?' 
 
 "He hesitated a few moments and answered that he 
 had last talked with the cashier several days, probably a 
 week, before the tragedy. 
 
 " 'Your relations with Mr. Hathaway were always of 
 a friendly nature?' 
 
 " 'Eminently so.' 
 
 "The answer was straightforward and the look that 
 accompanied it was open and direct, the only one, by the 
 way, during the entire interview. Of course I was not 
 at the time aware of the unharmonious interview which, 
 as Miss Hathaway reported to you, occurred at her fa 
 ther's house on the evening preceding Memorial Day. Lie 
 No. i, conceding that he told the truth about the note 
 which he received from the cashier on the evening of 
 the tragedy. 
 
 " 'Now, this revolver of Mr. Hathaway's, what sort 
 of a weapon was it, Mr. Felton?' I asked. He gave me 
 a half-startled look and I fancied that his gaze strayed 
 for an instant to the safe set in the wall of his library. It 
 flashed upon me that the lost gun was concealed behind 
 the steel door of that same safe. 
 
 " 'The revolver,' he said, in an absent sort of way; 'oh, 
 it was an ordinary affair, 32 caliber, I believe they called 
 it, nickeled and with a pearl handle. I had often seen it 
 lying in Mr. Hathaway's drawer, but so far as I know 
 it was never used.' 
 
 " 'Would you recognize that revolver if you should see 
 it again, Mr. Felton?' 
 
 " 'I don't know as I could positively identify it. Re 
 volvers are so much alike, are they not?' I nodded, and 
 again his eyes shifted toward the door of his safe. 
 
 "Well, as I say, I talked with him for about an hour,
 
 FURTHER CONSIDERATION OF CLEWS. 71 
 
 most of the interview dealing with the forgery case of 
 two years ago, in which our mysterious friend, Ernest 
 Stanley, figured as the principal. But of that more later. 
 
 "It was about 5 o'clock when I called at Felton's house, 
 and the supper bells of the neighborhood were ringing 
 when I left. Instead of going to the hotel I struck down 
 a side street to the river road, for a smoke and a stroll, 
 and a chance to run the Hathaway case over in my mind. 
 
 "Half a mile below the village there is quite a stretch 
 of road without any houses along it. The cemetery is 
 on one side, the river on the other. I was sprawling on 
 the stone wall that skirts the city of the dead and looking 
 toward the village, when I saw a figure rapidly approach 
 ing. 'Cyrus Felton or Pm a goat!' I exclaimed, and 
 rolled out of sight behind the wall. My eyesight is keen 
 and I could not mistake the tall, lank form of the bank 
 president. 'What the deuce is he doing down this road 
 at an hour when he should be peacefully eating his sup 
 per?' I wondered. 
 
 "When Felton passed around the bend in the road 
 I sprung over the wall and followed at a cautious dis 
 tance. He looked around once or twice, and I had to 
 dodge behind a tree each time. Suddenly he stopped and 
 walked out upon the bank of the river, while I again 
 took up a position behind my friendly stone wall. 
 
 "Our banker walked to the edge of the river, and, 
 with his hands clasped behind him, stared at the water, 
 now and then casting a look up and down the road. 
 
 " 'Heavens! Is he going to commit suicide?' I thought. 
 Surely my mild catechism had not driven him to such an 
 extremity. My fears were shortly allayed. He suddenly 
 thrust his hand into his coat pocket, and, withdrawing 
 some object, hurled it into the stream. ' It sunk with a 
 small splash. I was too far away to more than guess 
 what the object was. Felton remained on the bank for 
 several minutes, gazing at the surface of the river, then 
 suddenly wheeled and started toward the village. As 
 he passed me I fancied he looked a bit more relieved 
 in mind. 
 
 "After he was out of sight I walked over to the river
 
 72 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 and marked as near as possible the spot where he had 
 stood. The river at that point is deep, and I fear that 
 the bottom is muddy, as the stream makes a sharp bend 
 and spreads into a broad lagoon, with little or no cur 
 rent." 
 
 "You intend to go a-fishing?" queries Ashley. 
 
 "At daylight, if we can get a boat of some sort." 
 
 "And if our search is rewarded by the finding of a 
 revolver the revolver what then?" 
 
 "Then I think we shall have a case against Cyrus Fel- 
 ton stronger than we shall make out against any one 
 else. I can see by your face that you are only half con 
 vinced of that fact/' continues Barker. "You are more 
 inclined to suspect the younger Felton than the elder, 
 eh?" 
 
 "Well," argues the newspaper man, "in the case of 
 Ralph Felton there is a motive, an evil temper, and 
 what is usually regarded as confession of guilt flight." 
 
 "Good. Let us look over young Felton's case." says 
 the detective. "Ralph Felton, we know, is possessed of 
 an evil temper and a disposition to bullyrag a young lady 
 who is sensible enough not to love him. We know also 
 that he gambles with traveling men who put up here, 
 and drinks more or less. As the good people of this 
 town regard Ralph as a model young man, his indul 
 gence in cards and wine on the quiet shows a broad 
 streak of deception in his character. 
 
 "His inclinations toward gayety were not cultivated 
 in his native town. Previous to a twelvemonth ago four 
 or five years of his life were spent in New York, Chicago 
 and other cities. His occupation during a share of that 
 time was that of representative and selling agent for the 
 granite company in which his father is the principal 
 stock owner. He was apparently wild and reckless, for 
 a year ago he returned to Raymond and through the 
 efforts of his father was given the position of bookkeeper 
 in the bank, a position which does not usually pay 
 much. It would appear that the elder Felton had 
 enacted the role of the prodigal's father. 
 
 "While Ralph Felton was 'down country' he fell in
 
 FURTHER CONSIDERATION OF CLEWS. 73 
 
 love with a pretty face, and upon its possessor he squan 
 dered all his means and more. When Ralph returned to 
 Raymond the woman wrote to him demanding money 
 and a fulfillment of pledges. The former he had not; 
 of the latter he had no thought, as he had become des 
 perately enamored of Helen Hathaway. Unable to ob 
 tain satisfaction by a correspondence, the woman visited 
 Raymond the afternoon of Memorial Day, registered as 
 'Isabel Winthrop,' and sent word to Ralph that a lady 
 desired to see him. He went to her. The interview be 
 tween the pair was not harmonious. Sounds of a quarrel 
 came from the room, and once or twice the word 'money' 
 was used. Half an hour or so from the time he entered 
 the hotel Ralph left with a flushed countenance, first 
 pledging the clerk to say nothing of his feminine caller. 
 
 "He has essayed promises with her, but something 
 substantial is demanded to back them up. He must have 
 money, but where is it to be secured? No use to apply 
 to his father, that he well knows. The more he racks 
 his brain the more desperate becomes the situation. Then 
 a wild thought comes to him. The bank! There must 
 be a large amount of money in the safe. The county 
 bonds mature the next day. He knows, we will assume 
 perhaps the knowledge is accidental the combination 
 of the safe. 
 
 "Ralph returns to the hotel, and, with a calmness born 
 of a desperate resolve, informs 'Isabel Winthrop' that he 
 has arranged for the needed funds, and reiterates his 
 promises for the future. As dusk comes on he leaves the 
 hotel unobserved by the clerk, goes to the bank, opens 
 the front door and locks it behind him, and proceeds 
 to the cashier's office in the rear, wherein open the doors 
 to the vault. 
 
 "As with a trembling hand he twists the combination 
 of the vault he hears the sound of a key in the outer 
 door. He springs to his feet and casts a startled glance 
 about him. There is no egress from the room save by 
 the way he came. Ah! The closet! He secretes him 
 self in the dark closet at the farther end of the room, and 
 at that instant Roger Hathaway enters.
 
 74 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 ' 'The cashier,' murmurs the prisoner in the closet, as 
 through the partially open door he watches Hathaway 
 light his desk lamp. 'He has dropped in to get some 
 papers and will soon be gone,' thinks Ralph. But to the 
 latter's despair the cashier opens the vault, takes out the 
 big ledger, and settles down apparently to an evening's 
 work. 
 
 "Here is a nice predicament, but there is nothing to 
 be done except wait until the cashier finishes his even 
 ing's work and goes home. Half an hour or more goes 
 by. The closet is dusty and Ralph is seized with an irre 
 sistible desire to sneeze. The explosion, a half-smothered 
 one, occurs, and the cashier looks about him in surprise 
 and wonder. But he continues his work. Suddenly Pel- 
 ton sees him seize a pad of writing paper, scratch off a 
 brief note and leave the room to find a messenger. Has 
 the cashier suspected the presence of some person in 
 the bank besides himself and has he taken this means to 
 summon assistance? As this thought flashes upon him 
 young Felton becomes desperate, but as he watches the 
 face of the cashier, who returns calmly to his writing, he 
 convinces himself that he is mistaken. 
 
 "Again that cursed inclination to sneeze, which in vain 
 he attempts to smother. This time there is no mistake. 
 The cashier rises to his feet and glances about the room 
 in alarm. His eyes finally rest on the partly opened 
 door of the dark closet. Hathaway is a man of nerve. 
 He opens the right-hand drawer of his desk, takes out 
 and cocks his revolver and walks deliberately toward the 
 closet. 
 
 "All this is seen by Ralph, and his plan to rob the bank- 
 is succeeded by a desire to escape from the building 
 unrecognized. To accomplish this the cashier must be 
 overpowered. So when the latter flings open the closet 
 door the man within reaches out, grasps the revolver 
 arm and draws the cashier into the darkness of the 
 closet. Then ensues a fierce struggle, for Roger Hath 
 away, though old, is still a powerful man. This would 
 account for the old ledgers that were toppled over into
 
 THE KEY TO THE MYSTERY. 75 
 
 the office, and for the marks on the body of the murdered 
 man. 
 
 "During the struggle the revolver is discharged and 
 the bullet enters the cashier's heart. The doctors in the 
 case tell me that the course of the bullet was such that 
 the leaden missile might have come from a pistol dis 
 charged during such a struggle as I have described. But 
 to continue: 
 
 "Ralph Felton draws the limp form of the cashier out 
 into the office and lays it upon the floor. A moment's 
 examination shows him that the man is dead, and he 
 realizes his frightful position. Then the thought occurs 
 to him that, if he carries out his original plan of robbing 
 the bank, the crime will be ascribed to burglars. So he 
 fills his pockets with what money and securities are in 
 the safe, closes the door to the cashier's office behind him 
 and leaves the bank, with the front door unlocked or 
 ajar." 
 
 "Unless " interrupts Ashley. 
 
 "Unless what?" 
 
 "Unless," says the newspaper man, leaning back in his 
 chair and blowing a cloud of smoke ceilingward "unless 
 Ralph Felton, when he rose from his examination of the 
 body, was suddenly confronted by his father, who had 
 come to the bank in response to the summons sent by 
 the cashier!" 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE KEY TO THE MYSTERY. 
 
 "Following along the lines of your theory," continues 
 Ashley, "if Ralph Felton rose from the corpse of Roger 
 Hathaway and confronted his father upon the threshold 
 of the cashier's office, that dramatic meeting would ex 
 plain many things. It would explain the startled glance 
 that Cyrus Felton shot at his son I was studying the 
 faces of both when the latter refused to state at the 
 inquest where he had spent the time between 7:45 and
 
 76 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 8:30 on the evening of Memorial Day. It would account 
 for the carrying off of the cashier's revolver and its 
 subsequent burial among the waters of Wild River; for 
 young Felton's flight, and for the extreme agitation of 
 the elder Felton ever since the night of the killing." 
 
 "And," adds Barker, "it would satisfactorily clear up 
 the interim of fifteen minutes between the time Cyrus 
 Felton should have reached the bank and the moment 
 when the sheriff was notified. In fact, if the Felton fam 
 ily is responsible for the death of Roger Hathaway there 
 must be some understanding between father and son. 
 But we will now proceed to the consideration of an 
 important character in our tragedy Ernest Stanley. 
 
 "Two years ago, while the directors of the Raymond 
 National Bank were holding their annual meeting, the 
 teller stepped into the room and announced that a 
 stranger had presented at the bank for payment a check 
 for $1,000, signed by Cyrus Felton. 
 
 " 'Impossible !' exclaimed that individual, who was pre 
 siding over the directors' meeting. 'Let me see the 
 check.' The teller produced it, and Felton at once de 
 clared it a forgery, and a bungling one at that. An offi 
 cer was quickly summoned and Ernest Stanley, who had 
 presented the check, was arrested. 
 
 "His trial in the Mansfield County Court was short. 
 The forgery was proved and the young man was sen 
 tenced to three years in the state prison at Windsor. In 
 his own defense he had no money with which to employ 
 a lawyer Stanley stated that the check had been given 
 to him two days before he presented it, by a casual ac 
 quaintance who claimed the name signed to the bit of 
 paper. It was in payment of a gambling debt and the 
 transaction occurred in Phil Clark's well-known lair of 
 the tiger on Fifth Avenue, New York." 
 
 "Which, by the way, is no more," puts in Ashley. "The 
 place was closed out six months ago and Phil is now 
 in 'Frisco." 
 
 "It was in existence during Stanley's trial," resumes 
 Barker, "and the trial was adjourned a couple of days 
 while his improbable story was looked up. As was
 
 THE KEY TO THE MYSTERY. 77 
 
 expected, neither Phil nor any of the habitues of his 
 place knew of such a person as Ernest Stanley, much 
 less such a transaction as he alleged to have occurred 
 there. 
 
 "Stanley received his sentence calmly. Beyond stating 
 that his age was 26 and his occupation that of a book 
 maker he refused to furnish any details of his birth, early 
 life or present residence. He served two years of his 
 sentence and was pardoned by the governor this last 
 Memorial Day. Strangely enough, the pardon was se 
 cured by the man whose name he was alleged to have 
 forged Cyrus Felton. Now, what feelings do you sup 
 pose actuated Felton in securing a remission of a year 
 in the prisoner's sentence? Compassion?" 
 
 "What should you say were I to suggest the word 
 'remorse'?" replies Ashley. 
 
 "I should say," declares the detective, with a smile of 
 approval, "that you had hit upon the very word. It is 
 plain that you foresee what I am leading up to." 
 
 "To the theory that Stanley was innocent of the forg 
 ery and that the check was given to him by Ralph Fel 
 ton?" 
 
 "Exactly. It will be difficult to prove, but if it can be 
 proved it will have an important bearing on the Hatha 
 way mystery. It will show Ralph Felton's capacity for 
 wrongdoing and will enable us to surmise to what extent 
 Cyrus Felton would shield his son from conviction of a 
 crime. At the time the check was presented Ralph Fel 
 ton was supposed to be in New York, and as he had been 
 for some time more or less of a trial to the old man the 
 latter doubtless suspected in an instant what we are 
 assuming to have been the truth. He had to decide be 
 tween his son and a stranger, and, as usual, the stranger 
 suffered." 
 
 "What led Stanley to attempt to cash the check in 
 Raymond?" debates Ashley. 
 
 "Well, if he was a stranger in New York he would 
 find it impossible to cash it at any of the banks in that 
 city. Why not run up to Raymond and cash it at the 
 bank on which it was drawn? I forgot to say that at
 
 78 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 the trial Stanley allege'd that his acquaintance of the gam 
 bling rooms claimed to be a Vermonter and appeared to 
 have plenty of money." 
 
 "And he did not hazard the suggestion that this ac 
 quaintance was the son of the man whose name was 
 forged?" 
 
 "He did not know that there was a son. To prove 
 this, if the visitor at Cyrus Felton's house on the evening 
 of Memorial Day was the released prisoner of Windsor, 
 note his surprised reply to the housemaid, 'I did not 
 know there were two Feltons.'" 
 
 "True," admits Ashley. "Keep along, old man." 
 
 "If Stanley was that visitor," pursues the detective, "his 
 object in revisiting Raymond was to obtain revenge for 
 the wrong that had been done him. 
 
 "When he arrived at Raymond, at 7:45, he went di 
 rectly to Felton's house. Failing to find the bank presi 
 dent at home, he obtained directions as to where Felton's 
 office was and proceeded to the bank block. The office, 
 which is on the second story, at the south end of the 
 block, was dark and Stanley returned to the street. As 
 he stood in front of the bank and thought of the day, 
 two long years before, when he stepped from its portals 
 with a constable gripping his arm, he noticed a light in 
 the rear. Perhaps Felton was within. So he pushed 
 open the door and " 
 
 "Hold on a bit. How does the bank door come to 
 be open? You are assuming a great deal this time, 
 Barker," laughs Ashley. 
 
 "I am assuming that he got into the bank some way 
 or other," retorts the detective. "If not and here I 
 will quote- your own words when you imparted to me 
 your valuable discovery 'What was Stanley doing at 6 
 o'clock the next morning asleep in the bushes in a lonely 
 gorge near South Ashfield village?" 
 
 Ashley laughs merrily. "I was expecting that," he 
 says. "But I'll be hanged if I will believe that an Edmond 
 Dantes sort of a chap like Ernest Stanley is capable 
 of " 
 
 "Permit me to suggest that Ernest Stanley may be
 
 THE KEY TO THE MYSTERY. 79 
 
 a cheap criminal instead of an Edmond Dantes," inter 
 rupts Barker, with a withering sarcasm that only in 
 creases Ashley's good humor. "We have given him a 
 good character simply to suit our present theory. He 
 may have really forged old Felton's name, and his visit 
 to Raymond may have been actuated by a base desire 
 for revenge upon a stern justice meted out to him. Alone 
 in the bank with Roger Hathaway and the open vault, 
 murder and robbery may have come natural to him. We 
 know nothing that should lead us to decide that he was 
 a much-abused young man." 
 
 "Yet you believe he is, I'll wager/' asserts Ashley. 
 
 "I confess that I do. A man would be half a dozen 
 kinds of a fool to forge the name of the president of a 
 bank and present the check for payment at the latter's 
 own bank. Still what evidence we have against Stanley 
 is strong. We can account for the flight of Derrick 
 Ames on the simple elopement theory. We can explain 
 the levanting of Ralph Felton on the theory that he 
 refused to establish an alibi because it would necessitate 
 the confession of an acquaintance with 'Isabel Winthrop,' 
 when he was an ardent suitor for the hand of Helen Hath 
 away, and on the further supposition that he has gone 
 to hunt for the woman he insanely loved. We can ex 
 plain the nervous condition of Cyrus Felton on the as 
 sumption that he fears his son was implicated in the 
 bank robbery and trembles for his safety. But we can 
 not explain why Ernest Stanley fled from Raymond the 
 night of Memorial Day and hurried over mountain and 
 stream and through forest, chased like a wild beast, 
 until he found a haven of refuge. The open bank door 
 is the break in the chain of evidence against him, 
 and that may be mended by assuming that the cashier 
 forgot to lock the door behind him when he entered 
 the bank. 
 
 "We must find Stanley," Ashley promptly declares. 
 
 "And there are others to be found," the detective 
 rejoins dryly. "But especially must we run down Stan 
 ley. I am convinced that he is the key to the mystery, 
 and when we have located his position in this puzzling
 
 80 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 case I believe that the rest of the race will be plain 
 sailing." 
 
 "I fear it will be a long, stern chase." 
 
 'Such chases usually are," remarks Barker, com 
 posedly. "I have already set the machinery in motion, 
 and the police of the entire country are on the lookout- 
 for a chap answering Stanley's description. What makes 
 our task the harder is the probable fact that Stanley is 
 not a member of the criminal class, and so a compara 
 tively easy channel of pursuit is closed. He presuma 
 bly made for New York, and somewhere in that busy 
 human hive we may run across him." 
 
 "Then our labors at this end of the road are about 
 completed?" 
 
 "Nearly so. To-morrow morning, before the village 
 is astir, we will go a-fishing. If we find what we expect 
 the case may be precipitated a bit. Otherwise we will 
 shift the scene of our operations to New York, after I 
 have pumped the servants in the Felton family and 
 inquired as far as is possible into the affairs of the bank. 
 Is your vacation about wound up?" 
 
 "It will be in a day or so. I have nothing to keep 
 me here longer except a pleasant duty that I owe to 
 myself." 
 
 "And that is " 
 
 "To make an unprofessional call upon Miss Louise 
 Hathaway." 
 
 "Ho! Sits the wind in that quarter?" laughs the de 
 tective. 
 
 "Don't be absurd, my friend," smiles Ashley. "Miss 
 Hathaway interests me only as would a statue of the 
 Venus de Milo." 
 
 "Indeed? Still, men have lost their hearts to a statue." 
 
 "In books and plays. If we are to arise at daybreak 
 I would suggest the advisability of retiring."
 
 A CHANGE OF BASE. 81 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 A CHANGE OF BASE. 
 
 "I believe this is the exact spot; yes, I am sure it is. 
 Drop your anchor, Ashley, so that the bow will point 
 up-stream/' says Barker, as he grasps a long pole with 
 a hook at one end, and prepares to explore the bed 
 of Wild River. 
 
 Ashley lets go the rock that does duty as an anchor and 
 remarks ruefully, when all but a yard of the rope is run 
 out: "This is deep-sea fishing. There is over twelve 
 feet of water here." 
 
 "Thunder! And mud enough to bury a man-of-war/' 
 grunts the detective. 
 
 After fifteen minutes of earnest but ineffectual grop 
 ing in the slimy bed of the stream Barker throws the 
 pole from him and remarks: "No use." 
 
 "Can't the river be dredged?'' 
 
 "Yes; with a force of men and a steam dredger, and 
 the whole township looking on and asking questions. 
 We can do nothing this morning. Up anchor and away! 
 I could use a little breakfast." 
 
 "By the way," observes Ashley, as the two men walk 
 back to the hotel, "in all your talk last night you said 
 nothing of that locket, with the miniatures of the Hath 
 away sisters, which was stolen from the watch-chain of 
 the murdered cashier the night of the killing." 
 
 "Do you know it was stolen on that night?" asks the 
 detective. 
 
 "We must assume that it was until we know other 
 wise, I suppose," returns Ashley. "If the missing locket 
 is found in the possession of any one of our suspects 
 it would be a strong link, would it not?'' 
 
 "Very likely, but we must find our man first. Shall 
 you be ready to leave for New York to-night?" 
 
 "Sure thing." 
 
 "Good. We must strike the trail there and follow it, 
 if need be, to the end of the world."
 
 82 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 Ashley has been in Raymond only two weeks, but al 
 ready he begins to sigh for the pleasures and palaces 
 of gay, crowded and babel-voiced New York. 
 
 "Hang it!" he growls to Barker, as he packs his valise, 
 "this Vermont country is all right, but the natives are 
 atrocious. They know no literature except those provin 
 cial Boston dailies and the current paper-covered rot; 
 no music except Sousa's marches, no art except the col 
 ored supplements to the Sunday newspapers and no con 
 versation higher than horse, hay and village gossip." 
 
 "Your criticism is too sweeping," replies the detective. 
 There is more culture in Raymond, in proportion to its 
 population, than there is in New York, I'll wager. And 
 where in that politics-ridden city will you find another 
 woman rivaling your fervid description of Miss Louise 
 Hathaway?" 
 
 "Ah, she is a rose in a wilderness. And that reminds 
 me that I have promised myself the pleasure of a farewell 
 call upon her," says Ashley. 
 
 "Farewell?" repeats the detective, skeptically. "You 
 will not see the last of Miss Hathaway to-day unless I 
 am much mistaken. I have known of more than one 
 lover of statuary who failed to be content with the marble 
 and warmed it into living, breathing womanhood." 
 
 "Nonsense!'' laughs Ashley. "I shall live and die a 
 bachelor." 
 
 But he spends fully ten minutes in tying his cravat, 
 brushes his hair with unusual care, gives his mustache 
 an extra twist, and saunters up to the Hathaway 
 homestead in an expectant frame of mind. Foolish Jack 
 Ashley! In after years he will smile at the recollection 
 of the thoughts that flit through his busy mind to-day. 
 
 Just as he turns into the path leading to the Hatha 
 way residence Miss Hathaway is stepping out upon the 
 veranda. She sees him and smiles in her grave way. 
 
 "Good afternoon," she says to her visitor. He answers, 
 uncovering his head. 
 
 "I called to say au revoir. I leave for New York to 
 night." 
 
 She leads the way to the reception room. After they
 
 A CHANGE OF BASE. 83 
 
 have taken their seats near the open window she answers: 
 
 "You will return? Your work here on on the case 
 is not yet finished?" 
 
 "No; we shall have occasion to visit Raymond more 
 than once before the mystery which shrouds the bank 
 case is dispelled. It is going to be a long chase, I fear, 
 Miss Hathaway. But I hope to come to you some day 
 and tell you of its successful end." 
 
 "I hope so," she replies dreamily, her thoughts far 
 away. 
 
 "You have heard nothing more from your sister?" 
 
 "Nothing." Her look is frank. 
 
 "I can tell you nothing of our plans," says Ashley, 
 "further than that our principal endeavor will be to dis 
 cover Ernest Stanley." 
 
 "Ernest Stanley?'' repeats Miss Hathaway. "Oh, the 
 young man who was pardoned from State prison on 
 Memorial Day. Do you think he committed the crime?'' 
 
 "Frankly, no. But we believe that he knows some 
 thing of its perpetration. In other words, we regard him 
 as the key to the mystery." 
 
 "And Derrick Ames?" questions Miss Hathaway, with 
 the anxious expression of yesterday in her gaze. 
 
 "Derrick Ames must be found, also. If you could give 
 me any information " 
 
 "I can tell you nothing," she replies hurriedly. 
 
 "Ralph Felton is another absentee whose presence is 
 earnestly desired," he resumes. 
 
 "You say you do not believe that Stanley is the guilty 
 man. Does it, then, lie between Ralph Felton and " 
 
 "And Derrick Ames?" finishes Ashley. "Not neces 
 sarily. There is another, but for excellent reasons I 
 should prefer not to mention the name. Have you any 
 plans for the future?" 
 
 "No definite plans. Mr. Cyrus Felton has been ap 
 pointed executor of the estate and after that has been 
 settled I shall probably make my home at his house." 
 
 "At Cyrus Felton's?" murmurs Ashley, in such a pecu 
 liar voice that Miss Hathaway looks at him in surprise.
 
 84 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "Yes; that is the only place I can go to at present. He 
 has long been a friend of the family.'' 
 
 ''Have you no relatives in Boston, New York, or 
 elsewhere?" 
 
 "No near relatives. It will not be very long ere I 
 shall have to make a home for myself. I am told that the 
 estate will settle for very little," confesses Miss Hatha 
 way, with a red spot in each pale cheek. Ashley under 
 stands and regards her sympathetically. 
 
 There is a short, somewhat embarrassing silence. Then 
 Ashley rises regretfully. He says: 
 
 "I am afraid it must be good-bye or, perhaps, au 
 revoir. I shall hope to see you again before the summer 
 is gone." 
 
 "I trust so," Miss Hathaway responds, this time quite 
 cordially, as she gives him her hand at parting, and Ash 
 ley holds it an instant longer than ordinary courtesy calls 
 for. And as he walks slowly away from the house he 
 carries with him the vision of a tall girl, with a pure 
 white face and sad blue eyes, into which the sunlight 
 will some day come again. 
 
 At night he and Barker take the Montreal express 
 for New York. 
 
 Summer drifts into autumn and autumn into winter. 
 Life goes on much the same in Raymond. The Hatha 
 way mystery gradually fades from public interest, and it 
 is set down as a crime that will never be explained. 
 
 The Raymond National Bank has closed its doors. 
 The robbery of its vault was a blow from which it found 
 it impossible to recover. 
 
 No tidings are received of Derrick Ames and Helen 
 Hathaway or of Ralph Felton. None, unless they are 
 in the keeping of the silent, stern-faced Cyrus Felton or 
 the beautiful girl with the sad blue eyes who abides under 
 his roof. 
 
 Every Sunday, in rain r in sunshine, mid heat or cold, 
 Louise Hathaway may be seen ascending the hill in the 
 little cemetery by which Wild River sings its way, her 
 
 r-
 
 SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 85 
 
 mission of love to deposit a basket of flowers upon a 
 grave at the head of which stands a plain white shaft 
 bearing, besides the name and dates, the simple inscrip 
 tion, "Faithful Unto Death." 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 
 
 It is early in the evening. Jack Ashley is seated at 
 his desk in the Hemisphere office enjoying his pipe 
 preliminary to setting forth on an assignment. 
 
 The month is March. Nearly a year has elapsed since 
 Ashley's first visit to the Vermont town which, for a 
 brief space, came into the world's eye as the scene of 
 the mysterious death of Cashier Roger Hathaway in 
 the Raymond National Bank. During this time no fur 
 ther light has been shed on the mystery, which has grad 
 ually dropped from the thoughts of all save a few per 
 sons, two of whom are Ashley and John Barker, the 
 detective. 
 
 Jack hears from Barker occasionally. The latter is 
 busy on other work, but he still keeps a live interest in 
 what he regards as the case of his life, and both he and 
 his newspaper colaborer hope some day to astonish Ver 
 mont, and incidentally the country, by solving the Hath 
 away mystery, one of the most remarkable in the crim 
 inal annals of New England. 
 
 But as the months slipped by Ashley's stock of confi 
 dence decreased slightly and to-night finds him wonder 
 ing whether he will ever have the privilege of handing 
 the news editor a bundle of "copy," with the remark 
 "There is an exclusive that is worth while." 
 
 "I have helped run down a number of crimes and 
 fasten them upon the guilty persons," he soliloquizes, 
 "and have flattered myself that I was something of a de 
 tective. But in each of those cases the trembling villain 
 was on or about the scene of his crime and when you
 
 86 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 had your case made out all there was to do was to clap 
 a heavy hand upon his shoulder. But in this Hathaway 
 drama about all of the leading characters have disap 
 peared, aird the man whom we regard as the key to the 
 mystery, Ernest Stanley, is the very man we are least 
 likely to find. 
 
 "But is Stanley the key?" continues Jack, stretching 
 himself in his chair. "I don't think Barker and I have 
 attached sufficient importance to that blotter found on 
 Hathaway's desk. These fragments of sentences keep 
 haunting me, even amid my daily duties. Something tells 
 me that if we had the imprint of an entire page of that 
 letter to Felton we could solve the mystery without find 
 ing our men. 'These things I charge you, Cyrus Felton, 
 fail not at the peril of your good name.' 'These 
 things ' " 
 
 Ashley is slowly scratching a match to relight his pipe, 
 when he suddenly stops and his thought-wrinkled fore 
 head smooths. 
 
 "Hello! Here's an idea, perhaps a valuable one. It 
 is possible that Barker and I have been all wrong in 
 regarding that letter as an accusation. The English 
 language is elastic. 'I charge you, Cyrus Felton,' 'I 
 charge you, I charge you, I charge you.' Now, instead 
 of 'I accuse you,' read 'I adjure you.' But 'I adjure you,' 
 what? To 'fail not.' To 'fail not' in what? Ay, there's 
 the rub. I am as much in the dark as before. Still the 
 idea is worth considering, and I'll spring it on Barker.'' 
 
 Ashley finishes his smoke in silence and when the last 
 flake of tobacco has yielded its solace he draws on his 
 coat and boards an uptown car. 
 
 In that brilliantly lighted section of Broadway where 
 stands the Hoffman House, Jack stops a moment to chat 
 with an acquaintance. 
 
 "Say," remarks the latter, "there's a chap yonder star 
 ing hard at you. Know him?" 
 
 At his friend's suggestion Ashley turns suddenly and 
 catches the searching gaze of a tall, handsome man with 
 a dark-brown beard trimmed to a point. He is richly 
 but simply attired, and his appearance is unmistakably
 
 SHADOWS OF COMING EVENTS. 87 
 
 that ot a gentleman. As Ashley returns his stare with in 
 terest the stranger turns and enters the hotel. 
 
 The incident is trivial, but it awakens curious emo 
 tions in Ashley, and absently overlooking his acquaint 
 ance's suggestion of a visit to the cafe, he says an au 
 revoir and continues up Broadway. 
 
 "I have seen those eyes somewhere," he muses, "but 
 hang me if I can recall where." 
 
 As, late in the evening, his assignment covered, Ash 
 ley is sauntering down Broadway, he is haunted by the 
 vision of a bearded face surrounding a pair of piercing 
 eyes. He even drops in at the Hoffman House and 
 looks through the bar room, cafe and reading rooms, 
 but the handsome stranger is not in view. 
 
 Ashley has been in Raymond once since he left it, 
 the spring before, and he was kindly received by Miss 
 Hathaway. But that was all. Not all his engaging man 
 ners and clever conversation could penetrate the reserve 
 with which she surrounded herself, and he almost decided 
 that she was indeed the marble which he professed to 
 Barker to have solely interested him. Still, that pure 
 white face, with its matchless blue eyes and the sad 
 smile that occasionally lighted it, lingers vividly in his 
 memory and will continue to linger until 
 
 He is at the Hemisphere office now. A very short time 
 suffices to write and hand in his "copy'' and then he 
 lounges into the cable editor's room, with the inquiry: 
 "What news from over the sea, Chance?" 
 
 "Nothing special except the insurrection in Cuba," 
 Chance tells him. "Affairs are getting hot down there. 
 You can judge of the magnitude of to-day's battle at 
 Cienfuegos when you read that thirty Spaniards were 
 killed and fifty captured.'' 
 
 "I should say so," laughs Ashley. "The average mor 
 tality per battle is three men killed and four wounded, 
 is it not?" 
 
 The cable editor throws a handful of "copy" from him 
 with a sniff of disgust. "One can never tell how far to 
 trust this rot we are getting from Madrid and Key West/' 
 he says. "I wish the Hemisphere had a live man such as
 
 88 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 you down in Cuba to give us some straight information 
 on the conflict." 
 
 "Thank you. I have no desire to run up against Yel 
 low Jack." 
 
 "Hang Yellow Jack! He is only dangerous to those 
 half-fed raw recruits that the government is sending over 
 from Spain. I have talked with Mr. Hone about the ad 
 vantage of sending a representative to Havana or Santi 
 ago, and he is seriously considering it. "Hold on! Here's 
 something coming now," and Chance turns to his table. 
 
 Ashley waits until the dispatch has been received, and 
 then reads with interest the following special from Ma 
 drid: 
 
 "Ten thousand additional troops will be dispatched to Cuba 
 within a week, in response to the demand of Gen. Martinez 
 de Truenos, the new captain-general of the island. Geu. 
 Truenos has had experience in fighting Cuban insurgents, and 
 a speedy termination of the uprising is looked for." 
 
 "Same old bluff," comments Ashley, and then, awak 
 ened to an interest in Cuban affairs by the words of the 
 cable editor, he visits the night-editor's den in search of 
 further information. 
 
 The longest story is from Key West, and a portion of 
 it runs in this wise: 
 
 "The insurgents are winning victories every day. The 
 Cuban patriots do not need more men. All they want is arms 
 and ammunition. 
 
 "It is whispered that the greatest difficulty with which the 
 present captain-general has to contend is the conspiring among 
 his own alleged supporters and advisers. One or two Spanish 
 generals and a number of influential residents and land-owners 
 at Havana, Santiago and other important points are sus 
 pected of active sympathy with the insurgents, but no proof of 
 such complicity can be obtained. It is even said that the 
 chosen president of the provisional republic is at present in 
 Cuba, and that under the very nose of the hated oppressor he 
 directs the movements of the patriot armies. It is thought 
 that this condition of affairs is responsible for the change in 
 captain-generals, as Truenos is reputed to be a clever diplo 
 mat as well as a tried soldier. The next few months will 
 probably decide the fate of the republic. The Cubans must 
 win this year or never." 
 
 What do you think?" Ashley asks the night editor. 
 "Has the island any chance of liberty?"
 
 SHADOWS OP COMING EVENTS. 89 
 
 "The prospects were never rosier," is Chambers' reply. 
 "It is evident that the Castilian has an enormous job on 
 his hands in the present insurrection. We received a dis 
 patch a short while ago which has a local reference. I 
 sent it up to Hone, and perhaps Ricker has it by this time. 
 It states that the insurgents count upon valuable assist 
 ance from New York and that an expedition is being 
 fitted out here. This wire came from Washington and 
 the Spanish minister there has asked our government to 
 prohibit the assistance I speak of. Hello!" as a bunch 
 of copy is thrown upon his table, "the president has issued 
 a proclamation bearing on the matter.'' 
 
 The proclamation is brief but significant. It sets forth 
 that, without a violation of the friendly relations existing 
 between Spain and the United States, this government 
 cannot countenance the fitting out of expeditions designed 
 to assist the insurrectionists in Cuba. A number of United 
 States vessels have been ordered to patrol duty, and a 
 rigid surveillance of the coast will be maintained. 
 
 "That may be good government, but it is confoundedly 
 un-American in sentiment," remarks Ashley, scornfully, 
 for he is an American through and through. 
 
 "The government's course was clear," Chambers mildly 
 observes. "The President could do nothing less. I do 
 not imagine, however, that the patrol will be much more 
 than perfunctory." 
 
 When Ashley reports at the Hemisphere office the next 
 day he finds in his letter box two yellow envelopes. One 
 is from the city editor and contains an assignment to in 
 terview Senor Rafael Manada of the Cuban revolutionary 
 society in the United States. The senor is stopping at 
 the Fifth Avenue and a full story on Cuban affairs from 
 the New York end is wanted. 
 
 "Well this is something new, at any rate," thinks Jack, 
 and he tears open the second envelope. This contains 
 a dispatch dated from Raymond, Vt, the night before, 
 and Ashley whistles softly as he comprehends the con 
 cise but thoroughly interesting contents: 
 
 "See you to-morrow afternoon at your office. I have found 
 Hathaway's revolver. Barker."
 
 90 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE BEGINNING OF THE TRAIL. 
 
 "Don Rafael Manada? Yes, sir! Front, show the 
 gentleman to No. 48." 
 
 A few minutes later Ashley is ushered into one of the 
 most sumptuous and expensive suites in the big hotel. 
 
 He bows gracefully to the tall gentleman who advances 
 to meet his visitor, bearing in his hand the card that has 
 preceded him. Don Rafael is a man at whom even the 
 least observant would be likely to take a second glance. 
 Of perhaps 40 years of age, his hair of raven hue and 
 unusual abundance is still unflecked by gray. The face is 
 of olive hue, cleanly shaven save as to heavy mustachios, 
 which by an odd freak of nature are snow white; heavy 
 eyebrows of the same hue as the hair surmount eyes of 
 piercing brilliancy; a long, aquiline nose, lips and mouth 
 a trifle too sensuous for the rest of the features, com 
 plete a singularly interesting countenance. 
 
 "You came from the Hemisphere?" queries Don Man 
 ada, in melodious tones, with hardly a trace of the Cas- 
 tilian accent. "I am pleased t greet a representative of 
 that great journal, whose influence is always cast on the 
 side of right and justice. I read with the deepest emo 
 tions of gratitude this morning an editorial in your jour 
 nal protesting against the proclamation which the admin 
 istration has issued against the fitting out of expeditions 
 designed to aid the insurrection in Cuba. Your paper 
 properly urged that the United States government should 
 recognize the Cubans as belligerents. Ah, my dear sir, 
 could that be done, Cuba would be a free republic within 
 the twelvemonth," finishes Manada, enthusiastically. 
 
 "It was to secure an expression of opinion from you 
 on the outlook in Cuba and the preparations being made 
 in this country that I have been commissioned to inter 
 view you, Don Rafael," says Jack Ashley. 
 
 "Anything that it would be proper for me to say, as the
 
 THE BEGINNING OF THE TRAIL. &1 
 
 agent of the Cuban revolutionary party, I shall be glad 
 to give," continues Manada, smilingly. 
 
 And now the Cuban patriot becomes imbued with nerv 
 ous energy as he reverts to the absorbing hope and ambi 
 tion of his life the freedom of Cuba. He paces the floor 
 with erect, military tread, as he speaks rapidly: 
 
 "This war is not a capricious attempt to found an inde 
 pendence more to be feared than useful. It is the cordial 
 congregation of Cubans of various origin, who are con 
 vinced that, in the conquest of liberty, rather than abject 
 abasement, are acquired the virtues necessary to main 
 tain our freedom. This is no race war. 
 
 "In the Spanish inhabitants of Cuba the revolutionists 
 expect to find such affectionate neutrality or material aid, 
 that through them the war will be shorter, its disasters 
 less and the subsequent peace more easy and friendly. 
 We Cubans began the war; the Cubans and Spanish to 
 gether will terminate it. If they do not ill-treat us, we 
 will not ill-treat them. Let them respect and they will 
 be respected. Steel will answer to steel and friendship 
 to friendship. In the bosom of the son of the Antilles 
 there is no hatred, and the Cuban salutes in death the 
 Spaniard whom the cruelty of a conscript army tore from 
 his home and hearth and brought over to assassinate in 
 many bosoms the freedom to which he himself aspires. 
 But rather than salute him in death the revolutionists 
 would like to welcome him in life." 
 
 "Very good, indeed, Don Manada," comments Ashley 
 as he hastily jots down a skeleton of the impassioned 
 words of the Cuban. 
 
 "Now, to leave generalities," says Jack, "upon what 
 specific elements of strength, or of weakness on your 
 opponents' part do you base your hopes of ultimate 
 success?" 
 
 Manada smiles. "All our elements of strength, nor all 
 the Spanish sources of weakness, we may not divulge yet, 
 First, and of this I believe you newspaper men need not 
 be assured, the information that comes from Cuba or 
 from Madrid is entirely untrustworthy, distorted, colored 
 and manufactured to suit Spanish ideas and hopes. It
 
 S2 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 tells you that the insurrection is limited to three or four 
 provinces. Yet you will notice to-day's dispatches from 
 Madrid state that a blockade of every port of Cuba is 
 imminent, large and small, and an additional squadron of 
 ten Spanish gunboats has been dispatched from Cadiz 
 to aid the big fleet now patrolling Cuban waters. Think 
 you that the Madrid government would declare that 
 blockade if the insurrection were limited to three or four 
 paltry provinces? Bah ! I can assure you, while they may 
 not now be ready or willing to declare themselves, yet 
 touch every Cuban in the heart, let him whisper to you his 
 sentiments, and you will find them to a man praying for 
 the success of the revolution. You Americans, in the full 
 enjoyment of true liberty, can form but a faint idea of the 
 real situation in Cuba. Imagine a land where no one 
 is free to write or say anything except what the govern 
 ment judges deem proper! Imagine a government ever 
 ready to throw you into prison, confiscate your property, 
 bring ruin to everything that is dear to you on earth, and 
 to set over you a Spaniard to watch your acts, almost 
 your thoughts! That is the way we live in Cuba. Of 
 late the number of these spies has been increased by 
 hordes. They are not all men. Some of them and the 
 shrewdest and most harmful to our cause are women, 
 who ingratiate themselves with prominent revolutionists, 
 sometimes becoming possessed of invaluable plans, 
 which they promptly reveal to the Spanish government. 
 It is believed that some of these women are located in 
 cities in the United States, where it is thought their pres 
 ence may be useful to spy upon the movements of the 
 friends of Cuba in this country. But of course that is a 
 game two can play at, and we ourselves are not wholly 
 unaware of the secret plans of the enemy." 
 
 "Reference has been made in some of the dispatches 
 from Key West, Don Manada, to the fact that the revo 
 lutionists have become possessed of a steamer which has 
 been remarkably successful in evading the Spanish cruis 
 ers and landing men and ammunition from the Domin 
 ican and Florida coasts?" 
 
 Manada's lip curls scornfully at Ashley's use of the 
 word "evading." Then he smiles.
 
 THE BEGINNING OF THE TRAIL. 93 
 
 "Did you happen to read in any of the press dispatches 
 an account of the loss of the Spanish man-of-war Mer 
 cedes?" 
 
 Ashley has seen a casual reference to the disaster. 
 "She ran on a reef near the Great Exuma, while pur 
 suing a suspected filibustering steamer, did she not?" 
 
 "The Mercedes was sunk in forty fathoms of water 
 in fair and open fight with the Cuban cruiser Pearl of 
 the Antilles," in slow and measured tones responds Ma- 
 nada, his black eyes glittering. "The Spanish govern 
 ment has strenuously sought to conceal that fact, but it 
 has leaked out, and only yesterday I received from 
 Le Director de la Guerra a copy of El Terredo's 
 report of the battle. Ah, that was glorious! The 
 Mercedes went down in less than seven minutes, 
 while the Pearl was unharmed. Senor Ashley, we have 
 to thank the inventive genius of your countrymen for the 
 success of our gallant cruiser, for El Terredo states that 
 it was the wonderful effectiveness of the new dynamite 
 cannon and the Yankee gunner that accomplished the 
 feat." 
 
 Ashley's unfailing scent for news assures him that this 
 interview is good for at least a two-column leader in the 
 Hemisphere. Here is information that will make a sensa 
 tion in the morning. The American public has been 
 wholly in the dark as to this new element in the insurrec 
 tion, this Cuban cruiser, with her patent dynamite gun 
 and Yankee gunner, that has destroyed one of the most 
 powerful of Spain's cruiser ;. 
 
 "El Terredo? is he the captain of the Pearl of the An 
 tilles. Don Manada?" 
 
 "He is, and one of the bravest and most successful of 
 our commanders on land as well as sea. Why, there is 
 not a cruiser of the Spanish navy now in Cuban waters 
 that alone would dare engage the Pearl! They are well 
 aware of her prowess and the skill and bravery of her 
 commander, whom they have rightly named 'El Terredo/ 
 'the terror.' 
 
 "Then we have other plans the details of which cannot 
 be revealed. Do you remember how the sinking of De
 
 94 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 Gama's Brazilian ironclad was effected in the revolution 
 in that country? It did not require another ma*-of-war 
 to destroy her. Only a little instrument less than five feet 
 in length whish! boom! and the resistless water is 
 gushing in a torrent through the sides of the ironclad. 
 Ah, warfare is different in these modern days, Senor Ash 
 ley, and victory does not always rest on the side of the 
 heaviest guns." 
 
 "It is said in a Washington dispatch, Don Manada, 
 that the Spanish minister has received information that a 
 formidable filibustering expedition is about to leave this 
 city for Cuba. Have you any knowledge of the fact?'' 
 
 Manada shrugs his shoulders. "Quien sabe? Are nt 
 all vessels clearing for any port obliged to obtain papers 
 stating their destination? And does not the President's 
 proclamation warn against the shipping of arms and am 
 munition to Cuba from American ports? But of this be 
 assured Cuban patriots will not be without arms and 
 ammunition to bring this war to a successful conclusion. 
 It is true that is what we most need now. Ammunition 
 especially is not as plentiful as we could wish, but had 
 we none at all, with his trusty machete a Cuban patriot is 
 more than a match for a brace of the puny, boyish con 
 scripts Spain is sending to find early graves on Cuban 
 soil. In the battle of Siguanoa, of which also I have just 
 received an authentic account, our comrades finally 
 charged with their machetes, which they handle with 
 wonderful skill, and completely routed the Spanish troops. 
 The actual fighting masses of the revolutionists, senor, 
 the soldados raso, are no mean soldiers, even from a 
 northerner's point of view. And they are not all Cuban 
 born or Spanish born who have settled in Cuba and be 
 come identified with the island. You would be surprised, 
 I doubt not, to learn that not a few of your own national 
 ity are fighting for human liberty on the side of the revo 
 lutionists." 
 
 "And the character of the Spanish officers?" inquires 
 Ashley, getting more and more interested. 
 
 Manada frowns. "Gen. Truenos, the new captain-gen 
 eral, we know as yet only by reputation. His chief of
 
 THE BEGINNING OF THE TRAIL. 95 
 
 staff, the Madrid papers state, is to be Gen. Murillo, who 
 is now in this country in this city, if I mistake not. He 
 poses as a diplomat and is the head of the spy bureau. 
 Of the other leading Spanish officers in Cuba, they are of 
 the usual foreign-service character. Some veterans, some 
 young and inexperienced, seeking to win laurels in this 
 war, a few Spanish noblemen, whom the exigencies of the 
 family purse have forced into the army. By the way, at 
 tached to the new captain-general's staff, I learn there is 
 a young American, a sugar planter. His name, I am told, 
 was Felton, but he changed it to Alvarez. More Spanish, 
 you see." 
 
 Felton! A question is on Ashley's tongue, when the 
 utter absurdity of connecting Ralph Felton's identity 
 with that of a young Cuban planter occurs to him and he 
 refrains. 
 
 "Well, Don Manada, I am obliged to you for the half- 
 hour you have accorded me, and I only hope your words 
 will have as convincing an effect on the readers of the 
 Hemisphere as they have had on me." 
 
 "Thank you, Senor Ashley. I shall ever be pleased 
 to meet you when your duties may oblige you to seek one 
 of the Cuban revolutionary party. Adios." 
 
 "Well," remarks the interviewer to himself, as he stops 
 a, moment to strengthen his memory by a fresh Havana, 
 "if my friend of the bleached mustachios is not a rainbow 
 chaser of the latest approved political character, Gen. 
 Truenos and the Spanish army and navy, too have 
 considerable work cut out for them in the vicinity of the 
 Caribbean Sea. Hello !" he exclaims, staring at a grace 
 ful figure that is crossing Twenty-third Street in his 
 direction. "If that isn't Miss Louise Hathaway of Ray 
 mond, Vt, my memory for faces is entirely destroyed."
 
 96 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 A CUP OF CHOCOLATE AT MAILLARD'S. 
 
 "It is Miss Hathaway!" 
 
 "Why, Mr. Ashley!"' 
 
 "Then I am not quite forgotten," smiles Jack, as he 
 takes the little black-gloved hand. 
 
 "Forgotten? Ah, no, indeed. I was only startled to 
 meet one familiar face amid this never-ending procession 
 of strangers. But this, I presume, is your native heath, 
 Mr. Ashley? How do you carry the memory of so many 
 faces?" as Ashley bows for the dozenth time toward the 
 stream of pedestrians. 
 
 "That is a part of our business, Miss Hathaway. A 
 newspaper man acquires a passing acquaintance with all 
 classes of society. But to drop shop talk, tell me of Ray 
 mond and of yourself. I feel quite an interest in the quaint 
 old town. Here is Maillard's close by. Suppose we drop 
 in and have a cup of chocolate. Oh, it is quite the thing," 
 smiles Jack, as Miss Hathaway hesitates a moment. 
 "Everybody goes to Maillard's after a shopping tour." 
 
 "Then, as we are in Rome, we must imitate the Rom 
 ans," she acquiesces. "For surely these bundles must be 
 quite sufficient to convict me of having been shopping." 
 
 When she is snugly ensconced in an alcove, with a 
 steaming cup of the beverage so dear to the feminine 
 heart before her, Jack studies her face across the tiny 
 table. 
 
 More beautiful if that were possible, than ever, he de 
 cides, watching the shifting color in the rounded cheek; 
 with more animation yes, decidedly more animation; 
 quite a different being from the doubly bereaved daugh 
 ter of the dead cashier of nearly a year ago. But what 
 is she doing in New York? thinks Jack, with a sudden 
 twinge in the cardiac region that astonishes even himself. 
 It cannot be that she has heard from Derrick Ames, and 
 
 besides, her sister What rot, he mentally concludes, 
 
 as the subject of his thoughts suddenly looks up and 
 catches his puzzled expression.
 
 A CUP OP CHOCOLATE AT MAILLARD'S. 9Y 
 
 Miss Hathaway 's eyes twinkle. "Has it just occurred 
 to you that you have left your pocketbook at home?" she 
 asks. "Your expression was just such as the humorous 
 artists attach to the subjects of such unfortunate contre 
 temps." 
 
 "Ah, but that seldom does happen in real life, Miss 
 Hathaway. No; my sole earthly possessions are at this 
 moment resting securely in the bottom of one small 
 pocket. But what lucky chance brought you within 
 range of my defective vision on Broadway this after 
 noon?" 
 
 "Oh, I have been a dweller in the metropolis since last 
 Saturday. We, that is Mr. Felton and myself, are en 
 route to Cuba." 
 
 "To Cuba! Pardon me, but why to that war-racked 
 isle? You see, I have just returned from interviewing a 
 native of Cuba on the situation there, and his description 
 hardly makes it out as a desirable watering-place just at 
 present." 
 
 Miss Hathaway laughs, a trifle nervously. "Perhaps 
 it is rather an odd place to go this spring, and while I 
 had a great desire to vi'sit the country I really had no 
 serious idea of gratifying the wish. But one evening 
 while I was thinking of the matter, Mr. Felton suddenly 
 asked me how I would like to go to Cuba. I said I would 
 be delighted to go to escape the chill winds of March, 
 and to my great surprise he suggested that we make 
 preparations and start at once for New York. So here 
 we are, and on Saturday we sail for tropic climes. But 
 do you think there is any danger to Americans traveling 
 in Cuba? I thought I had read that the disturbances 
 were limited to some of the far inland districts and that 
 there was no trouble in Havana and the larger cities." 
 
 Ashley pulls his mustache thoughtfully. "No, I do not 
 see how there can be possible danger for you," he says at 
 last "Be sure, to avoid any possible annoyance, to get 
 your passports before leaving New York. By Jove," he 
 murmurs under his breath, "if the Hemisphere should 
 send a man to Cuba, and I that man well, that wouldn't 
 be half-bad."
 
 98 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "But why should Mr. Felton desire to go to Cuba?" 
 Ashley asks. "I fancied all his interests were in Ver 
 mont." 
 
 "He says that he has some property that requires his 
 attention there, a sugar plantation, I fancy, or something 
 of the sort. Anyway, he is quite anxious to go." 
 
 A sugar plantation in Cuba! Jack draws a long 
 breath and his active mind reverts to his interview with 
 Don Manada. Felton-Alvarez of the captain-general's 
 staff, a young American planter! The son has evidently 
 forsworn his country and by joining the Spanish army 
 has become a Spanish citizen. Therefore he undoubt 
 edly cannot be extradited. But the father? 
 
 "How long does Mr. Felton contemplate remaining in 
 Cuba?'' Ashley asks, carelessly. 
 
 "That will depend upon his inclinations and the con 
 dition of his business affairs.'' 
 
 "That means indefinitely," Jack thinks. "Cyrus Fel 
 ton must not go to Cuba!" Then aloud: "Miss Hatha 
 way, pardon me if I revive unpleasant memories, but 
 the deep personal interest I took in the case must be my 
 apology. Have you head from your sister since since 
 the tragedy?" 
 
 For a moment Miss Hathaway is silent, her face cloud 
 ing with the sad thoughts of that last fateful Memorial 
 Day. "Mr. Ashley," she says at last, looking him full in 
 the face, "I have received two letters from my sister 
 Helen. She is well, and I trust happy. She was married 
 in this city the day after they she left Raymond." 
 
 "To Derrick Ames?" 
 
 Louise nods. 
 
 "Are they now residing in the city?" 
 
 "No; they are not now in this country I should say 
 this part of the country," she adds, hastily. 
 
 For a moment a silence falls and both absently sip their 
 chocolate, busy with their thoughts. Then Ashley re 
 marks, smilingly: 
 
 "Apropos of nothing, Miss Hathaway, did you ever 
 hear of the great French ball, the annual terpsichorean 
 revel of Gotham?"
 
 A CUP OF CHOCOLATE AT MAILLARD'S. 99 
 
 "Certainly, I have read about it. I gather that it is 
 not always strictly well, not exactly in the same cate 
 gory with the patriarchs' ball." 
 
 "No not precisely," admits Ashley. "What I was 
 leading up to is this: I suppose I shall be assigned to 
 do the ball for the Hemisphere to-morrow evening I 
 have done it for the last two years and a friend of mine 
 kindly presented to me a pocketful of tickets. Now, 1 
 know you would enjoy looking in on the brilliant scene 
 for an hour or two in the early part of the evening." 
 
 "Why, Mr. Ashley, I really do not see how we could. 
 It would hardly be proper." 
 
 "Not perhaps to mingle with the rush, but as a casual 
 looker-on in Verona the propriety could scarcely be 
 questioned. A mask, a box where you could sit and 
 listen to the really good music and watch the glitter and 
 gayety, I believe you would recall the hour whiled away 
 as one of thorough enjoyment. Besides and here is the 
 selfish part of my proposition it would render the affair 
 less of an old story to me. You must really say 'yes,' " 
 persists Ashley, as Misp Hathaway hesitates, with the in 
 evitable result. 
 
 "Well, if Mr. Felton is willing to pose as a 'chaperon' 
 for a brief space, perhaps I may consent to assist the 
 Hemisphere.'' 
 
 "I assure you that that appreciative journal will be 
 deeply grateful. Where shall I call for your ultimatum:" 
 
 "We are stopping at the St. James. And now I must 
 hurry home to examine my purchases. Thank you so 
 much for your kindness, Mr. Ashley. I am so glad to 
 have met you again. Good-by." 
 
 "Au revoir until the morrow," Jack responds, as Miss 
 Hathaway' s elegant figure threads its way through the 
 throng. "1 wonder what the straight-laced Vermont 
 maiden would say if she could look into the wine-room 
 of the garden about an hour before the French ball makes 
 its last kick. But she won't, though. The first hour or 
 two of the function is as decorous as an afternoon tea on 
 Fifth Avenue rather more so, I fancy. And now to
 
 100 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 the office to fire the Cuban heart with Don Manada's 
 screed." 
 
 But seated at his desk at the Hemisphere office, Ash 
 ley's thoughts persist in straying away from the yellow 
 sheets he is rapidly covering with the Manada interview. 
 
 The Raymond tragedy mingles with thoughts of Cuba. 
 His previously conceived ideas are undergoing a decided 
 metamorphosis. The knowledge that the elder Felton 
 is going to Cuba, where his son, according to the descrip 
 tion of Manada, is apparently settled, and for a long 
 period, if not forever, suggests to the newspaper man the 
 conclusion that Mr. Felton must have been aware of his 
 son's movements since the sudden departure from Ray 
 mond; may even have counseled that flight. Nay, more, 
 that father and son are jointly implicated in the death of 
 Cashier Hathaway. The theory just evolved grows 
 stronger the more Jack considers the circumstances. On 
 Cyrus Felton, then, depends the unraveling of the mys 
 tery. And he left Raymond suddenly, according to Miss 
 Hathaway 's admission. Barker, judging from his mes 
 sage on the finding of the revolver, must have been in 
 Raymond before or during the departure of Cyrus Felton. 
 Is it not possible, then, that the ex-bank president be 
 came possessed of the knowledge that Barker is again 
 actively at work on the case; that he further became 
 aware that Barker had, or was likely to get, some import 
 ant clew, such as the discovery of the revolver, for in 
 stance; that he considered discretion the better part of 
 valor and determined to flee the country and join his son 
 in Cuba? 
 
 Ashley's busy pen ceases to skim over the paper for a 
 moment, as he rears this dazzling edifice. 
 
 "I believe I have struck the bull's-eye," he reflects. 
 "If only Barker has a little more evidence to back up 
 the finding of the revolver, Miss Hathaway may not take 
 that trip to Cuba after all at least, not with her present 
 amiable traveling companion/' 
 
 A few moments later the big batch of copy, the result 
 of Ashley's visit to Don Manada, is tossed upon the desk 
 of the city editor. Then, still preoccupied and unusually
 
 BARKER DECIDES TO STRIKE. 101 
 
 untalkative for jovial Jack Ashley, the interviewer has 
 again drawn on overcoat and gloves and is leaving the 
 entrance to the Hemisphere office when a hand is dropped 
 on his shoulder, as Detective Barker earnestly greets 
 him: 
 
 "You're just the man I want to see. Where can we 
 indulge in a quiet talk for half an hour?" 
 
 "Come right up to the cable editor's room. He won't 
 be in for an hour or two." 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 BARKER DECIDES TO STRIKE. 
 
 "Well, my boy," begins Barker, "it's a long lane that 
 has no turn, and I think we have reached the beginning 
 of the end of this Hathaway mystery. There is the 
 weapon that sent Roger Hathaway to eternity Memorial 
 Day of last year,'' handing it to Ashley, with a complacent 
 air. "I am not a betting man, or I would wager a 
 reasonable sum that, ere the anniversary of the crime 
 rolls around, the murderer will be safely incarcerated 
 in the Mansfield County jail in Vermont.'' 
 
 Ashley examines curiously the weapon Barker has pro 
 duced. It is an ordinary 32-caliber Smith & Wesson 
 revolver, of the bull-dog variety, covered with rust, and 
 all of the five chambers, with possibly one exception, con 
 tain unused cartridges. 
 
 "Yes, there is one empty chamber," responds Barker, 
 as Ashley attempts ineffectually to turn the rusty cylinder, 
 "and that sent poor old Hathaway out of the world. And 
 now I will tell you of some important clews that I have 
 succeeded in running down since I saw you last. 
 
 "You know I subscribed for the Raymond local news 
 paper, and a mighty good investment that $1.25 proved. 
 Week before last the paper contained a local item about 
 a boy's finding a revolver on the bank of Wild River. 
 It was only a ten-to-one shot that the revolver picked up 
 by the river bank was Hathaway's missing gun, but I
 
 102 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 took the short end and posted off to Raymond. The 
 result of my trip you now hold in your hand. 
 
 "The little chap who found the revolver had picked it 
 up close to the opposite bank from which it had been 
 thrown. It was quite a stretch beyond the deep pool 
 that we explored. You see I was fully a hundred yards 
 from Felton when he hurled the revolver into the stream, 
 and I miscalculated the force he put into the throw. His 
 feeling of loathing for the hateful weapon was such that 
 he hurled it nearly across the river. Even then, it would 
 have been covered by two or three feet of water had not 
 the river been dammed last fall, a few rods above the 
 place, to furnish power for a sawmill. That left only an 
 inch or two of water over the revolver, and little Jimmy 
 Jones, or whatever his name was, found it there while 
 prowling about the river bank. It is Roger Hathaway 's 
 revolver, too, beyond a doubt. I had Sibley, who was 
 teller of the bank, and who has seen it in Hathaway's 
 desk a thousand times, examine it, and he positively 
 identifies it. 
 
 "So far, so good. That revolver rivets a mighty strong 
 link, I take it, to the chain we have already forged about 
 Cyrus Felton. But the situation had become somewhat 
 complicated, I found after I secured possession of the 
 revolver. Felton has skipped from Raymond, taking the 
 Hathaway girl with him, and evidently does not intend 
 to return for some time, if indeed at all. Consequently 
 our next and most imperative duty is to find where he 
 now is and see that he does not get beyond our reach." 
 
 "I can do that in five minutes," Ashley quietly assures 
 the detective. "Cyrus Felton and Miss Louise Hatha 
 way are now at the St. James Hotel in this city. They 
 sail for Cuba next Saturday." 
 
 "Good," remarks the phlegmatic Barker. "That is 
 luck on a par with finding the revolver. But when Cyrus 
 Felton leaves New York it will be to go back to Ver 
 mont. Bound for Cuba, eh? Why did he select that 
 country instead of Europe, I wonder?" 
 
 "Because his son is in Cuba. Barker, I opine that it 
 will be necessary for both of us to revise our theories of
 
 BARKER DECIDES TO STRIKE. 103 
 
 the murder," continues Ashley. "In the judgment of the 
 undersigned, both Feltons, father and son, are equally 
 implicated in that crime. As to which actually fired the 
 fatal shot, I am not prepared to say. But I am confident 
 that both were in the bank when Hathaway was shot. 1 
 learned to-day that there is a young American, a planter, 
 in Cuba who has joined the Spanish army as an officer on 
 the staff of the captain-general. His name is, or was, 
 Felton. Now comes the senior Felton, en route to Cuba. 
 Why should he go to Cuba just at this time while the 
 island is in the throes of insurrection? He tells Miss 
 Hathaway that he has business interests there a sugar 
 plantation. Isn't it clear that he is going to join his son?" 
 
 Barker taps his forehead reflectively. "The idea is 
 plausible," he admits. "But what in the name of the 
 great hornspoon is he taking Miss Hathaway there for? 
 It isn't possible that he is so cold-blooded, so absolutely 
 devoid of conscience, that he would wed the daughter of 
 the man he had slain?" 
 
 "Decidedly not," returns Ashley, with very like a snort 
 of disgust at the suggestion of the possibility of Louise 
 Hathaway becoming Cyrus Felton's wife. "Miss Hatha 
 way is Felton's ward, and of course he is obliged to take 
 her with him. Besides she herself is anxious to go to 
 Cuba. She told me so this afternoon." 
 
 "Anxious to go herself, eh?" repeats Barker. "Well, 
 there is no accounting for tastes. I think if I were going 
 on a pleasure trip, however, I should select some other 
 spot than that home of Yellow Jack and the machete. 
 But" the detective's forehead is wrinkled in thought 
 "you don't suppose she has any friends in Cuba whom 
 she is anxious to see her sister or Derrick Ames?'' 
 
 Ashley considers this possibility a moment. "It is pos 
 sible," he exclaims. "She admitted she had received let 
 ters from her sister, who was well and happy but not in 
 this country, she said at first, and then changed it to 'not 
 in this section of the country.' Ames and her sister may 
 be in Cuba, as well as Ralph Felton; but not, I will 
 wager a good deal, in the same vicinity not, at least, 
 if Ames knows it. Barker, it seems to me that instead 
 of this matter becoming simplified it is daily growing
 
 104 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 more complicated. The thing for us to do is to cut the 
 Gordian knot at once and bring matters to a climax." 
 
 "There is only one way to do it." 
 
 "Exactly. Arrest Cyrus Felton, and charge him with 
 being the murderer of Roger Hathaway, or an accom 
 plice before or after the act." 
 
 Barker picks up the revolver again. 
 
 "We have got a good deal of strong evidence against 
 him," he says, slowly; "yet I should like to get the son in 
 the same net. With the two of them jointly accused 
 and jointly tried I am certain we could unravel the mys 
 tery. I have evidence against the elder Felton that I 
 have not yet told you ; in fact, what I consider as a suffi 
 cient motive for the crime. The absence of a good, 
 healthy motive, you know, was the weak link in our chain. 
 
 "The president of those two banks, I am convinced, 
 was short in his accounts with both institutions. In other 
 words, he had used the bank's securities to tide over his 
 own financial affairs, which I have discovered, were not 
 in the flourishing condition supposed. Although he was 
 aware that Felton's accounts were overdrawn, as was 
 evidenced by the writing on the blotter, Hathaway was 
 apparently ignorant of the fact that the president had 
 taken many of the bank's securities and hypothecated 
 them for his own account. That was done by the presi 
 dent through the connivance of his son, the bookkeeper. 
 Get the idea?" 
 
 Ashley nods. 
 
 "Now then: You will recall that Cyrus Felton told 
 you, aftei the murder, that nearly $50,000 in available 
 cash and about half as much more in securities had been 
 stolen. He testified at the inquest that some securities 
 had been taken. My theory is that not one single one 
 of those securities was taken from the bank that night. 
 'Cause why? Because they had previously been ex 
 tracted by Cyrus Felton and his son. And the cash? 
 That, I believe was Ralph Felton's share for his part in 
 the tragedy. Perhaps father and son had planned for 
 the latter to rob the bank that night the former anxious 
 for the covering up of the loss of the securities, the latter
 
 BARKER DECIDES TO STRIKE. 105 
 
 covetous of the money. The time was drawing near 
 when the annual examination of the savings bank was 
 due. It was to have taken place in June. Then the dis 
 covery that many of the 'jackets' that should contain 
 securities were empty was inevitable. But Cashier Hath 
 away was at the bank that night. The son may have 
 been concealed in that closet, awaiting his opportunity. 
 The cashier, no longer willing to permit the president's 
 overdrafts, wrote that imperative note to Cyrus Felton. 
 The latter visited the bank. An altercation ensued. 
 Heated words were uttered. Hathaway may have dis 
 covered the loss of the securities. The president and 
 cashier, old men both, engaged in a scuffle. Perhaps the 
 president sought to wrest the key to the vault from the 
 cashier's hands. At any rate, a struggle. Ralph Felton 
 leaped from his hiding-place, and seizing the cashier's 
 revolver, which he knew was kept in the desk, rushed 
 to the assistance of his father. The fatal shot, and father 
 and son gazed in dismay at each other across the dead 
 body of the faithful cashier. The rest is simple of explan 
 ation the rifling of the vault and the subsequent flight 
 of the son. Ashley, that is my revised theory of the mur 
 der of Roger Hathaway. What do you think of it?" 
 
 "It is worthy of your perspecuity, Barker, and in some 
 respects it appears flawless. Yet well, sometimes I 
 have a sort of intuition that we are off the right track 
 altogether. Ah, Barker, if we could but find that chap 
 I saw in the bushes that morning, Ernest Stanley. 
 Now that you have revised your theory, and in the light 
 of recent developments, I feel more than ever that Stan 
 ley possesses the key that will unlock the inner doors of 
 the mystery. 
 
 "However, that is neither here nor there, for Ernest 
 Stanley has as completely vanished as though the earth 
 had opened and swallowed him up. It is almost inexpli 
 cable." 
 
 "No stranger than the fading away of Derrick Ames 
 and Helen Hathaway. You know we traced them to this 
 city, and the most searching investigation by both the 
 metropolitan police and our own men could not find them
 
 106 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 or ascertain for a certainty whether they went west or 
 east. 
 
 "But to return to the Feltons. Those two missing 
 leaves from the bank ledger could a tale unfold, I fancy, 
 in relation to Cyrus Felton's precise relations with the 
 bank. Yes, on the whole, I believe we have sufficient 
 evidence to strike. He is at the St. James, you say? I 
 guess I had better arrest him at once, and then, if he de 
 clines to go back to Vermont without extradition papers, 
 I can proceed to Montpelier to-morrow and get the nec 
 essary documents in season to start back to Raymond 
 by Friday unlucky day for him, I fancy. Well, old 
 man, you will have to spill a whole bottle of ink on this, 
 I suppose. Will you spring the full story in the 
 morning?" 
 
 Jack starts suddenly. "By Jove !'' he exclaims, looking 
 at the detective, with a rueful glance, "it seems like a 
 brutally cold-blooded thing to say, but do you know, I 
 have invited Felton and Miss Hathaway to look in on 
 the French ball to-morrow evening, and now if the 
 deed wasn't an apparent refinement of cruelty, I would 
 ask you to postpone the arrest of Felton till day after to 
 morrow." 
 
 "You are positive he does not contemplate sailing for 
 Cuba till Saturday?" inquires Barker. 
 
 "So Miss Hathaway said. And, yes." Jack's eye has 
 run hastily down the advertised dates of sailings in the 
 Hemisphere. "The Mallory Line steamer, City of Callao, 
 sails for Havana and the West Indies on Saturday. That 
 is the steamer they are evidently booked for. But to 
 make assurance doubly sure I will telephone to the office 
 of the steamship line and ascertain if staterooms have 
 been secured for them." 
 
 Barker nods approvingly at the precaution. 
 
 "Yes," the reply comes over the wire, "Mr. Cyrus 
 Felton and Miss Hathaway are booked for the Callao." 
 
 "For Havana?" 
 
 "Yes; for Havana." 
 
 "That settles that, then," observes Barker, cheerfully. 
 "Felto"h can enjoy his little fling at the garden, and sub-
 
 BARKER DECIDES TO STRIKE. 107 
 
 sequently have something to think about while he awaits 
 the action of the grand jury." 
 
 Inured as he is to tragic scenes and happenings, Jack 
 winces slightly at thought of the part he expects to play 
 in acting as the "guide, philosopher and friend" of Cyrus 
 Felton on probably his last night of liberty. 
 
 "By the way," he remarks, "you said Felton had made 
 preparations for an extended absence from Raymond. 
 Did he cause that to become generally known in the 
 town?" 
 
 "Per contra, as the lawyers say, no one in Raymond 
 had any idea that he contemplated a trip to Cuba, under 
 standing that he is off on a business trip to New York. 
 A little judicious investigation revealed the fact that he 
 had quietly severed every business tie that should connect 
 him with Raymond. Even his house, I found, he has 
 mortgaged to the chimneys, and then leased for a period 
 of ten years to a western man, to whom, by the way, he 
 has disposed of his interest in the quarries. His share 
 in the bank block he sold two months ago, taking a mort 
 gage for two-thirds the purchase price, but this mort 
 gage he last week transferred to the Vermont Life In 
 surance Company, receiving cash therefor. Even his 
 horses have been shipped to Boston and sold. All this 
 Felton has accomplished so quietly that, as I said before, 
 no one in Raymond suspects that he is not as deeply in 
 terested financially in the town as ever. 
 
 "Well, on the whole," finishes Barker, "I am glad we 
 have concluded to postpone the arrest a couple of days, 
 for I have some personal matters I must attend to. 
 What have you on hand to-night?'' 
 
 "Just an hour or so at the Madison Square Garden. 
 Come to dinner with me and we'll go to the Garden 
 together. I want to talk this matter over further," says 
 Ashley. 
 
 Barker acquiesces, and as the newspaper man leads the 
 way to the street he murmurs to himself: 
 
 "So the blow falls on Wednesday. Well, it will make 
 one of the most interesting 'beats' in the history of the 
 Hemispher and I guess I had better begin on the story 
 to-night."
 
 108 tNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 PHILLIP VAN ZANDT. 
 
 "What are they playing now, Phillip?" Isabel Harding 
 draws the program to her and scans the musical numbers 
 listed thereon. 
 
 "Is it possible that you do not recognize the immortal 
 unfinished Schubert symphony?" her companion asks, 
 with good-natured sarcasm. 
 
 "You know I cannot tell one symphony from another," 
 Mrs. Harding remarks, pettishly. "I wish you would 
 pay less attention to the music and more to me." 
 
 Phillip Van Zandt smiles, but makes no reply to this re 
 proach. And while he listens intently to the divine 
 music which the orchestra is making, his companion sips 
 her claret punch with a pretty frown upon her face. 
 
 The place is Madison Square Garden ; the occasion, one 
 of a series of classical concerts which Mr. Walter Dam- 
 rosch and his orchestra are furnishing New York. 
 
 The two Mrs. Harding and Mr. Van Zandt are sit 
 ting by the wall in a comparatively uricrowded section of 
 the Garden and more than one person who glances at 
 them remarks that they are a handsome couple. 
 
 Phillip Van Zandt is not far from 30 years of age. 
 There is nothing effeminate about his singularly hand 
 some face; the closely trimmed brown beard does not 
 conceal the firm, almost hard lines about the mouth. 
 A mass of dark-brown curls cluster about a noble fore 
 head that fronts a well-shaped head. But the striking 
 features of the face are the eyes. Something inscrutable 
 lurks in their dark-brown depths, now dreamy and ten 
 der, and again cold and glittering. 
 
 Who he is and what he is are points upon which his 
 nearest acquaintances he has no intimate friends have 
 never succeeded in satisfying themselves. He came 
 somewhere out of the West less than a year ago. He 
 occupies luxurious quarters at the Wyoming apartment
 
 PHILLIP VAN ZANDT. 109 
 
 house, spends money ireely, and seems to be drifting 
 through existence with the insouciance of a man who 
 has lived his life and who looks forward to nothing this 
 side of Charon's ferry or perhaps beyond. 
 
 He plays at cards and plunges at the track and wins 
 or loses with the inevitable composure which character 
 izes his every action. To men he is cold, often insolent; 
 to women he is indifferent, although infinitely courteous. 
 Handsome, distingue, wealthy, witty in a dry, cynical 
 sort of way, he is a man who could be immensely popular 
 with his fellows and fascinating to the other sex. That 
 he is neither one nor the other is his peculiarity. 
 
 His companion of this evening, Isabel Harding, is a 
 personage, who would attract instant attention in a crowd 
 of attractive women. She is magnificently proportioned 
 a splendid animal, as Van Zandt remarked when first 
 his careless gaze rested upon her. Her hair is black as 
 midnight; her eyes, large and lustrous, can either flash 
 with the fury of the tiger or beam with the softness of 
 the dove. Her mouth is somewhat large, but it is firm, 
 and between full, scarlet lips gleam two arcs of strong, 
 milk-white teeth. 
 
 She has known occasions when propriety was not 
 finically insisted upon, but on this night she is as demure 
 as innocence at 16. For she knows Van Zandt well 
 enough to understand that, while virtue and worth may 
 not interest him, viciousness and unworthiness decidedly 
 do not. And the least discerning student of human 
 nature can see that she loves him loves him blindly, 
 madly, and hopelessly. 
 
 Van Zandt cares nothing for her, save in his indifferent 
 way, and she knows it. But she does not despair. She 
 is a woman. 
 
 Somewhere in Bohemia, Van Zandt met Isabel Hard 
 ing. She interested him, she was so unlike the other 
 women at the little French restaurant where he had 
 dropped in to get lunch and a bottle of really good wine. 
 Some small service by him rendered sufficed to estab 
 lish between the two a camaraderie that continued until 
 the present. It witnessed no alteration of sentiment on
 
 110 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 the part of Van Zandt. But Isabel she began by ad 
 miring and finished by worshiping. 
 
 He never asked who or what she was, although she 
 was obviously a woman with a story to tell. She was a 
 widow, she said. Widows are many in Bohemia. 
 
 "Some day I will give you my history," she told him. 
 But Van Zandt only laughed and asked, "Shall we go 
 to the play to-night?" 
 
 "He cares no more for me than for the glass he is hold 
 ing," Mrs. Harding now thinks, as she watches his face, 
 turned again toward the orchestra. "Don't you ever 
 think of anything except music?" she demands, a little 
 impatiently. 
 
 "Oh, yes; of a great many other things. For instance, 
 I was this minute thinking of you." 
 
 "Oh, indeed?" ironically. "Something vastly compli 
 mentary, no doubt." 
 
 Van Zandt smiles emphatically. "I was thinking that 
 I should like to set you to music, if I possessed the 
 faculty," he says, as he glances humorously at his com 
 panion's pouting face. 
 
 "What should you write, a waltz refrain or a dance- 
 hall ditty?" asks Mrs. Harding. 
 
 "Neither; I should write a symphony, a wild sort of 
 affair," he smiles. "It would begin quietly and run along 
 for bars and bars in a theme that would suggest days 
 when the heart was young and life seemed a pathway of 
 roses. This would give place to scherzo and the whole 
 movement would be light and playful and singing. Then 
 the music would begin to grow troublous, anon turbu 
 lent, and would finally burst into uncontrollable tumult. 
 This would gradually pass away, and the third movement 
 would be capriccio, the music now flashing fire, again 
 singing on like a mountain brook, on and on, and on.'' 
 
 "You are very discerning, Mr. Van Zandt," says Isabel, 
 biting her lip. "What name should you bestow on this 
 remarkable symphony?" 
 
 "I should call it 'Isabel.' r 
 
 "And the last movement, what would that be?"
 
 PHILLIP VAN ZANDT. Ill 
 
 "Oh, that would be unfinished, like Schubert's," Van 
 Zandt replies, with a provoking smile. 
 
 "Fortunately. For if you design to complete it you 
 will have to do so from memory. I am going away," 
 declares Isabel, with a flush in each cheek. 
 
 "Going away? Where?" 
 
 "Ah, mon ami, that is for you to find out. Besides, 
 what do you care? I have had an offer diplomatic 
 service, I believe it is politely called. I leave in two 
 days." 
 
 "By Jove! You would do well in diplomatic circles," 
 exclaims Van Zandt, glancing at her in frank admira~ 
 tion. "You said nothing of this before." 
 
 "I have only just made up my mind. Your symphony 
 decided me," Isabel avers with some bitterness. 
 
 "The Garden is filling up," Van Zandt remarks 
 abruptly. About all the tables around them are be 
 ginning to be taken. "Hello! There's that chap again," 
 he adds, as two men seat themselves at an adjoining table 
 and fall to chatting. 
 
 "Didn't know I was a musical critic, did you, Barker? 
 Well, you see our regular music expert is off duty sick 
 to-night, so they put me on the job. It's a short one." 
 
 "Your duties, friend Ashley, appear to be beautifully 
 diversified." 
 
 "They are that. Anything from a murder to a concert 
 I suppose Raymond is about the same as when we left it, 
 about a year ago?" 
 
 "To a dot. Same crowd on the hotel veranda. Same 
 symposium of hay, horse and village gossip." 
 
 "Just the same it is a great country. I'd give several 
 good iron dollars to be back for one morning in that 
 gorge near South Ashfield, on the old wood road where 
 I ran upon Ernest Stanley." 
 
 "Push over a bit. Here's another party," says Barker, 
 as a jolly quartet approach. 
 
 "Plenty of room," they declare, as they find chairs and 
 seat themselves close by. The man nearest to the de 
 tective and the newspaper man is a stout, florid-faced 
 party, whose clean-cut visage and smooth bearing be-
 
 112 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 token the sporting man. His companions are well- 
 dressed young men about town. 
 
 "Hold on, major," remarks one of the latter, inter 
 rupting the stout party in the act of giving an order to 
 the waiter. "I'll buy this round, gentlemen, and we will 
 make it wine. I played in luck to-day." 
 
 "So? Cards run well, eh?" 
 
 "Never saw them come easier. I had a bit of luck, 
 major, which does not materialize often enough to render 
 poker a continuously profitable employment. I sat be 
 tween two men who raised the pot four times before the 
 draw, and I filled up a straight flush." 
 
 "You stood the raises on a bob flush?" 
 
 "I had to. It was open at both ends. Basket of wine, 
 waiter, and fetch it in a hurry," adds the young man, 
 whom his friends call Chauncey, and he gives the waiter 
 a tip that sends him a-flying. 
 
 The major smiles as the reminiscences of innumerable 
 interesting jack-pots are stirred up by the story of his 
 young friend's good luck. 
 
 "Speaking of straight flushes," he observes, "I never 
 saw a hand fill more neatly or appropriately than during 
 a little game in which I was sitting three or four years 
 ago." 
 
 "Story by the major, gentlemen," cries Chauncey, rap 
 ping the table to order and receiving the angry glances 
 of a number of people about him who are trying to hear 
 the music. "Here comes the wine. We will drink a 
 toast to all straight flushes, high or low, and then the 
 major shall have the floor." 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 A SUPPOSITION BECOMES A FACT. 
 
 "You remember when Phil Clark was running up on 
 Fifth Avenue," begins the major, after the wine has been 
 brought and pronounced only half-iced.
 
 A SUPPOSITION BECOMES A FACT. 113 
 
 "Rather," responds Chauncey, dryly. "I dropped five 
 hundred there one night and it wasn't much of a game 
 at that." 
 
 "Well, I drifted into Phil's one night three years ago, 
 more or less, and found the place as quiet as a country 
 village. There was no big game going on, and mighty 
 few small ones. In one of the rooms I found Col 
 Dunnett. You remember Dunnett. We were chatting 
 and commenting on the dullness of the evening, when 
 two young men came into the room and, after a glance 
 at us, one of them suggested a hand at poker. 
 
 "I knew one of the young men slightly. His name 
 was Stanley, I believe. Quiet, reserved sort of a chap. 
 He hadn't been in New York long, he said. 'Made 
 books out at the Sheepshead races. I did not fancy his 
 friend, who had been drinking some and was inclined 
 to be a bit noisy. His name let me see Fenton, or 
 Fallen; no, Felton, that was what Stanley called him. 
 
 "We began the game and it broke up after the hand I 
 started in to tell you about. The betting simmered down 
 to Felton and Stanley. Felton held four aces and bet all 
 the cash he had. 'I ought to raise you/ said Stanley; 
 'still/ he added, 'if that is all the cash you have ' 
 
 " 'You needn't worry about me/ sneered Felton, as 
 he took a check-book from his pocket. 'I said that was 
 all the change I had with me, but my check is good.' He 
 scratched off a check and threw it on the table. 'You can 
 see that, or call my previous bet, as you please.' 
 
 "Stanley was as calm as I am now. He leaned over 
 to me, and, spreading his cards, asked: 'Major, will you 
 loan me a thousand a moment to bet this hand?' I 
 glanced at it and had a trifle of difficulty in restraining 
 my surprise. He had filled, as he told me afterward, the 
 middle of a straight flush, king up! 
 
 " 'Cert, my boy/ I replied, cheerfully, to his request, 
 and I passed over two $500 bills. Stanley tossed them 
 on the table, and looked inquiringly at Felton. The 
 latter, with a smile of sublime confidence, spread 
 out four aces. 'No good/ was Stanley's calm an 
 nouncement. He exhibited his hand, and then pocket-
 
 114 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 ing the stakes, after returning me my thousand, he re 
 marked: 'Thank you, gentlemen, for your entertain 
 ment. I don't believe I'll play any more to-night.' And 
 putting on his coat and hat, he left the room. 
 
 "Felton sat like one dazed for some moments. Then 
 he walked to the bar and after a stiff drink hurried off. 
 I never saw either of them after that night." 
 
 Ashley and Barker have been silent and interested 
 listeners to this yarn by the major. As the latter and his 
 friends rise Ashley rises also and taps the major on the 
 shoulder. "Pardon the intrusion,'' he says, with an en 
 gaging smile. "I have been vastly interested in your 
 poker story, sir, for the reason that I think I know one 
 of the players Felton, I believe you called him. Do 
 you happen to recall what sort of a looking chap he was?'' 
 
 "Hanged if I remember," replies the major, wondering 
 at the other's earnestness. 
 
 "Was he a rather tall, good-looking young fellow, 
 with light-brown hair and eyes and a tawny mustache?" 
 persists Ashley. 
 
 "Now that you speak of the mustache, I believe that 
 your description fits him. He had a heavy, yellowish 
 mustache, which he was in the habit of biting, as though 
 his dinner did not suit him." 
 
 "Thank you," says Ashley. "Will you have something 
 more to drink, gentlemen?" 
 
 But the major and his party take themselves off and 
 Ashley resumes his seat with a satisfied smile. 
 
 "'So, Barker, we hit it about right after all, eh?" 
 
 "It would appear so," returns the detective compla 
 cently. "We now know what we have assumed to have 
 been the case that Ernest Stanley suffered imprisonment 
 two years for another's crime, and that the real crim 
 inal, the man who forged Cyrus Felton's name, was none 
 other than his son, Ralph Felton." 
 
 As Barker pronounces these words Ashley hears a 
 smothered exclamation behind him and turns quickly. 
 But all he sees is a gentleman and lady gathering their 
 wraps preparatory to taking their departure. The man's 
 back is toward Ashley, but the latter waits until the party
 
 A SUPPOSITION BECOMES A FACT. 115 
 
 faces his way and then for the space of a second their 
 eyes meet. 
 
 "There is only one more selection, and it does not 
 amount to much," Van Zandt tells Mrs. Harding, and 
 they join the crowd that is leaving the garden. 
 
 "Do you know those two men who sat at the next 
 table to us? The younger looked at you as though he 
 knew you and was waiting to be recognized." 
 
 "Your imagination, cara mia. I know neither of 
 them," replies Van Zandt, lightly. Then, as he hands her 
 into a carriage at the corner and says "Kensington" to 
 the driver, he holds Isabel's hand a moment at parting 
 and inquires gravely: "So you are really going away 
 then?" 
 
 "In two days," she answers, and searches his face for 
 some evidence of regret. It is as impassive as the sphinx. 
 
 "Well, I suppose I shall see you at the French ball 
 to-morrow evening?" 
 
 "You may, if you care to look for a Russian court 
 lady, attired wholly in black." 
 
 "Rest assured that the festivities will be robed in sables 
 until I find her. Good-night." Van Zandt closes the 
 carriage door, watches it a moment as it rattles up the 
 avenue and then saunters toward Broadway. 
 
 Ashley and Barker have remained at their table in the 
 garden and Jack is telling the detective that for the 
 second time within twenty-four hours he has caught the 
 stare of the man with the brown beard and piercing 
 eyes. "I have seen that face somewhere," he mutters, 
 as he wrinkles his brow in a desperate effort to burst 
 the memory cell that prisons the secret. Suddenly he 
 smites the table a blow that sets the glasses jingling and 
 invites the disapprobation of the waiter. "Oh, memory! 
 Memory, thou sleepy, shiftless warder of the brain!" he 
 cries. 
 
 "What is the matter now?" asks Barker. 
 
 "Keep calm, old chap," returns Ashley, gripping the 
 detective's wrist. "Keep calm while I confess to you that 
 we have let slip through our hands the key to the Hatha 
 way mystery!"
 
 116 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "What!" almost shouts the detective, starting to his 
 feet. "You mean '' 
 
 "I mean that the man with the brown beard and stiletto 
 optics who just left us is my friend of the mountain 
 gorge. He is Ernest Stanley!" 
 
 ''Well, he has slipped us this time," says the detective, 
 disconsolately, as they stand outside the garden and 
 sweep the street with anxious gaze. 
 
 "Not yet," Ashley rejoins cheerfully. "See! There he 
 is beyond that third light, handing his magnificent com 
 panion into a carriage." 
 
 "Call a cab and follow them," says the detective, start 
 ing toward the line of conveyances pulled up at the curb. 
 
 "No need of that," Ashley interrupts. "He is not going 
 to ride." At that moment it was that Van Zandt closed 
 the door to the carriage which bore Mrs. Harding to 
 the Kensington, and as he starts toward Broadway the 
 detective and the newspaper man follow at a cautious 
 distance. 
 
 Unconscious of the espionage Van Zandt starts :ip- 
 town at a swinging gait. At Thirty-second Street he 
 branches into Sixth Avenue, and the two men behind 
 him wonder that he does not ride. At the park he turns 
 down Fifty-ninth Street and finally enters the Wyoming 
 apartment house, leaving Ashley and Barker staring up 
 at the brownstone elevation. 
 
 The former waits five minutes and then pulls the bell. 
 "The name of the gentleman who has just gone upstairs?" 
 he asks the colored attendant who responds. 
 
 "Mr. Phillip Van Zandt," replies the sable youth, as he 
 slips a half-dollar into his pocket. 
 
 "Van Zandt is that his name?" queries Ashley, a 
 trifle disappointed, although he might have expected a 
 strange name. Then the porter tells him that the gentle 
 man with the brown beard has been a resident of the 
 Wyoming for several months; that he is a wealthy 
 bachelor, and a variety of other equally important in 
 formation. 
 
 "Well, what do you think now?" asks Barker, as they 
 walk over to the elevated road.
 
 "DON CAESAR DE BAZAN." 117 
 
 "I haven't changed my opinion," is Ashley's response. 
 "I believe that Phillip Van Zandt is or was Ernest 
 Stanley." 
 
 "Well, we have him located, at any rate," remarks the 
 detective. "See you at the French ball to-morrow night? 
 I am on the lookout for a couple of gentry whom I 
 expect to be there. This is my station. Good-night." 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 "DON CAESAR DE BAZAN." 
 
 The big French ball, that annual revel at the metrop 
 olis, brings together a motley assemblage of the devotees 
 of folly. The scene at the entrance to Madison Square 
 Garden to-night is the same scene witnessed at this 
 function the year preceding, and the year before that. 
 A mass of cabs and carriages in apparently inextricable 
 confusion fill the street. They struggle up and deposit 
 their fares and escorts and chaperons fight their way 
 through the mob that blocks the brilliantly lighted en 
 trance, and not always without an unpleasant encounter. 
 
 Upon the threshold of the gay interior Louise Hatha 
 way pauses diffidently and thanks fortune that a mask 
 hides her face from the inquisitive stares around her. 
 But led by Jack Ashley, Louise and Mr. Felton proceed 
 to a box and once within its shelter the young girl gives 
 herself up to an unmixed enjoyment of the brilliant spec 
 tacle before her. 
 
 The scene is decorous, even sedate. Few acquaintances 
 have been made, and when the strains of "Loin du Bai" 
 arise in voluptuous swell only a small number of dancers 
 respond. 
 
 "Why this is as proper as one of our country dances, 
 and far less noisy," Louise whispers to Ashley, but that 
 knowing young man winks mysteriously behind his mask 
 and remarks: "Wait!" 
 
 "Oh, but I shan't wait/' is the young lady's response.
 
 118 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "You remember what I emphatically declared only an 
 hour or two and then we return to the hotel." 
 
 "Then you need fear nothing that would shock you 
 in the least degree," Ashley assures her. "The rioting 
 does not begin until after midnight, and does not amount 
 to much then. But see. The floor is filling up, the 
 reserve is wearing off, and it would need only the 
 eruption of some reckless spirit to bring on a pande 
 monium." 
 
 It is apparent that only a desire to humor the wishes 
 of Miss Hathaway has led Cyrus Felton to the garden. 
 And yet it is all so novel, all so bright and full of color, 
 that he becomes interested in spite of himself, and when 
 Ashley proposes a tour of the floor with a peep at the 
 wine-room, Mr. Felton glances irresolutely at Louise. 
 The young lady nods an assent. 
 
 "Do not be gone long," she enjoins, "although I could 
 listen to the music and watch the picture half the night." 
 
 When they are gone she leans back in her chair, partly 
 draws the box draperies, and watches dreamily the ever- 
 changing panorama on the vast floor. Suddenly there is 
 borne to her ears a melody strangely sweet, yet filled with 
 a subtle melancholy. Louise catches her breath and 
 listens. It is the andante of the Beethoven Sonata Pa- 
 thetique she played so often in her old Raymond home. 
 It has always been her favorite, and she is really an artist 
 in soul and execution. Some one is whistling softly the 
 divine first theme, and with a tenderness she has often 
 felt yet could not satisfactorily express through the 
 medium of an unsympathetic pianoforte. 
 
 She leans over the box and her eyes rest upon the 
 figure of a man attired in the costume of Don Caesar de 
 Bazan. He is leaning carelessly against the pillar of the 
 box in which she is sitting, not a dozen feet from her. 
 So closely does his costume fit him and so bravely does 
 he bear it that he looks a veritable Don Caesar who has 
 stepped for an hour from a bygone century. A brown 
 beard covers the lower part of his face; all above is 
 hidden by a black silk mask. 
 
 While Louise is taking note of this interesting person-
 
 "DON CAESAR DE BAZAN." 119 
 
 ality she hears the door open behind her, and turns 
 expecting to greet Mr. Felton or Ashley. Instead a 
 stranger steps rather shakily into the box and closes the 
 door with an affable "Good-evening, mademoiselle." 
 Louise makes no reply, and her unwelcome visitor drops 
 into a seat with easy familiarity. 
 
 "I have been more enthusiastically received to-night, 
 but I will let that pass," he remarks, with cheerful impu 
 dence. 
 
 "I do not know you, sir," says Louise frigidly, as she 
 rises and casts a wildly anxious look over the ball-room. 
 
 "Oh, well, I am not so hard to get acquainted with/' 
 offers the insolent mask. "Will you drink a bottle of 
 wine with me?'' 
 
 "Leave me at once!" commands Louise, pointing to 
 the door with trembling finger. 
 
 "By George! That's an attitude worthy of Lady Mac 
 beth," remarks his insolence, in frank admiration. "I 
 will go," he adds, in mock humility, "but I must at least 
 have a kiss to solace me for the loss of your society." 
 
 "You would not dare !" gasps Louise, retreating to the 
 box rail. 
 
 "Dare?" laughs his insolence; "I would dare anything 
 for such a prize/' and he approaches her unsteadily. 
 
 Louise's frightened gaze is turned toward the ball 
 room and again rests upon Don Caesar de Bazan, who, 
 attracted by the colloquy, has stepped a pace out upon 
 the floor and is an interested spectator of the encounter. 
 
 "Save me!" she whispers, and sinks upon one knee. 
 
 But the entreaty is superfluous. Already Don 
 Caesar's hands are on the rail and with a vault he is in 
 the box. His arm shoots out and his insolence goes 
 down with a crash. He struggles to his feet with an oath 
 and makes for Don Caesar; but the latter's threatening 
 attitude, clenched fist and eyes that flash fire through 
 the black mask, cause him to stop, and muttering, "You 
 will hear from me again," he leaves the box. 
 
 Don Caesar lifts his cap and is about to follow, when 
 Louise interrupts him. "Do not go," she says gratefully,
 
 120 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "until I have thanked you a thousand times for the 
 service you have rendered me." 
 
 Don Caesar bows. "As for the service," he remarks 
 lightly, "it was nothing. The fellow has been drinking, 
 and seeing you alone " 
 
 "My friends have left me only for a few moments," 
 Louise hastens to explain, as she glances over the floor 
 and bites her lips in vexation. 
 
 "Then I may remain until they return?" Don Caesar 
 observes inquiringly, dropping into a chair. "Some other 
 graceless scamp may blunder in here." 
 
 Louise's eyes express a timid assent to the proposition. 
 
 "This is the first of these balls that you have attended? 1 ' 
 asks Don Caesar, noting that she is ill at ease. 
 
 "Yes; and it will be the last. I had read much of them, 
 how brilliant they were, and all that, and I naturally 
 acquiesced when I was tempted with an invitation. For 
 I was told that if one went masked there was no harm 
 in looking on for an hour." 
 
 "Nor is there. The wickedness will not begin for 
 some time, and it is at best, or worst, a cheap, tawdry 
 wickedness, wholly unattractive to saint or sinner. It is 
 all inexpressibly stupid. A lot of tinsel-decked people 
 rushing hither and thither in the dance, with little regard 
 for the rhythm of the music and less for the etiquette of 
 the ball-room, and a line of weary clubmen, bankers, 
 men-about-town, butchers and bakers and candlestick- 
 makers looking on." 
 
 "Yet you attend, though your remark indicates famil 
 iarity with the function." 
 
 "Oh, yes, I attend. For in spite of it all there are 
 flowers and music, light and color and a certain brilliancy 
 that enables one to forget for the nonce the even deadlier 
 stupidity of the outside world." 
 
 "Don Caesar de Bazan of old was not a cynic," re 
 marks Louise, smilingly. 
 
 "Had he been he would not have maintained our ever 
 green regard. When we sit down to a book or a play 
 we like to leave our cynicism behind us ; to live with men 
 who have not a care beyond the morrow; men who
 
 "DON CAESAR DE BAZAN." 121 
 
 mount horse and ride away from their troubles; whose 
 swords leap from their sheaths at the breath of an insult; 
 good, hearty, whole-souled fellows whose fortunes one 
 delights to follow, but whom, alas, we seldom meet in 
 the flesh." 
 
 "Perhaps it is as well. You might grow awfully tired 
 of them." 
 
 "Perhaps. I sometimes think that, outside of the last 
 ing friendships with the people in books and plays, the 
 only satisfactory acquaintances are the chance ones." 
 
 "True," murmurs Louise, dreamily. She wonders 
 whether the face behind the black mask matches the 
 melody of the voice. A similar thought flits through 
 Don Caesar's mind, as his eyes take in the graceful figure 
 of the girl, clad all in black, a single ornament fastened 
 at the long white throat. 
 
 "I, too, have few friends," says Louise. "But there 
 is one friend who never fails me, through joy or sadness 
 my music." 
 
 "Ah, there is naught like it to drive away that enemy 
 to life, dull care," put in the Don. "It is my one passion. 
 And I have cultivated it only lately. But now I give 
 myself up to it entirely, attending every concert of any 
 repute, and bewailing fate a thousand times that I cannot 
 play, or sing, or write." 
 
 "I think I can guess your favorite melody one of 
 them, at least." 
 
 "Can you, indeed?'' asked Don Caesar, in interested 
 surprise. 
 
 "The Sonata Pathetique." 
 
 "Ah, is it not beautiful? You have guessed correctly, 
 but how?" 
 
 "You were whistling it softly as you stood near yonder 
 pillar, a moment before the occasion for your presence 
 here arose." 
 
 "Very probably. It is continually running through 
 my head. Do you know, the melody has two meanings 
 to me. When I am out of patience with the world and 
 myself it seems tinged with an inexpressible melancholy. 
 And when I am in good spirits the refrain becomes sing-
 
 122 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 ing, joyous, triumphant. Has it ever seemed so to you?'' 
 
 "I do not know. It has always seemed beautiful. It is 
 my favorite." 
 
 "And mine. You are not a New Yorker," ventures 
 Don Caesar. 
 
 "So? It is now my turn, Don Caesar, to marvel at 
 your guessing powers." 
 
 Don Caesar laughs softly. "It does not demand an 
 extraordinary acute discernment. Your accent and man 
 ner betoken the New Englander." 
 
 "Are we then so provincial that we so easily betray our 
 selves? But you are right. I am a Vermonter." 
 
 "I thought so. Odd, is it not, how dominos conduce 
 to confidences, even among strangers?" 
 
 "Yes. And yet I think they would prove unsatisfactory 
 for conversational purposes among people who 
 Louise pauses. 
 
 ''People who have been formally introduced, eh?" fin- 
 ishes Don Caesar. "Are you in the city for any length 
 of time?" 
 
 "Only until Saturday. We sail for Cuba then." 
 
 "Cuba? That is a long way off," muses Don Caesar. 
 "I came very near forgetting that I had not been formally 
 introduced and expressing the regret that I should not 
 see you again before you sail." 
 
 "You said a moment ago that the only satisfactory 
 acquaintances were the transitory ones," Louise reminds 
 him. 
 
 "True. But that rule has its exceptions, like all 
 others." 
 
 "Consistency is no more a man's attribute than a 
 woman's," moralizes Miss Hathaway. "My friends ap 
 proach, Don Caesar/' she adds, as she catches a glimpse 
 of Mr. Felton and Ashley threading their way over the 
 crowded floor. 
 
 "That is the signal for my departure, then," says Don 
 Caesar. "Before I go I would crave one small boon." 
 
 "I owe you some return for your timely assistance. 
 Speak, Don Caesar."
 
 A FAIRY TALE THAT CAME TRUE. 123 
 
 "Just a glimpse of the face that your mask so jealously 
 veils." 
 
 "Oh!" cries Louise, somewhat disturbed. 
 
 "Remember," urges Don Caesar, "we shall never meet 
 again But 'twould be ungenerous to press my re 
 quest," he adds, rising. "I must say farewell, then, with 
 only the memory of a sweet voice to recall one of the few 
 pleasant quarter-hours that I have known." 
 
 Some impulse, she can hardly explain what, seizes 
 Louise. With trembling fingers she detaches her mask 
 and uncovers a face suffused with blushes. 
 
 "I thought so!" murmurs Don Caesar, as his eyes take 
 in the glory of that face, which is almost immediately 
 veiled again. 
 
 "Thank you," he says, simply, and presses to his lips 
 for an instant the hand she timidly gives him in parting. 
 
 He is gone, and Louise sinks back into her chair with 
 beating heart, wondering whether she has been foolish, 
 or unmaidenly, or indiscreet. She forgets to administer 
 to Ashlev the scolding he deserves for his long absence 
 and receives abstractedly his explanation of a row in the 
 wine-room and their detention by the crowd. Her gaze 
 wanders about the ball-room in search of the graceful 
 figure of Don Caesar de Bazan, but he has vanished. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 A FAIRY TALE THAT CAME TRUE. 
 
 Toward 10 o'clock Louise Hathaway decides that she 
 has witnessed enough of the brilliant panorama to war 
 rant her in returning to the hotel, and as Cyrus Felton is 
 plainly bored by a scene not attuned to his temperament, 
 Ashley hunts up their wraps, hails a carriage and they 
 are driven to the St. James. 
 
 "You will make a night of it, I suppose," Miss Hatha 
 way remarks, as Ashley prepares to say good-night
 
 124 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "No; I shall remain only long enough to finish my 
 story for the paper. I wrote the introduction this after 
 noon. One year's ball is much the same as another's. 
 Have you any plans for the morrow?" 
 
 "None, except mild sightseeing. Will you not lunch 
 with us?" 
 
 "I shall be delighted," murmurs Ashley. To be near 
 Miss Hathaway is pleasure unalloyed; incidentally he de 
 sires an opportunity to quietly study Cyrus Felton. "At 
 i o'clock, say?" he asks. 
 
 "At i o'clock. We must thank you again, Mr. Ashley, 
 for your escort this evening." 
 
 "Don't mention it again," smiles Ashley. "I am sorry 
 I cannot ask you to assist in my work to-morrow. It 
 would be fully as interesting and more to your taste, 
 likely, than the French ball." 
 
 "Then it cannot be a political meeting." 
 
 "Hardly. It is the trial trip of the new United States 
 cruiser America, probably the fastest vessel of any size 
 afloat in the world to-day." 
 
 "That will be delightful. You must tell me all about it 
 when you return. Your description will be much more 
 interesting, I am sure, than the newspaper accounts." 
 
 "Fully as interesting as the Hemisphere's story, per 
 haps. Good-night, Miss Hathaway. Oh, by the way, 
 Mr. Felton," as Louise trips upstairs, "did you know that 
 Roger Hatha way's revolver has been found?" 
 
 Ashley asks the question in the most casual of tones, 
 but his keen eyes are riveted on the elder man's face. 
 The result is not wholly what the questioner expected. 
 Mr. Felton simply stares at Ashley and repeats: "Hath- 
 away's revolver found? Where? When?" 
 
 "It was fished out of Wild River about opposite the 
 cemetery a day or two ago. But perhaps it was after you 
 had started for New York. Odd, is it not, that the 
 weapon with which the crime was perhaps committed 
 should be brought to light within a stone's throw of the 
 grave of the murdered man? But pardon me. Perhaps, 
 I have awakened painful reflections; so I will say no more. 
 Good night."
 
 A FAIRY TALE THAT CAME TRUE. 125 
 
 Cyrus Felton stands like a stone upon the threshold 
 to the reading-room for fully a minute after Ashley has 
 left the hotel. Then he turns and goes slowly upstairs to 
 his room. 
 
 WhenAshley reaches the Garden he hunts up Barker 
 and rescues that amiable gentleman from the importuni 
 ties of a brace of masks who are gayly informing him that 
 they are "just beginning to like him." Ashley drags him 
 away and asks: "Have you located the gentry for whom 
 you were looking to-night?" 
 
 "No, but I have chanced upon one or two choice in 
 cidents in society life which the chief may find useful 
 some day." 
 
 "Good. Let me in early when they materialize. Now, 
 old chap, if you will kill time here for half an hour or so, 
 until I finish my story, I'll join you." 
 
 Ashley hunts up an out-of-the-way corner and the 
 work is soon finished and dispatched by a district mes 
 senger boy. Then the newspaper man returns to the 
 wine-room, but Barker has strayed. 
 
 While Jack is lounging about the edges of the ball 
 room, his cheek is brushed by a Jack rose tossed from a 
 near-by box. He looks around and sees leaning over the 
 box rail a woman attired in the costume of a lady of the 
 Russian court. The eyes behind the mask twinkle in 
 vitingly, and as she is alone Ashley fastens the rose in 
 his coat, tosses a kiss to the donor and proceeds to look 
 for the door leading to that particular box. 
 
 "May I enter, lady fair?" he asks, as he stands upon the 
 threshold. 
 
 "On one condition," the lady in black informs him. 
 
 "Name it," he smiles. 
 
 "That you do not ask me to drink a bottle of wine 
 with you; that you talk of something interesting; and 
 that you do not make love to me." 
 
 "And you call that one condition? But I accept," 
 says Ashley, closing the door behind him. The next in 
 stant he suppresses an exclamation and a tendency 
 toward mild protestation. For in closing the door he has 
 caught one finger on a nail which some careless car-
 
 126 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 penter omitted to drive home, and the digit gets a painful 
 tear. 
 
 The lady in black extends sympathy and lends her own 
 dainty lace handkerchief to bind up his wound. As he 
 bends to tie the knot with his teeth the perfume on the 
 lace almost startles him. 
 
 "Your first condition, madam, was easily accepted/' he 
 smiles, as he throws himself into a chair and toys with 
 the handkerchief about his finger. "The second is more 
 difficult to live up to, and the third is cruel." -He is 
 carelessly unwrapping the handkerchief as though to re- 
 bind it, and is looking for some initial. 
 
 "Oh, tell me a story something I haven't heard," 
 yawns the lady in black. "At the first sign of stupidity I 
 shall send you away." 
 
 "A story?" drawls Ashley. Ah, he has found what he 
 sought. In one corner of the handkerchief is the letter 
 "I," curiously embroidered in silk. 
 
 "Very well," he says, in rare good humor, "I promise 
 you a story that, while it may not be entirely new to you, 
 will hold your interest to the end. But first, madam, I 
 must beg of you to lay aside your domino, that I may 
 know whether my tale is interesting you or I am courting 
 the unhappy fate which you threatened should be meted 
 out to stupidity." 
 
 The lady in black laughs musically and, partially draw 
 ing the box draperies, she tosses off her mask, and, to 
 Ashley's intense amaze, reveals the face of the handsome 
 woman whom he remembers to have seen with Phillip 
 Van Zandt the preceding night at the Damrosch con 
 cert. 
 
 But Jack Ashley is not a young man who permits his 
 face or voice to betray his emotions. So he knots the 
 lace once more about his injured digit, settles himself 
 comfortably in his chair and begins: 
 
 "Once upon a time " 
 
 "Is this a fairy tale?" interrupts his handsome auditor. 
 
 "A fairy tale? Perhaps. But a fairy tale that came 
 true. Once upon a time there lived in a small New 
 England community a youth to whom the simple amuse-
 
 A FAIRY TALE THAT CAME TRUE. 127 
 
 merits and rustic pleasures of his native town became as 
 tedious as a twice-told tale. As his father was engaged 
 in a business whose interests extended over the country, 
 the youth was given a roving commission, and soon after 
 he was tasting the sweets of an existence in the great 
 city. Metropolitan life suited him to a T. His only re 
 gret was that his means were not sufficient to keep pace 
 with his luxurious tastes. 
 
 "In the course of time he met and loved a very pretty 
 girl. She had hair of midnight, eyes like black diamonds, 
 a superb figure and a thousand charms. Whether her 
 heart was as true as her face was fair, I know not. The 
 torrent which bore these two hearts was more or less 
 turbulent. In the trouble which came between them I 
 am charitable enough to believe that the man was to 
 blame. The youth found that living beyond his means 
 has an inevitable and unpleasant result, and it was not 
 long ere his father, after palliating innumerable offenses, 
 summoned him home. He was given a position in a 
 bank in the town which he still despised, and he soon 
 forgot his city love, being assisted in this forgetfulness 
 by a passion which he had conceived for the beautiful 
 daughter of the cashier of the bank in which he was 
 employed. 
 
 "The neglected one wrote many letters, but could ob 
 tain no satisfaction of her faithless swain. Finally she 
 decided to visit him in his New England home; so on a 
 memorable afternoon she arrived in his town, went to a 
 hotel and sent word to the youth that she desired to see 
 him at once.'' 
 
 "Well?" demands the lady in black, as Ashley pauses. 
 The flash in her eyes and the nervous fingers tell him 
 that, while his story may not be enjoyed, it is being 
 listened to with intense interest. 
 
 "The youth obeyed the summons," he resumes, "and 
 there was a scene. Money was demanded, and money he 
 had none. But perhaps it was to be had somewhere. 
 That night a murder was committed in the town. It was 
 an extremely mysterious affair, and the excitement which 
 it caused was intensified a day or two later, when the
 
 128 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 young man of our story suddenly disappeared and was 
 never after heard from. The detective employed on the 
 case assumed that if he could find the mysterious woman 
 who registered at the hotel the day of the tragedy some 
 light might be thrown upon the affair and the where 
 abouts of the absent young man ascertained." 
 
 "Have you any object in telling me this story?" asks 
 the lady in black, in a voice which she strives to render 
 calm and unconcerned. 
 
 "Only your entertainment." 
 
 "Then you have not succeeded." 
 
 "I have succeeded in one thing," returns Ashley, in 
 quiet triumph. "I have found the woman." 
 
 "Indeed? That is more interesting. But perhaps you 
 are mistaken." 
 
 "Impossible. The beautiful unknown left in the hotel 
 room a lace handkerchief scented with a most peculiar 
 perfume/' Ashley is slowly unwrapping the lace creation 
 about his finger, and he sniffs it as he speaks. "A per 
 fume which the finder of the handkerchief had never 
 known before," he goes on, as he spreads the lace upon 
 his knee. "Besides the perfume, which distinguished this 
 from thousands of other handkerchiefs, there was in one 
 corner the letter 'I,' curiously embroidered in silk." 
 
 As if he were alone and talking to himself, Ashley 
 takes from a wallet in his pocket the handkerchief which 
 for months he had carefully treasured, and spreading it 
 upon his knee compares it with the one which lately 
 wrapped his finger. They are identical. Then he looks 
 up and catches the half-scornful, half-startled gaze of the 
 lady in black. 
 
 "Is that all?" she inquires. 
 
 "No. But I expect you to furnish the last chapter." 
 
 The lady in black again adjusts her mask. "Not to 
 night," she says. "Come to my hotel to-morrow and I 
 will endeavor to gratify your curiosity." 
 
 "Whom shall I inquire for?" 
 
 "I believe you have my name." 
 
 "Ah, yes. And the hotel, madam?" 
 
 "The Kensington."
 
 A REPRISAL OF TREACHERY. 129 
 
 "And the hour?" 
 
 "Ten in the morning." 
 
 "Thank you. I will be prompt." 
 
 Ashley leaves the box humming a lively air and pro 
 ceeds to look up his friend Barker. 
 
 "Busy, old man?" he asks, when he has finally located 
 the detective. 
 
 "Not especially? Why?" 
 
 "Do you see that woman in black in yonder box, talk 
 ing with a swarthy-looking gentleman?" 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "That is 'Isabel Winthrop.' " 
 
 "The devil!" 
 
 "N6 ; but perhaps one of his satanic highness' amiable 
 representatives. I have an interview arranged with her 
 for to-morrow at 10; place the Kensington. I want you 
 to follow her when she leaves the Garden and keep an 
 eye on her until 10 o'clock to-morrow morning. If I do 
 not hear from you before that hour I shall consider that 
 she has made the engagement in good faith. I have a big 
 day's work to-morrow, and I believe I will go home and 
 turn in." 
 
 "All right, Jack, my boy. I will keep her ladyship in 
 view if she leads me to China. So long." 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A REPRISAL OP TREACHERY. 
 
 "Don't be absurd, Don Manada." 
 
 "Absurd? Dios! I was never more thoroughly in 
 earnest in my life." 
 
 /'Nevertheless, you'are absurd/' Isabel Harding smiles 
 tantalizingly over her champagne glass at the flushed 
 face and glistening eyes of her companion. 
 
 This conversation occurs shortly after midnight at an
 
 130 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 out-of-the-way table in the arcade at the east end of the 
 Garden. 
 
 For all it began so decorously, this year's ball is a par 
 ticularly riotous affair and already the fantastic orgie is 
 well under way. Masks have been scattered to the pat 
 chouli-laden winds. Yet there are a few discreet folks 
 who, though they mingle with the mad crowd, have re 
 tained their masks. As Don Manada and his companion 
 are comparatively removed from observation, they have 
 laid aside their dominos for the moment and are con 
 versing in earnest whispers. 
 
 Isabel Harding is so radiantly, magnificently, danger 
 ously beautiful that it is a terrific strain for the gentle 
 man at her side to maintain the least semblance of com 
 posure. 
 
 "In what does my absurdity consist?" he demands in a 
 passionate whisper. 
 
 "Can you ask? You tell me that you love me which 
 I already know and urge a suit which I have twice 
 before told you is hopeless. You profess to believe that I 
 could learn in time to honestly return your undoubtedly 
 sincere affection. It is impossible. I will be honest with 
 you. I am not one to whom love comes slowly. I love 
 only one man, and he don't look so murderous, Don 
 Manada he cares nothing for me," she finishes, bitterly. 
 
 "Come, a truce to lovemaking!'' rallies Isabel. "Don't 
 look so fiercely downcast, Don Manada. Fill up the 
 glasses and we will drink a melancholy toast to unre 
 quited love. We are alike unsuccessful lovers. But we 
 will continue to be good friends." 
 
 "Impossible," replies Don Manada, as he gloomily 
 pours out the wine. "I go to Cuba to-morrow." 
 
 "Indeed? I trust that I am not responsible for the 
 loss of your society to your New York friends." 
 
 "No, senora. I go because duty calls me, but I had 
 expected to wear a lighter heart -than that which will 
 accompany me." 
 
 Don Manada is too much occupied with his despair to 
 note the peculiar look which Isabel darts at him from 
 between her half-dropped eyelids.
 
 A REPRISAL OF TREACHERY. 131 
 
 "Cuba?'' she repeats, dreamily. "Ah, I should like to 
 visit that country some day." 
 
 Don Manada looks up with swift hope. "You would, 
 senora? Then you shall!" he cries. "We will leave to 
 morrow on my vessel. I will be your slave. You have 
 but to speak and every wish will be gratified. You will 
 do me this favor," he urges, and then, with the fervor and 
 descriptive powers of a Claude Melnotte, he proceeds to 
 paint a fascinating picture with a tropical background, 
 his enthusiasm fired by ravishing glances from his com 
 panion. 
 
 ''Quite an escapade you have outlined/' smiled Isabel. 
 "But it is too prosy. If the voyage promised a dash of 
 adventure, if it were spiced with an element of danger, 
 
 I " she pauses and lifts the wineglass slowly to her 
 
 lips. 
 
 "Danger?" echoes Don Manada, with a curious smile. 
 "Dios! The voyage might not be without all the adven 
 ture your heart could desire, senora." He takes from 
 his pocket a newspaper clipping and hands it to Isabel, 
 after a glance about him to make certain that they are 
 unobserved. The clipping is from the current edition of 
 the Hemisphere. It is a dispatch from Key West, and a 
 portion of it reads as follows: 
 
 "This city has been in a fever of excitement all day 
 over the report that an important filibustering expedi 
 tion is to leave New York this week to aid the Cuban 
 insurgents. The report is backed by excellent authority, 
 and there is no doubt that an effort will be made to send 
 valuable assistance to the patriots of the Antilles some 
 time during the week. In some way the United States 
 authorities and the Spanish government have got wind 
 of the proposed expedition and they are striving to nip 
 it in the bud. The Spanish warship Infanta Isabel this 
 morning steamed from this harbor for the purpose, one 
 of her officers said, of intercepting the filibusters on the 
 high seas. 
 
 "It is also stated that a prominent and gallant member 
 of the Cuban revolutionary society will head the expedi 
 tion, but his identity has not been disclosed."
 
 132 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 Mrs. Harding glances through the clipping and hands 
 it back with a quizzical smile. 
 
 "So you are the prominent and gallant member of 
 the Cuban revolutionary society referred to?" she infers. 
 
 "Not so loud!" cautions Don Manada. "We may be 
 overheard. What think you of the voyage now, 
 senora?" 
 
 "I fear it is a bit too dangerous/' replies Isabel, with a 
 yawn. "We should never reach Cuba." 
 
 "Trust me," assents Don Manada, complacently. 
 "Once on the high seas, the Isabel will lead the Spanish 
 warships a pretty chase." 
 
 "Ah, the name of your schooner is the Isabel?'' 
 
 "Of our yacht yes. Is it not happily named?" 
 
 "Perhaps so," answers Mrs. Harding, with an enig 
 matic expression in her lustrous eyes. "And where 
 should I find your yacht in case I should at the last 
 moment decide to accept your offer of a merry voyage to 
 the tropics?" 
 
 "My yacht? I should conduct you to it," says Don 
 Manada in some surprise. 
 
 "Oh, no; that would not do," objects Isabel. "I should 
 be driven to it veiled just preceding its departure." 
 
 Don Manada looks around the arcade, but there is 
 no one within twenty feet of their table. 
 
 "North river, foot of 23d street,'' he whispers. "You 
 will go?" as Isabel appears to be hesitating mid con 
 flicting emotions. 
 
 "You will promise not to make love to me during the 
 entire voyage?" 
 
 "I will promise anything, senora, though you have 
 imposed an unhappy obligation." 
 
 "Then I think I will say yes." 
 
 "Bueno!'' cries the delighted Don Manada, and, seiz 
 ing Isabel's hand, he covers it with passionate kisses. 
 
 "Oh, by the way, what time do you sail?" 
 
 "At 5 o'clock." 
 
 "Very well. I will send final word to your hotel in 
 the morning. Now, leave me to dream over my folly,"
 
 A REPRISAL OF TREACHERY. 133 
 
 says Mrs. Harding, disengaging the hand which Don 
 Manada still tenderly holds. 
 
 Then, as the latter goes off to the wine-room to sub 
 merge his happiness in champagne, Isabel leans back in 
 her chair and laughs softly. "The fool," she sneers. 
 "Well, all men are fools all but one." 
 
 "And that one?" inquires a voice behind her. She 
 looks up startled, to meet the calm gaze of a man of per 
 haps 50, with dark hair and mustache slightly tinged with 
 gray and the distinct air of a soldier. 
 
 "Ah, who but yourself?" returns Isabel composedly. 
 "Sit down, Gen. Murillo. I have much to tell you." 
 
 The intelligence is plainly of a pleasing nature. Gen. 
 Murillo murmurs "Bueno!" more than once as he listens, 
 and when she finishes he remarks approvingly: "You 
 have done well and may count on my gratitude." 
 
 "Gracias/' responds Isabel. "That is about the extent 
 of my Spanish, General." 
 
 "Ah, but you will learn readily. It is simple. Hist! a 
 gentleman approaches. It were well if we be seen little 
 together to-night. Until the morrow then, adios." 
 
 Gen. Murillo moves off toward the swirl of dancers 
 and Isabel surveys with an air of recognition a gentleman 
 in the costume of Don Caesar de Bazan, who has de 
 scended to the arcade by the north stairway and is 
 coming slowly toward her. Don Caesar looks curiously 
 after the departing form of the Spaniard; then, dropping 
 into a chair beside Isabel, he tosses off his mask and asks 
 carelessly: "Well, my dear Isabel, when do you leave 
 for Cuba?" 
 
 "For Cuba?" repeats Mrs. Harding in simulated sur 
 prise. 
 
 "Exactly. After a glance at the gentleman who just 
 left you I do not need to be enlightened as to the diplo 
 matic duties to which you alluded last night." 
 
 "Well, Phillip, I have few secrets that you do not 
 share," Isabel says sweetly; "I leave for Cuba to-mor 
 row." 
 
 "So soon," he murmurs courteously. 
 
 "The sooner the better. Every day I am near you
 
 134 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 makes eventual separation the harder. I know that you 
 care nothing for me," she goes on, her cheeks flushed 
 crimson. "Don't interrupt me," as Van Zandt seeks to 
 interpose a protest. "I know that you care nothing for 
 me, not in the way I would have you feel. I have your 
 friendship, yes, beyond that I am nothing to you. And 
 I I love you, Phillip love you as I never expected to 
 love a man. I make the avowal without shame, for I 
 know there is no possibility of a change in your senti 
 ments toward me. And I am going away to-morrow/' 
 half sobs the woman, as she covers her face with her 
 hands. 
 
 Van Zandt lays his hand upon Isabel's head and 
 smooths the dark tresses sympathetically. She pushes 
 the hand away. 
 
 "Courage ! Tears ill become a diplomat," declares Van 
 Zandt. "This is a dreary world. We seldom attain our 
 heart's desire, even though the object we seek be a lowly 
 one. Will you have some wine?" Isabel shakes her head. 
 She has dried her eyes and has relapsed into an apathetic 
 melancholy. 
 
 Van Zandt signals to a waiter. "A little wine will help 
 lighten our hearts," he tells Mrs. Harding; "for believe 
 me, mine is not less heavy than yours. Cheer up and we 
 will drink a toast to all unrequited love." 
 
 Isabel gives him a swift look of surprise. "You 
 heard?" she demands. 
 
 "I heard nothing," he replies, smilingly. "What has 
 given rise to your question?" 
 
 " Tis less than an hour since I offered that very toast. 
 I have had a proposal to-night." 
 
 "Indeed? And you rejected it?" 
 
 "Can you ask such a question. The world is full of 
 Don Manadas, but there is only one " 
 
 "So? The swarthy gentleman, with the curious white 
 mustachios?" interrupts Van Zandt. "I noticed you talk 
 ing with him." 
 
 "I had rejected him twice before, but his persistence is 
 worthy of a better cause. To-night I promised to ac-
 
 A REPRISAL OP TREACHERY. 135 
 
 company him on a filibustering expedition to Cuba. 
 Think of it! The fool!'' sneers Isabel. 
 
 "And you will not go." 
 
 "Most certainly not. I only half-promised. To-mor 
 row I shall send word that I have changed my mind." 
 
 "And meanwhile you have accomplished something 
 toward your new duties, eh?" remarks Van Zandt. If 
 Isabel Harding could read the dark, handsome face that 
 she loves so well, she would know that she has lost for 
 ever the esteem of Phillip Van Zandt. 
 
 "You have betrayed the man who trusted you," con 
 tinues Van Zandt in the same quiet and impassive voice. 
 
 "Betrayed him? And what if I did?" flashes Isabel 
 passionately. "Call it treachery if you will. I say it is 
 only a reprisal of treachery. Take me out of here, Phillip. 
 I am sick of these lights and the music and the scent of 
 the flowers." 
 
 "I will see you to a carriage," says Van Zandt, quietly. 
 
 Ten minutes later he says good-by to her, as he pre 
 pares to close the carriage door. 
 
 "Some day, Phillip, you will realize how much I love 
 you," Isabel whispers, as she presses to her lips the hand 
 he mechanically gives her. 
 
 Words, words, words; but destined to have a tragic 
 fulfillment! 
 
 Van Zandt looks after the retreating carriage with a 
 darkening brow. "Call it treachery if you will/' he re 
 peats, grimly. "By George! I'll spike her ladyship's 
 guns! The cause of liberty shall not be jeopardized by 
 the indiscretion of its friends or the machinations of its 
 enemies !" 
 
 As he turns and re-enters the garden a man steps to a 
 waiting cab, and, indicating the carriage which is bearing 
 off Isabel Harding, he whispers to his driver: "Keep 
 that rig in view till it stops. Understand?"
 
 186 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 FOR THE CAUSE OF LIBERTY. 
 
 "You proposed to a lady to-night." 
 
 "What is that to you, sir?" Don Manada turns fiercely 
 upon the gentleman who has tapped him upon the 
 shoulder and requested the pleasure of a few moments' 
 conversation with him. 
 
 "Nothing to me, perhaps," returns Phillip Van Zandt, 
 quietly; "to you much, possibly. Sit down. Or better, 
 suppose we adjourn to the arcade. We shall be freer 
 from interruption there." 
 
 "I must decline to accompany you, sir, until I have 
 reason to believe that the matter on which you desire to 
 talk is of more importance than your opening remark 
 would indicate." 
 
 Van Zandt surveys the Cuban with a trifle of impa 
 tience. "As you please," he observes. "But permit me 
 to say that upon your disposition to listen to what I 
 have to impart depends the success or failure of the ex 
 pedition which is to start for Cuba to-morrow or, rather, 
 to-day." 
 
 Manada starts violently and bends a searching look 
 upon the other's face. "Nothing could be of greater im 
 portance to me, sir," he says, and without further remark 
 he follows Van Zandt to the little table where an, hour ago 
 he for the third time offered Isabel Harding his hand and 
 heart. 
 
 "Now, to business," remarks Van Zandt, glancing at 
 his watch. "It is 1 :3O. Thirty minutes for talk, the rest 
 of the night for action. You are Don Manada of the 
 Cuban revolutionary society." That gentleman bows. 
 "I am Phillip Van Zandt. That is all you need know 
 concerning myself. Mrs. Isabel Harding, the lady to 
 whom you made violent love to-night" the Cuban 
 scowls, but Van Zandt goes on relentlessly "I have 
 known for some months. She has honored me shall I
 
 FOR THE CAUSE OF LIBERTY. 137 
 
 say? with her deep regard. Perhaps she hinted as 
 much to you." 
 
 Manada leans back in his chair and looks his new 
 acquaintance over critically. This, then, was his rival; a 
 negative one, to oe sure, but a rival that any man might 
 fear. 
 
 "If it will flatter your vanity to know that the lady 
 in question confessed to me that she loved only one man 
 in the world and that that happy individual was not 
 myself, you are welcome to the information," Manada 
 offers, sarcastically. 
 
 "Thank you. But I was already aware of the fact, and 
 it is not to the point. You proposed to Mrs. Harding and 
 were rejected. Stay," as the other colors and is about 
 to make an angry retort: "I did not bring you here, sir, 
 to refresh your mind one instance in which the usually 
 discriminating Isabel displayed poor taste. But I repeat, 
 she rejected you; hence subsequently something must 
 have occurred between you to lead up to a rather peculiar 
 agreement Mrs. Harding's consent to accompany you 
 on a filibustering expedition?" 
 
 "Caramba! She told you you overheard " 
 
 "I overheard nothing. Eavesdropping is not in my 
 line. And she told me little more; but enough to warrant 
 me in stating that you have been indiscreet, sir, to use 
 no harsher term, and have jeopardized not only your own 
 welfare but that of your fellow-countrymen." 
 
 "You seem to be pretty familiar with my affairs, senor." 
 
 "Not so familiar with them as the Spanish government 
 and the United States authorities may be," responds Van 
 Zandt, dryly. "All I know of your plans I have told you. 
 What I do not know you will tell me now." 
 
 An angry rejoinder trembles on Manada's lips, but 
 something in the stern, quiet air of the man before him 
 checks his wrath. 
 
 "Mrs. Harding," resumes Van Zandt, "consented to 
 go to Cuba with you, did she not?" 
 
 "Practically, yes." 
 
 "And you were to receive her final decision on the 
 morrow?"
 
 138 UNDR THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "Well, senor?" 
 
 "She will not go." 
 
 "Then you persuaded her you interfered," cries Ma- 
 nada hotly. 
 
 "I did nothing of the sort. Still, I repeat, she will not 
 go. But, stay, perhaps she will," murmurs Van Zandt, 
 thoughtfully. "Perhaps her ladyship's plans lie deeper 
 than I have supposed," he thinks. "But even if she does 
 go, I tell you, my friend, it were far better that you 
 burned your vessel where it now lies than that Isabel 
 Harding sets foot upon its deck." 
 
 "Your meaning?" demands Manada in a hoarse whis 
 per. 
 
 "Your face tells me that you have guessed the truth," 
 Van Zandt says more kindly. "The woman has betrayed 
 you. She is a spy diplomat is the polite word in the 
 employ of the Spanish government." 
 
 "Caramba!" hisses Manada, sinking back into his chair 
 with colorless cheeks. "But you can furnish proof of 
 what you assert?" he cries almost eagerly. 
 
 Van Zandt's lip curls. "Had you watched the fair 
 Isabel after you left her you would have seen join her a 
 gentleman whose presence in itself would have been 
 proof sufficient Gen. Murillo. You know him?" 
 
 "Of the Spanish service/' murmurs Manada in crushed 
 tones. 
 
 "Precisely. I met him at the club the other day. And 
 if I mistake not he has done an excellent bit of work for 
 his government to-night." 
 
 "But I will find the woman," bursts out Manada, leap 
 ing to his feet. "Por Dios ! I will search her out and " 
 
 "You will do nothing of the kind," interrupts Van 
 Zandt, drawing the excited man back into his chair. 
 "Mrs. Harding left for her hotel half an hour ago. Even 
 were she here it would avail you nothing to confront her 
 with her diplomacy. Gen. Murillo is already in pos 
 session of your plans. No, my friend; the mischief is 
 done, but happily it is not irremediable." 
 
 "Ah !" cries Manada, with a flash of hope.
 
 FOR THE CAUSE OF LIBERTY. 139 
 
 "Now, listen to me. We have wasted too much time 
 already. What is the name of your vessel?" 
 
 "The Isabel." 
 
 "So? Pretty name, but have it changed at the first 
 opportunity. Where does she now lie?" 
 
 'North River, foot of Twenty-third Street. 
 
 "Excellent," comments Van Zandt, his eyes lighting 
 with satisfaction. "And at what time did you intend to 
 sail?" 
 
 "At five in the afternoon." 
 
 "You are of course aware that both the Spanish and 
 United States governments are on the keen lookout for 
 filibustering craft?" 
 
 "Certainly," Manada replies, grimly. "But we were 
 confident of slipping through unmolested. We had ar 
 ranged to clear for the Bermudas, and once on the high 
 seas we felt sure of running away from any warships that 
 might lie in our course." 
 
 "Ah, your vessel is a yacht. And the cargo of what 
 does that consist?" 
 
 "Two thousand rifles and 200,000 rounds of car 
 tridges." 
 
 "How is it loaded?" 
 
 "The ammunition is packed in kegs, ostensibly contain 
 ing salt fish ; the rifles are in bags and are hidden at the 
 bottom of bins of potatoes in the hold." 
 
 "The cargo could be shifted before daybreak, do you 
 think?" 
 
 "Two or three hours should suffice." 
 
 "Good. You must have noticed, lying in, the neighbor 
 hood of your vessel, a rather trim article in the yacht 
 line." 
 
 "The Semiramis? Yes. A magnificent vessel!" ex 
 claims Manada. 
 
 Van Zandt nods. She is my property and I believe 
 her to be the fastest vessel afloat in the world to-day. 
 Now here is my plan I consider it the only one that will 
 extricate you from the dilemma in which you are placed : 
 I will place the Semiramis at the service of the struggling 
 patriots of the Antilles. We will shift the Isabel's cargo
 
 140 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 before the night is gone, and before the sun goes down 
 on another day the Semiramis will be on her way to 
 Cuba. Once without New York bay I defy anything 
 short of a cannon ball to overhaul her. What say you, 
 Don Manada?" 
 
 The Cuban's face expresses the astonishment and joy 
 that he feels. To be raised suddenly from the depths of 
 despair to the pinnacle of hope effects a remarkable 
 change in one of his temperament. 
 
 "Santa Maria!" he cries, as he presses warmly Van 
 Zandt's hands. "You have done me as great a service 
 as one man can do another. Por Dios ! We shall outwit 
 them cleverly." 
 
 "Then let us be off," says Van Zandt "It is after 2 
 o'clock and we have little time to spare." 
 
 The men secure their coats and hats and ten minutes 
 later board a cross-town car. 
 
 "Senor Van Zandt, I owe you a debt of gratitude," de 
 clares Manada; "yet I find myself marveling that you, a 
 stranger, and the one man to win Isabel Harding's affec 
 tion, should interest yourself in me and the cause I repre 
 sent." 
 
 "Oh, it promised an adventure; something I have long 
 been in need of to stir my blood to action," replies Van 
 Zandt, lightly. "Besides, am I not an American, and is not 
 the cause of liberty a cause that appeals to every Ameri 
 can with a spark of manhood in his soul? Only those 
 who know what liberty is realize its priceless worth." 
 
 They are now walking along West Street. Manada 
 silently reproaching himself with his recent folly, wraps 
 his greatcoat more tightly about him, and breathes a 
 shivering malediction on the cutting winds that sweep 
 adown the Hudson. 
 
 The sky is overcast and a slight snow is falling. It is 
 a good night for the work in hand. 
 
 The river front is black and silent and the outlines of 
 the vessels about the pier are barely distinguishable 
 through the driving storm. 
 
 West Street, though dimly lighted, is not deserted. 
 From the grog-shops come echoes of many a brawl, and
 
 FOR THE CAUSE OF LIBERTY 141 
 
 every now and then a drunken longshoreman reels or is 
 thrown into the street and staggers off, heaven knows 
 where. Every half-hour or so a ferry boat lumbers in and 
 out of the slip, and there is a temporary bustle in the 
 vicinage. 
 
 "A miserable night, senor," remarks Van Zandt, as 
 they cross West Street and pick their way toward the 
 pier where lies the vessel in which are centered now all 
 of Don Manada's hopes. The latter has forgotten for 
 the nonce his recent humiliation and is keenly alive to 
 the adventurous undertaking in hand. 
 
 The men plunge through the gloom, muffled to the 
 eyes and with heads bent before the biting blasts from 
 the river, when their ears are suddenly assailed by the 
 sound of a scuffle ahead of them and a half-choked cry 
 for help. Quickening their steps, they run upon two 
 men. One of them is prone upon the pier; the other, 
 clearly his assailant, bends over him. 
 
 Before the scamp can rise Van Zandt deals him a blow 
 with his heavy cane that stretches him beside his victim. 
 He is not a courageous rogue, or if he is realizes that his 
 chance for an argument is not especially good. So when 
 he struggles to his feet he makes off without a word, 
 without even an imprecation. 
 
 Van Zandt and Manada raise the prostrate form and 
 bear it back to the street. As the lamplight falls upon the 
 face of the unconscious man Van Zandt utters an ejacu 
 lation of astonishment. 
 
 "By heaven! it is Gen. Murillo! You see, my friend, 
 that I was not mistaken. He probably came down here 
 to have a look at the Isabel, and was set upon by one of 
 the scum of the river front." 
 
 Manada nods a silent assent. "He must not see us," 
 he mutters, uneasily. 
 
 "Don't be alarmed. He is not likely to recognize any 
 one for a few minutes. I hope he is not badly hurt. Off 
 with him to yonder saloon; or, better, to the ferryhouse. 
 The man will be safer there, though we are more likely to 
 find a policeman at the saloon." 
 
 A policeman is at the ferryhouse, however, and assist-
 
 142 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 ance is summoned. Van Zandt and Manada wait until 
 Gen. Murillo is laid in the ambulance and the surgeon 
 in charge has assured them that the man is not fatally 
 hurt; then they tell their story to the policeman and go 
 about their business. 
 
 "A peculiar episode," remarks Van Zandt. "Our friend 
 will never know to whom he owes his rescue and perhaps 
 his life. Our affair must be hurried, nevertheless, for we 
 know what his first effort will be when he recovers con 
 sciousness." 
 
 "Yet some day, when Cuba is free, I shall have the 
 pleasure of recalling the incident to his mind." 
 
 "When Cuba is free," repeats Van Zandt. "Well, luck- 
 favoring us, we shall fire a shot to-day that will ring 
 in the ears of the government at Madrid. Here we are 
 at the Semiramis. Where is the Isabel?" 
 
 "Just beyond. Not twenty feet away." 
 
 Van Zandt hails his yacht and ten minutes later he and 
 Manada are in the luxurious cabin, in consultation with 
 Capt. Beals, a bluff old Maine sea dog, who is prepared 
 for any caprice on the part of his employer and expresses 
 not the least surprise when informed that arrangements 
 for a cruise to Cuba must be instantly set afoot. 
 
 And that morning, while the wind howls around Man 
 hattan Island, and drives the sleet into the eyes of belated 
 pedestrians; while Murillo awakens to consciousness in 
 Bellevue Hospital and tells the attending surgeon that, 
 head or no head, he leaves for Cuba within half a dozen 
 hours; and while the last carriage load of half-drunken 
 sports dashes away from the Madison Square Garden, a 
 work is in progress aboard the Semiramis that means 
 more to its owner than he dreams of as he stands with 
 folded arms in the dim light of the ship lanterns, watching 
 silently the transshipment of the insurgent's arms.
 
 TWO KINDS OF BLOCKADE. 143 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 TWO KINDS OF BLOCKADE. 
 
 About 9:30 of the morning following- the French ball 
 Phillip Van Zandt drops into his favorite seat in the 
 dining-room of the St. James Hotel and picks up the 
 morning paper. 
 
 Scarcely had he unfolded it when his attention was 
 attracted by two persons seated at the table beyond him. 
 'They are Cyrus Felton and Louise Hathaway, and the 
 latter never looked fairer than on this bright March 
 morning. 
 
 "Ah, my divinity of the ball," he murmurs. "By Eros! 
 She is superb. Hair, a mass of gold and the sunlight 
 gives it just the right effect. Purity and innocence are in 
 those blue eyes and in every line of the face. Knowing 
 no evil and fearing none, and yet with the self-poise of a 
 queen. It almost restores one's confidence in humanity 
 to look upon such a face. 
 
 'T would be glad indeed to know her, but the oppor 
 tunity for an introduction is not likely to arise. I could 
 scarcely presume on last night's meeting, and besides, 
 she would hold me to my word. What impulse possessed 
 her to remove her mask at my request? I'll wager she 
 regretted it an instant later. Well, she did not see my 
 face, so I may devour her visually in perfect safety." 
 
 "And her companion?'' Van Zandt goes on medi 
 tatively. "Not her husband, assuredly. Too old for that. 
 More likely her father, or perhaps her guardian. They 
 are going to Cuba, so she told me. Well, I am going to 
 Cuba, too. I may meet her there. Friendships are easily 
 cultivated in a foreign land. My dear Van Zandt, is it 
 possible that you are becoming interested in a woman? 
 Careful; you forget who you are/' he concludes bitterly, 
 and stares moodily out upon the crowded street. 
 
 Mr. Felton and Miss Hathaway are breakfasting leis 
 urely, unconscious of the interest they have aroused in
 
 144 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 the gentleman at the next table. -Mr. Felton is scanning 
 the columns of the Hemisphere, with particular reference 
 to the full dispatches from Cuba and Madrid. Suddenly 
 he drops the paper with the exclamation: "This is very 
 unfortunate!" 
 
 "What is unfortunate?" inquires Miss Hathaway, sip 
 ping her coffee. 
 
 "Here is a dispatch from 'Havana, stating that the 
 government has ordered a complete blockade of the 
 island and that all steamship engagements to and from 
 Cuba have been canceled for an indefinite period." 
 
 Miss Hathaway looks up in mild dismay. "Then we 
 cannot leave Saturday/' she says. 
 
 "It would seem not Ah, here is something more. The 
 newspaper has looked up the report at the New York 
 end and finds it to be true. The steamer City of Havana 
 of the Red Star line, this paper says, will probably be the 
 last passenger vessel to leave New York for Cuba until 
 the blockade is raised." 
 
 "But can we not go on that?" 
 
 Mr. Felton reads on : "The City of Havana sails to-day 
 at II o'clock." Then he glances at his watch. "It is now 
 nearly 10. Perhaps we can make it. Wait, I will ascer 
 tain from the clerk." 
 
 Mr. Felton rises, and as he turns to leave the dining 
 room Van Zandt gets a view of his face, and he starts 
 as if from a nightmare. 
 
 "That face again !" he breathes. "That face, which has 
 haunted my dreams and has been before me in my wak 
 ing hours! And her father! Merciful heaven, it cannot 
 be. There is a limit to fate's grotesquerie." 
 
 Miss Hathaway glances in Van Zandt's direction and 
 their eyes meet. It is only an instant, but it leaves the 
 girl somewhat confused and accentuates the young man's 
 disorder. 
 
 At this juncture Mr. Felton returns with the informa 
 tion that they have little more than an hour to reach 
 Barclay Street and the North River, from which point the 
 steamer leaves. 
 
 "Then let us go at once. I am ready," Louise says,
 
 TWO KINDS OF BLOCKADE. 145 
 
 "after I have scribbled a note of explanation to Mr. 
 Ashley. He was to have lunched with us at i o'clock, 
 you know." 
 
 After they have gone Van Zandt drops his head upon 
 his hand, and for the space of ten minutes remains 
 plunged in thought. Then, to the waiter's surprise, he 
 leaves his breakfast untouched and quits the dining-room. 
 
 In the office he sees Mr. Felton settling his bill. Out 
 side the hotel a line of "cabbies" are drawn up and these 
 Van Zandt looks over critically, finally signaling to one 
 of them, a jovial, red visaged Irishman. 
 
 "Riley, a lady and gentleman are going from this hotel 
 to Barclay Street and North River within a few minutes. 
 I want you to have the job of carrying them," says Van 
 Zandt. 
 
 "I'm agreeable, sor." 
 
 "After you have secured the job, I want you to< miss the 
 steamer which sails for Cuba at II o'clock. Under 
 stand?" 
 
 Riley puckers up his mouth for a whistle which he de 
 cides to suppress. 
 
 "Sure that would not be hard, sor. It's tin o'clock 
 now." 
 
 "Here they come now. Look to your job," says Van 
 Zandt. 
 
 Mr. Felton and Miss Hathaway emerge from the hotel, 
 followed by a porter with their trunks. Amid a chorus 
 of "Keb, sir!" "Keb!" "Keb!" in which Riley sings a 
 heavy bass, Mr. Felton looks about him in perplexity, 
 and finally, as though annoyed by the importunities of 
 Riley, who is rather overdoing his part, he selects a rival 
 "cabbie." 
 
 Riley turns somewhat sheepishly to Van Zandt, who 
 looks after the disappearing carriage in vexation. 
 
 "Shall I run them down, sor?" asks the Irishman, with 
 a wink which means volumes. 
 
 "Can you prevent them reaching the pier?" 
 
 "Sure, I think so, your honor." 
 
 "I'll give you $50 if. you do it."
 
 146 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "Be hivens! Pd murdther thim for that," exclaims 
 Riley, as he leaps to his box. 
 
 The two cabs proceeded at a smart pace down Fifth 
 Avenue, but as the congested trucking district is reached 
 progress becomes slower. 
 
 "Can you make the pier in time?" Mr. Felton asks the 
 driver anxiously, consulting his watch for the dozenth 
 time. 
 
 "Sure thing," is the confident response. 
 
 Neither the driver nor his passengers see the cab be 
 hind them. Riley has his reins grasped tightly in one 
 hand, his whip in the other, and the expression on 
 his round red face indicates that he is preparing for 
 something out of the ordinary. 
 
 They have now reached lower West Broadway, and 
 before Mr. Felton's driver knows it he has become en 
 tangled in a rapidly created blockade. 
 
 Progress now is snail-like. Mr. Felton becomes nerv 
 ous, while Miss Hathaway finds much to interest her in 
 the seemingly inextricable tangle of trucks, drays, horse 
 cars, cabs, etc. Suddenly a space of a dozen feet or so 
 opens before them, and the driver is about to take advan 
 tage of it when Riley gives his horse a cut with the \vhip 
 and bumps by, nearly taking a wheel off the other cab. 
 
 Then ensues a duel of that picturesque profanity with 
 out which no truck blockade could possibly be disen 
 tangled. 
 
 Riley, who is ordinarily one of the most good-natured 
 of mortals, becomes suddenly sensitive under the abuse 
 heaped upon him and dragging the rival cabman from 
 his box he proceeds to handle him in a manner that 
 affords keen delight to the onlookers. 
 
 It is a snappy morning and Riley rather enjoys the 
 exercise he is taking. But it is suddenly ended by a 
 brace of policemen, who struggle upon the scene and 
 pounce upon the combatants. Explanations are then 
 in order and peace is restored. No one is arrested. 
 
 Riley is willing to break away, for as he looks around 
 he notes with satisfaction that the blockade has increased
 
 TWO KINDS OF BLOCKADE. 147 
 
 to unusual proportions and he awaits serenely its slow 
 unraveling. 
 
 Meanwhile Mr. Felton is invoking the vials of wrath 
 upon all cabmen, past, present and to come. It is nearly 
 1 1 :3<D when they reach the pier and, as they expect, the 
 steamer has gone. 
 
 " 'Tain't my fault, mum," the "cabbie" explains apolo 
 getically. "Minis the chap what done it," indicating 
 Riley, who has driven up to the pier with the triumphant 
 flourish of a winner in a great race. 
 
 Mr. Felton casts a withering look upon the jolly Irish 
 man. "We may as well return to the hotel," he tells 
 Louise. 
 
 At this moment Van Zandt steps from his cab, and, 
 raising his hat, remarks: 
 
 "I trust that the carelessness of my driver has not 
 caused you serious annoyance." 
 
 "He has prevented our catching the last steamer that 
 will sail for Cuba in probably some months," replies 
 Mr. Felton, tartly. 
 
 "You blockhead !'' cries Van Zandt sternly, turning to 
 Riley, who averts his face. 
 
 "My dear sir, it is needless for me to assure you of my 
 profound regret. It will not help matters. The mischief 
 is done and yet I think I can repair it." 
 
 "Repair it?" repeats Mr. Felton. "In what possible 
 way, sir?" 
 
 "Very easily, if you desire. You were going to Ha 
 vana, I presume?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "My yacht sails for Santiago thisafternoon at I o'clock. 
 I shall be happy to land you at that port, and you may 
 thence proceed by rail to Havana." 
 
 Mr. Felton and Louise look at each other in surprise. 
 "Really, sir," says the former, "you are very good, but 
 I do not see how we can put you to such trouble." 
 
 "I assure you that you will not inconvenience me in 
 the slightest. The yacht is large and you will be the 
 only passengers, with one exception." 
 
 Mr. Felton hesitates. "How badly does he want to go
 
 148 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 to Cuba?'' wonders Van Zandt and he remarks: "This 
 will probably be your only chance to reach Havana in 
 some little time, if, as you say, there are no more steam 
 ers. Really, I almost feel like insisting on your accept 
 ing my offer, as some sort of reparation for the annoy 
 ance to which you have been put and for which I feel 
 partly responsible." 
 
 "But a blockade has been declared about the island. 
 Your yacht '' 
 
 "My yacht will land you at Santiago," supplies Van 
 Zandt, with a peculiar smile. "We sail in about an 
 hour, and we may as well proceed to the yacht at once. 
 For I assume that you have decided to permit me to atone 
 for the blackguardly behavior of my driver." 
 
 Mr. Felton consults Miss Hathaway and the matter is 
 decided in the affirmative, and as Van Zandt hands them 
 into their coupe, he tells the driver: "North River, foot 
 of Twenty-third Street." 
 
 An hour later Miss Hathaway is expressing her admir 
 ation for the beautiful yacht that is soon to bear her to 
 the tropics, and Capt. Beals is giving the last orders 
 preparatory to getting under way. 
 
 As Van Zandt watches Mr. Felton cross from the pier 
 to the deck of the Semiramis into his dark eyes comes a 
 glitter of almost savage satisfaction, and he murmurs: 
 
 "I have you safe now, and by George! You will not 
 soon escape me!" 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE PENALTY OF PROCRASTINATION. 
 
 A pencil of sunlight has struggled through the heavy 
 draperies at the windows and laid a tiny straight line 
 across the carpet in the comfortable apartments of Jack 
 Ashley on West Thirty-fourth Street. The oriole time 
 piece on the mantel chimes the hour of 9 when that 
 individual awakens with a series of prodigious yawns.
 
 THE PENALTY OF PROCRASTINATION. 149 
 
 Fifteen minutes more and Ashley's toilet is complete, 
 and with heels elevated to a comfortable angle, he pro 
 ceeds to scan the pages of his morning paper. His own 
 story of the French ball first claims his attention, and 
 with a comment of satisfaction on the size of the head 
 lines with which it is introduced, he runs his eye approv 
 ingly over the dozen or so illustrations with which the 
 article is embellished. 
 
 A scare head of the largest size catches his eye, and 
 with awakening interest he reads the sensational head 
 lines. "Gaining Ground Cuban Revolutionists Driving 
 Spaniards Before Them Hemisphere's Exclusive Inter 
 view with Senor Manada Creates Excitement in Wash 
 ington United States Man-of-War to Be Sent to Cuba 
 to Protect American Interests," and much more of the 
 same tenor. As Jack skims over the voluminous dis 
 patches that follow the head, he reads with interest one 
 brief item, dated Santiago de Cuba, via Nassau, N. P. It 
 is as follows : 
 
 The Government is redoubling its efforts to suppress 
 the news, and is apparently determined that the press 
 of the United States and elsewhere shall not learn the 
 exact state of affairs on the island. Nine-tenths of the 
 local newspaper men have been fined by the press censor. 
 Several editions of the leading papers have been seized, 
 and telegrams for transmission abroad from eastern 
 Cuba are now absolutely forbidden. It is also a fact that 
 foreign correspondents have been threatened with ex 
 pulsion. The Spanish authorities allege that the mys 
 terious steamer fired upon by the warship Galicia was 
 not the American ward liner Santiago, but a rebel vessel 
 which the insurrectionists have purchased in the United 
 States and fitted up as a gunboat. A blockade of all the 
 ports of the island, as previously intimated, has been 
 formally announced." 
 
 "It looks as if the paper would be obliged to send a 
 man down there," Ashley reflects, as he struggles into his 
 topcoat. "What a superb day for the trial trip," as he
 
 150 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 opens the street door and steps into the sunlight. "And 
 this is the day, too, that Barker is to arrest Felton. He 
 didn't specify any time, probably not till afternoon, any 
 way. I almost wish I wasn't assigned to that trial trip. 
 I should like to interview him after the arrest. How 
 ever, my story is all written up and I can get the details 
 of the arrest from Barker after I return from the America. 
 I wonder how Miss 'Hathaway will take the affair," a 
 softer light shining in his eyes as his thoughts revert 
 to the beautiful ward of Cyrus Felton. "She treats him 
 with the utmost deference and respect, but I cannot 
 think that she cares especially for him. Heigho! Now 
 for a cup of coffee and then for another tete-a-tete with 
 the beautiful unknown of the Raymond Hotel." 
 
 It is on the stroke of 10 as Ashley saunters up to the 
 clerk's desk in the Kensington and requests that his 
 card, upon which he has penciled a few lines explain 
 ing his identity, be taken to Mrs. Winthrop. 
 
 "Mrs. Winthrop?" the urbane clerk repeats. "There 
 is no such lady stopping here, to my knowledge." 
 
 Ashley is nonplused. So he has been duped, he thinks, 
 by the fair unknown. But why has not Barker kept his 
 agreement? A nice sort of a shadow if he cannot fol 
 low as striking-looking a woman as "Mrs. Winthrop/' 
 But stay! Perhaps she has given a fictitious name, but 
 is actually stopping at the Kensington after all. Barker 
 could not have slipped upon a simple matter like that. 
 
 Abstractedly twirling his glove, Jack leans over the 
 desk and says in a low tone to the clerk, an old acquaint 
 ance: "Is there a rather striking-looking young woman, 
 with dark eyes and midnight hair, stopping at the house?" 
 
 The clerk smiles. 
 
 "Sorry, Jack, but you are too late, I'm afraid. The 
 beautiful Mrs. Harding left at 9 o'clock, bag and bag 
 gage." 
 
 Ashley turns thoughtfully away and repairs to the 
 reading-room for a quiet think. So her name for the 
 present at least is Mrs. Harding. But where is Barker? 
 The detective is probably shadowing Mrs. Harding now. 
 Ashley concludes that there is nothing for him to do but
 
 THE PENALTY OF PROCRASTINATION. 151 
 
 await Barker's return. He has been on the watch barely 
 half an hour when the detective swings himself from a 
 cable car in front of the hotel. 
 
 "Well?" is Jack's impatient salutation as he leads the 
 way to a retired corner of the reading-room. 
 
 Barker is not in exuberant spirits; his brows are 
 knitted in a frown and he is nervously biting his mus 
 tache. 
 
 "Well, she has gone left town, and is apparently en 
 route from the country for Cuba, I believe." 
 
 "For Cuba!'' and Jack stares at the detective in mild 
 amaze. Verily, either a most remarkable series of 
 coincidences or the tangled threads of the Raymond 
 mystery are pointing unmistakably to the fair isle of the 
 Antilles. 
 
 "Yes, for Cuba. Let me impress it upon your mind 
 in the beginning that Mrs. Isabel Harding that's the 
 name she is sailing under is no ordinary woman. Why 
 but to begin at the beginning. According to our 
 understanding last night, I followed her to this hotel, 
 where I found she was actually stopping. I naturally 
 concluded that she made the engagement with you in 
 good faith, else she would have given another hotel." 
 
 "She did give me a fictitious name," breaks in Jack. 
 "Or, rather, she led me to believe that her name was still 
 Winthrop." 
 
 "Did she? Well, that was useless. Anyhow, I de 
 cided to stop here last night, to be on guard early this 
 morning. I found that my lady had breakfasted early. 
 This made me suspicious and I kept close watch of her. 
 Shortly after 9 o'clock she settled her bill at the hotel and 
 with her trunks was driven to the Jersey City ferry. Of 
 course I followed. At the Pennsylvania depot she was 
 joined by a foreign-looking chap Spaniard. Quite a 
 distinguished-looking duffer. If you should ever run 
 across him you will know him by ^a small, crescent- 
 shaped scar on his left cheek. I was successful in getting 
 close enough to them to hear some of the conversation. 
 It appeared from their talk, Ashley, that your Mrs. Hard 
 ing is, in addition to her other accomplishments, a spy
 
 152 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 in the pay of the Spanish Government, and that she has 
 been successful in learning some of the secret plans and 
 plots of the Cuban filibusters in this city. She is now 
 on her way to Port Tampa aboard the Florida limited, 
 and I should judge it is their intention to proceed from 
 Key West at once to Havana." 
 
 "Their intention? Did the Spanish officer accompany 
 her?" 
 
 Barker nods. "He looked as if he was right out of 
 the hospital; his head was bandaged. Perhaps some of 
 the Cuban sympathizers had it out with him. However, 
 that episode is closed, for the present at least. And now 
 for Cyrus Felton. I shall take him directly to the Tombs, 
 and according to our compact he will be invisible to any 
 of the newspaper fraternity. Will you come with me to 
 the St. James while I nab the bird?" 
 
 Ashley starts. He has for a moment forgotten the 
 catastrophe that is about to overcome Cyrus Felton. He 
 looks at his watch. "I am overdue at the office," he 
 says. "But say, Barker, I had an engagement to lunch 
 with Felton and Miss Hathaway at i o'clock. Can't you 
 put off the arrest until to-morrow?" 
 
 Barker shakes his head. "Not a minute," he replies, 
 emphatically. "I have delayed long enough. If you 
 intended to lunch with the fair Miss Hathaway you will 
 have an opportunity to do so just the same and your 
 presence will doubtless be appreciated in her tremendous 
 confusion. If you can't come with me I will drop round 
 at the office and see you later." 
 
 "All right, then. Do the job in as gentlemanly a man 
 ner as possible," grins Ashley. 
 
 Barker nods and walks rapidly toward the St. James, 
 while Ashley boards a Broadway car and rolls downtown. 
 
 The detective saunters up to the hotel office desk, 
 writes the name "Cyrus Felton" on a bit of cardboard, 
 and, passing it to the clerk, inquires: "Is that gentle 
 man in?" 
 
 "No, sir; gone. Left an hour ago." 
 
 "When will he return?" 
 
 "Well, that's rather beyond me," smiles the clerk.
 
 THE CRUISER AMERICA. 153 
 
 "Mr. Felton and a lady sailed this morning for Cuba, 
 on the City of Havana. I assume that they did. They 
 were driven from here to the pier." 
 
 "What time does the steamer sail?" asks Barker, taking 
 out his watch. 
 
 "Eleven o'clock." 
 
 "Too late!" grits the detective. It is even now five 
 minutes past the hour. 
 
 For a moment Barker permits his emotions to master 
 his self-possession, and he startles even the debonair 
 clerk, accustomed as the latter is to the strong terms 
 sometimes employed by irritable guests. 
 
 His feelings relieved in a measure by this unusual out 
 break, the detective sits down for a moment to consider 
 the situation. Cyrus Felton, then, is on his way to Cuba, 
 doubtless to join his son. Mrs. Harding, a valuable 
 quantity in the mystery, is also headed for the Antilles. 
 Everything seems to point to Cuba. Barker picks up a 
 railroad timetable. 
 
 "Twelve m.; Florida express for Savannah, Jackson 
 ville and Port Tampa," he reads. 
 
 "By the gods, I'll do it!" he exclaims, as he starts for 
 the street. "First to the pier and make sure that the 
 steamer has gone, and, if so, then to Key West. I shall 
 be only two hours behind the woman, and I may reach 
 Havana ahead of Felton. Hi, there, cabby!" 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE CRUISER AMERICA. 
 
 "Jack, Mr. Ricker wants to see you," is the information 
 extended to Ashley when he reaches the office. He re 
 ports at the room of the city editor, and that gentleman 
 informs him that he has not arrived any too soon. 
 
 "I know that I am an hour or so behind, but I have 
 been working up a story that will make interesting read-
 
 154 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 ing," Ashley explains. "What's up? My trial-trip as 
 signment isn't until 3, is it?" 
 
 "The start was set for 3, but it has been pushed for 
 ward to i o'clock," says Ricker. 
 
 "It is about noon now. i may as well start for Brook 
 lyn at once. Good, snappy day for a run down the bay." 
 
 "Thunder!" says Ashley, when he reaches the street. 
 "I had forgotten that 1 was booked for a consolatory 
 lunch with Miss Hathaway at i. I must send my re 
 grets. Hang it, that will look as if I was on to the 
 arrest and was afraid to show up." 
 
 But he sends the note, nevertheless, and feels better in 
 mind. "If that cold-blooded Barker only handles the 
 matter properly," he thinks. 
 
 Even as he reaches the Government dock Jack sees the 
 pennant of CapL Meade run up to the main truck of the 
 cruiser whose initial trial in commission he is to report; 
 he is none too soon for the gang-plank is being with 
 drawn by half a score of blue-clad sailors as he makes a 
 flying leap and lands upon the deck of the newest and 
 fastest acquisition to Uncle Sam's navy, the cruiser 
 America. 
 
 Ere Jack has fully recovered his footing a youthful- 
 appearing midshipman brusquely demands his business. 
 
 It takes sometime before Jack is permitted to tread 
 the sacred precincts of the quarter-deck. 
 
 Capt. Meade is for the time being on the bridge, and, 
 before making the acquaintance of the commander, Jack 
 proceeds to look about the vessel. 
 
 The America has an air of being a ship made for 
 getting there; an up-to-date cruiser, without frills and 
 furbelows, but distinctively with an aspect of power. In 
 the bright sunlight her snowy hull gleams like polished 
 marble. Her four great smokestacks relieve in a meas 
 ure the glaring effect of her big white bulk, while the 
 polished brass and steel with which all the decks are gird- 
 ironed suggest, without the presence of the murderous 
 rapid-fire and revolving cannon stationed about the 
 decks, that the vessel is designed for war. 
 
 Ashley is soon engaged in the collection of information
 
 THE CRUISER AMERICA. 155 
 
 regarding the America for the benefit of Hemisphere 
 readers. The cruiser is, the second officer informs him, 
 of over 7,000 tons displacement. Her battery comprises 
 two six-inch, 4O-caliber rapid-fire guns, one on each side, 
 forward of the superstructure; one eight-inch, 4O-caliber 
 on the center line, abaft the superstructure; eight four- 
 inch rapid-fire guns in armored sponsons on the gun- 
 deck, four on each side; six-pounder rapid-fire guns, 
 four-pounders, one-pounders, Catlings and torpedo tubes 
 galore. 
 
 "There are three vertical, triple-expansion engines, 
 each set driving a separate screw. The propellers are 
 of manganese bronze and the " 
 
 "Thank you, that is sufficient, I guess," interrupts Jack. 
 "The Hemisphere readers will have a very good idea of 
 the offensive and defensive power of the America now, 
 I am sure." 
 
 The cruiser is slowly backing out into the stream. 
 There is a big throng on the pier to watch her departure, 
 and a whole battery of cameras are leveled as she finally 
 swings around. 
 
 Now the ship becomes indeed instinct with life and is 
 pointing down the bay with a speed that augurs well for 
 the shattering of records. The whistles of all the craft 
 in sight screech a salute and the America's hoarse whistle 
 bellows responsively. Past the Battery and Governor's 
 Island she speeds and then, fairly by quarantine, the 
 patent log is cast into the foamy wake and Capt. Meade 
 rings "full speed." 
 
 The speed trial of the America has actually begun. 
 
 Jack is idly watching the rapidly receding island, when 
 he becomes aware by the slight bustle on the quarterdeck 
 that the commander of the America has returned from 
 the bridge. 
 
 Capt. Meade, or "Fighting Dave," as he is affection 
 ately designated in naval circles, is a man of about 60 
 years, but forty-five years of his eventful career have been 
 spent in the navy. He has worked himself up, without 
 political or social influence, from apprentice boy to com-
 
 156 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 mander of the. newest and best cruiser in the United 
 States. 
 
 Jack has heard of "Fighting Dave," and he scans the 
 famous naval officer with much interest A figure 
 slightly below the average, but stockily built; a cheer 
 ful visage, face weather-beaten and innocent of beard, 
 surmounted by a shock of grizzly hair; eyes whose keen 
 expression might well belie the jovial look upon the face 
 this is Capt. David Meade, U. S. N. 
 
 "Good face," thinks Ashley, as he completes his 
 scrutiny. "I should like to know Capt. Meade personally, 
 and I will." 
 
 With his customary assurance and easy grace Ashley 
 approaches the autocrat of the quarterdeck and tenders 
 his card. 
 
 Capt. Meade glances at the pasteboard and then his 
 keen eyes wander to the newspaper man. Apparently 
 the scrutiny is satisfactory, for the bronzed face wrinkles 
 into the most benign of smiles and a tremendous fist 
 grasps Jack's right hand with a grip which causes him 
 to mentally question his ability to write up the trial trip, 
 or anything else, for a week at least. 
 
 "So you are from the Hemisphere?" Capt. Meade ob 
 serves. "Well, I like that paper and one of its repre 
 sentatives is heartily welcome to my ship. In these days 
 of sentiment and gush and peace and good-will and 
 brotherly love, and so forth, and so forth, it does my 
 heart good to get hold of a paper which isn't afraid nor 
 ashamed to speak right out in meetin' for the land we live 
 in and the flag that floats above it. But come below, Mr. 
 Ashley, and we'll clinch the sentiment with a toast." And 
 the captain leads the way to his sumptuous quarters, 
 where the "splicing of the main brace" is accomplished 
 with alacrity and vigor by commander and newspaper 
 man. 
 
 "Well, what do you think of the America?" asks the 
 captain. "Did you ever see anything like that on a 
 vessel going over twenty knots an hour?" setting his 
 glass, filled to the brim, on the table. The surface of 
 the liquid is scarce more ruffled than that of a mirror.
 
 THE CRUISER AMERICA. 157 
 
 "No sign of vibration, eh? She stands up as steady as 
 a house." 
 
 Jack is really surprised as he considers the circum 
 stances. "From what little I have seen of her I should 
 say she is a remarkable craft and one that Uncle Sam 
 should feel proud of," he replies. 
 
 "Remarkable? She's a wonder! Why, she can walk 
 away from anything that floats anything, big or little, 
 torpedo catchers or stilettos. I was on her when her 
 first trial trip with the builders aboard took place, and 
 while she made twenty-five knots then, she can do better. 
 And she is going to do it to-day. Before we reach 
 Sandy Hook, young man, you can just put it down in 
 your log-book that the American flag is being borne over 
 the water faster than any other flag is likely to be carried 
 for some time. One more splice and then we'll show 
 you how the trick is done." 
 
 As the captain and his guest return to the quarterdeck 
 of the cruiser it is apparent that something unusual is 
 attracting the attention of officers and crew. Those who 
 are not actively engaged in the manipulation of the 
 cruiser are gathered at the port rail watching intently a 
 steamer that is running parallel with the America, about 
 an eighth of a mile distant and about three lengths astern. 
 
 "What is it, Mr. Jones?" inquires Capt Meade of the 
 third officer, who has just removed the binocular glasses 
 from his eyes. 
 
 "A strange craft, sir, evidently a yacht which is ap 
 parently using the America as a pacemaker. She pulled 
 up astern of us fifteen minutes ago, and has since been 
 steadily gaining. Very fast, sir, I should say, but she 
 bears no ensign or pennant of any kind." 
 
 Capt. Meade takes the glasses from the hands of his 
 subaltern and looks long and critically at the strange 
 vessel. She is nearly the same length as the America, 
 though manifestly of considerable less tonnage. And 
 she is painted black, without a bit of gay color from stem 
 to stern to relieve the somberness of her hull. 
 
 Two black smokestacks, that appear unusually large 
 and are set at a decidedly rakish angle, are relieved by
 
 158 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 two narrow bands of white. Capt. Meade with a sea 
 man's appreciative eye admires the shapely lines of the 
 yacht, but as his practiced vision notices the comparative 
 ease with which she is creeping up on the America his 
 jovial face becomes slightly troubled. 
 
 "Mr. Jones, have the log taken and work out our speed 
 at once," he orders. 
 
 "Twenty-four and a quarter knots," is the report. 
 
 For the next ten minutes the captain watches intently 
 the strange yacht. Her course is apparently shaped pre 
 cisely parallel with that of the America, and she still 
 continues to gain, inch by inch, upon the white cruiser. 
 Now she is amidships, and now the two vessels are on 
 even terms. 
 
 A puff of white steam rises abaft the stranger's big 
 smokestacks, and a long shrill whistle salutes the cruiser. 
 
 'Tis a challenge for a race and it stirs Capt. Meade's 
 blood to fever heat. He sends for the chief engineer. 
 
 "How is the machinery working?" he inquires. 
 
 "Finely, sir; not the sign of the slightest trouble any 
 where." 
 
 "Very well, sir; we will begin now to push her for a 
 record. Put on every ounce of steam she will stand, 
 first with natural and afterward with forced draught." 
 
 The chief engineer salutes, and returns to his domain, 
 and a second later the hoarse whistle of the America 
 sounds a defiant acceptance of the challenge of the black 
 yacht. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 GREAT RACE TO THE OCEAN. 
 
 "By Jove! I had no idea the captain had so much 
 sporting blood in his veins," murmurs Jack Ashley to 
 himself, as he watches alternately the challenging craft 
 and the America. "It is a race fit for a king's delectation. 
 I wonder whose yacht that is. I don't remember
 
 GREAT RACE TO THE OCEAN. 159 
 
 seeing her described in any of the papers, as she certainly 
 would have been if she were owned in New York. She 
 is a big one, and a beauty, too. And swift as the wind ! 
 But she doesn't seem to be gaining now. No, by 
 Jupiter! We are gaining on her! The America has 
 struck her gait at last! But that's a game craft there. 
 She sticks to us like a leech and refuses to be shaken 
 off. Ah!" 
 
 The impromptu race has been in progress nearly half 
 an hour, and the two vessels, still less than an eighth 
 of a mile apart, are gradually drawing nearer each other. 
 It is apparent that the yacht is determined to continue 
 the race at closer range, and has changed her course for 
 that purpose. Meanwhile the big cruiser has held to her 
 original course, and as the yacht straightens away for 
 another parallel run she has lost her former advantage 
 and the two vessels are practically on even terms. 
 
 It is a battle royal! 
 
 The white cruiser is cleaving the water with tre 
 mendous speed, her bow sending the spray curling nearly 
 as high as her armored top, while the waves astern are 
 churned by her triple screws into a foam that extends 
 as far as the eye can reach. The roaring of her furnaces 
 is audible above the whir of the machinery and the 
 whistling of the wind through the rigging. From her 
 three great smokestacks steadily increasing masses of 
 inky smoke trail out above the snowy wake. 
 
 All eyes on the deck of the cruiser are riveted on the 
 yacht. For a short space of time it looks as if both ves 
 sels might be propelled by the same power, so even are 
 their relative positions. Then, to the practical eyes 
 aboard the cruiser, it is apparent that the America is 
 drawing ahead, slowly to be sure, and imperceptibly to 
 the untrained eye, but still gaining. 
 
 A dozen yards, a quarter length, a half, a clear length 
 ahead! 
 
 A hearty cheer is trembling on the lips of the crew 
 of the cruiser, but it is not uttered. The race is stiil un 
 finished, the victory still hangs in the balance. 
 
 Like a thoroughbred that has been feeling her antag-
 
 160 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 onist, the yacht now seems to respond to some unde 
 veloped power. The cruiser gains no more she is 
 losing her advantage. The watchers on the quarter 
 deck of the America can see the black prow lessening the 
 open water that separates the two craft. Now her bow 
 laps the stern of the America, but not for long. She is 
 overhauling the cruiser faster now, and in a few minutes 
 seconds, it seems to the anxious spectators on tire 
 latter vessel she is abeam of the America. 
 
 Out beyond Sandy Hook, where the billows flash into 
 curving crests like the manes of wild horses, a great fleet 
 has gathered to watch the race against time of the famous 
 warship. Instead it is their privilege to witness a race 
 between two of the swiftest sea hounds ever unleashed 
 on the trail of the wind. 
 
 Through the impromptu armada the racers speed over 
 the toppling seas. A thousand glasses are upon them. 
 What does it mean? The white cruiser all may recog 
 nize, but her sable-hul'led consort, what is she? Straight 
 out from staff and halyards the wind whips the flag and 
 ensigns of the America, but neither ensign nor flag does 
 the strange steamship show, and except for the great 
 white wake that trails behind her she might be a phantom 
 ship, another Flying Dutchman. 
 
 But ere the "reviewing stand" recovers from its first 
 surprise, both craft are miles away, black bow and white 
 bow piling over hills of foam like sleighs over snowdrifts 
 and the surge that goes sobbing along the glistening 
 sides of the cruiser, inaudible above the roar of her 
 mighty engines, sounds, like the weeping for a lost race. 
 
 For the black hull is bow and bow with the white, as, 
 after a long and critical survey of the yacht from the 
 bridge, Capt. Meade descends to the deck and summons 
 the chief engineer. 
 
 "Everything is working finely, sir," that official reports. 
 "We are steaming the extreme limit under natural 
 draught. Shall we try the forced now, sir?" 
 
 Capt. Meade hesitates and again gazes long at the yacht. 
 The latter has now a clear length of open water to the 
 good and her stern is presented squarely in view for the
 
 GREAT RACE TO THE OCEAN. 161 
 
 first time. The single word Semiramis is inscribed there 
 on in gold letters. But no port is designated. 
 
 "The Semiramis," murmurs the commander of the 
 America. "I never heard of the craft before, but her 
 name will be on every man's lips before long, I'll wager." 
 Then to the chief engineer: "Yes, put on the forced 
 draught." 
 
 Jack Ashley wipes the marine glasses with which the 
 thoughtfulness of the second officer has provided him, 
 and turns them again toward the afterdeck of the yacht. 
 
 "Well, may I be keelhauled, or some other equally 
 condign nautical punishment," he mutters, after a long 
 look. "If that isn't Louise Hathaway, seated in a 
 steamer chair, then do my optics play me strange pranks. 
 But what is she doing on the deck of that yacht? She 
 appears to be alone; at least there is no other lady 
 passenger on deck. Ah, there is Mr. Felton. So Barker 
 was too late. Felton and Miss Hathaway must be the 
 guests of the gay yachtsman who is making ducks and 
 drakes of the America on her trial trip. 
 
 "Thunder and Mars !" cries the newspaper man, nearly 
 dropping the glasses to the deck. "Phillip Van Zandt! 
 He is apparently the owner of the yacht. Good heavens! 
 What irony of fate brings together those two participants 
 in the Raymond tragedy. For Van Zandt is Ernest 
 Stanley, I will swear it 
 
 "Well, as the novelists say, the plot thickens. How 
 did Van Zandt ingratiate himself into the good graces 
 of Cyrus Felton? It must have been recently, for Miss 
 Hathaway spoke as if they had no friends in the city. 
 Hang it all! I don't just fancy the situation. How 
 assiduously he is waiting upon her now! Heigho, Jack! 
 I think I would as soon have reported this trial trip from 
 the deck of the Semiramis." At which thought Ashley 
 impatiently pitches over the rail the remains of one of 
 Capt. Meade's favorite brand of cigars. 
 
 The black plumes of smoke that pour from the chim 
 neys of the America are becoming denser and larger. 
 The forced draught is now fully in operation, and in the
 
 162 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 boiler-rooms the half-naked stokers ceaselessly feed the 
 greedy fires. 
 
 The cruiser has reached the limit of her speed. 
 
 How is it with the Semiramis? 
 
 For a time the America seems to hold her own and 
 even to gain slightly. But the advantage is transitory. 
 The yacht still apparently has speed in reserve. Once 
 more she leaps forward and not again is opportunity 
 afforded the America's people to view her gleaming 
 sides. 
 
 For another hour both vessels are driven at their 
 highest speed. The Semiramis continues to gain upon 
 the America, and is now nearly a quarter of a mile ahead. 
 
 Half an hour later Capt. Meade sees a flag run up to 
 the masthead of the vanishing yacht. He gives an order 
 and the cruiser's forward gun booms a salute. 
 
 "What do you make of that ensign, Mr. Smith?" in 
 quires the commander, turning to the second officer. 
 
 "A strange flag, sir, not the flag of any nation that I 
 recall," is the reply. 
 
 "Ah, I have it," suddenly exclaims the captain. "Well, 
 she is a great craft and magnificently handled. The 
 America made a gallant fight against odds and lost; but 
 you can say, Mr. Ashley," as that individual ascends the 
 steps to the bridge, "that the America has broken all 
 records in the navies of the world, and for two con 
 secutive hours has exceeded twenty-seven knots an hour. 
 Yonder craft has beaten that time, but she has not the 
 heavy armament of the America." 
 
 "What was the ensign she ran up a moment ago, 
 captain?'' Ashley asks. 
 
 "That, sir/' replies Capt. Meade, "was the flag of Cuba 
 Libre, the emblem of the sometime republic of the 
 Antilles!"
 
 ASHLEY LAGS SUPERFLUOUS. 163 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 ASHLEY LAGS SUPERFLUOUS. 
 
 "If she is the property of the revolutionists, gentlemen, 
 with her phenomenal speed she can run the strictest 
 blockade the Spaniards can institute, can land arms, am 
 munition and re-enforcements at will, and practically 
 snap her ringers at the whole Spanish navy." 
 
 The speaker is Capt. Meade and the place the officers' 
 mess table on board the America. Naturally the one 
 topic of conversation is the strange yacht and her re 
 markable performance. 
 
 "Yes," continues the captain, impressively, "I believe 
 that the result of the insurrection may hang on the fate 
 of that steamer. My sympathies as an individual, I do not 
 hesitate to say, are with the rebels. But my duty as an 
 officer impels me to notify the War Department of the 
 departure of the Semiramis and the flaunting of the 
 Cuban flag. However, I hardly think the warning will 
 harm her, even if it should set the entire Spanish navy 
 in pursuit." 
 
 "Do you think the yacht is bound for Cuba now?" 
 inquires Ashley, with an unpleasant sensation in the 
 vicinity of the fifth rib. 
 
 "Certainly. She is apparently coaled and equipped 
 for a long voyage. She set low enough in the water to 
 carry quite a cargo, too. Oh, yes; she is off for the 
 West Indies sure enough." 
 
 Ashley relapses into a reverie and the burden of his 
 thoughts is something like this: "Louise Hathaway, 
 Cyrus Felton and this mysterious Van Zandt on the same 
 steamer and bound for Cuba! How and why?" He 
 mechanically pulls at his cigar. Finally, as the signal 
 for breaking up of the dinner party is given by the com 
 mander, he murmurs: "What will John Barker say?" 
 
 The America has completed her run; and now, her 
 officers and the naval experts aboard having expressed
 
 164 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 their satisfaction with her performance, the cruiser is 
 steaming back to her dock. The shrill salutes of the 
 many steam craft in the harbor greet the ears of Ashley 
 as he accompanies the officers to the deck. The sun is 
 shining in a haze of cold gray. The March air, a few 
 hours ago so clear and warm, is dull and marrow- 
 piercing. Ashley shivers and buttons his coat more 
 closely about him. 
 
 A few moments more, and the cruiser is slowing down 
 preparatory to making her pier, and Jack seeks Capt. 
 Meade to express his thanks. The latter shakes his 
 hand cordially and remarks: "Better come on our next 
 cruise, my boy; we may have another try at the black 
 yacht. The navy expert says it was rumored in official 
 circles that if this trial was satisfactory the America is to 
 be ordered immediately to Cuba to protect American 
 interests. Good news, if true, eh?" 
 
 Ashley allows that if the captain says it is good news, 
 good news it certainly must be; and a half-defined hope 
 is forming in his mind as he steps once more on terra 
 firma. 
 
 "After I turn in my story on the trial trip I shall pro 
 ceed to hunt up some possible light on the latest twist 
 in the Hathaway tangle," he meditates, as he sets his 
 face toward the lights of Gotham town. "Felton and 
 Miss Hathaway were booked to sail on the City of Callao 
 on Saturday; yet I discover them to-day headed south 
 ward on the Semiramis. Miss Hathaway must have left 
 some explanation, and it is barely possible that Barker 
 may know something about the sudden departure. I 
 should not be a particle surprised if John, too, were 
 aboard the Semiramis. Nothing will ever surprise me 
 again. But if Barker got left I shall probably find him 
 sitting on the steps of the Hemisphere office, in a state 
 of mind bordering on the profane." 
 
 But fate decrees that many days shall elapse ere the 
 detective and his newspaper friend again clasp each other 
 by the hand; days big with exciting events that the 
 serene Ashley dreams not of as he saunters down News 
 paper Row.
 
 ASHLEY LAGS SUPERFLUOUS. 165 
 
 From his box in the office Ashley extracts a letter, 
 evidently hastily written and sealed. The address is in 
 Barker's handwriting, and Ashley tears it open. He 
 reads : 
 
 "My Dear Ashley: I start for Cuba at 12 o'clock via Key 
 West. Write this just before the train starts. Felton has elud 
 ed ine thanks to your infernal French ball and sailed for 
 Cuba on City of Havana at 11 o'clock. Don't know whether 
 he got wind of contemplated arrest or not. If I have good 
 luck at Key West will be in H. as soon as he. May trail him 
 to the son and bag both at once. In any event, do not intend 
 to lose sight of him again till he is safely landed in Vermont. 
 I may run across your Mrs. Harding, and if I do will try my 
 luck at making her tell what she knows of young Felton, on 
 threat of exposing her as a Spanish spy. Good scheme, eh? 
 Must close, train starting; will write from Cuba, Hastily, 
 
 "Barker." 
 
 "So Cuba is to be the scene of the next act of the 
 Raymond tragedy," Jack thinks. "How suddenly all the 
 characters have betaken themselves to the southern isle, 
 and how events have crowded on each other the last day 
 or two ! First, news that young Felton is in Cuba ; then 
 appear Cyrus Felton and Louise Hathaway in the city; 
 then the mysterious woman of the Raymond Hotel, and 
 the stranger of the mountain gorge and all of these are 
 at this moment en route to Cuba. Only Derrick Ames 
 and Helen Hathaway remain to be accounted for, and if 
 Barker's theory is correct, and they, too, are in Cuba, 
 what a situation and what a complication! I must be 
 there at the finish. The paper really needs a war corre 
 spondent in the ever-faithful isle, and I've half a mind to 
 ask for the assignment." 
 
 From his desk Ashley takes a bulky package of manu 
 script, glances through it, and with a sigh replaces it 
 within an inner compartment. "The Raymond mystery 
 story, the newspaper beat of the year," is not to be 
 used yet. 
 
 But the account of the trial trip of the America must 
 be written, and soon the sheaves of yellow paper are 
 being rapidly covered by Jack's flying pen. 
 
 At last it is finished, and with a grunt of satisfaction
 
 166 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 Jack arranges the scattered sheets and proceeds to the 
 desk of the city editor. 
 
 "Ah, Ashley," remarks that dignitary, glancing at the 
 manuscript and without raising his eyes; "trial trip was 
 a success, wasn't it? Yes; well, I have a little something 
 here that I wish you would look up. You have done so 
 much Cuban stuff lately that you are more familiar with 
 the ground than any other man on the staff. The 
 Washington wire states that a vessel, the Isabel, that was 
 to have sailed from here to-day, has been detained at her 
 moorings, foot of Twenty-third Street. She is suspected 
 of having arms and ammunition for the Cuban rebels on 
 board. The information was filed by the Spanish min 
 ister. Just look up the local end of the story, find out 
 who fitted out the steamer, where she was ostensibly to 
 clear for, etc. You had better see your filibuster friend, 
 Manada. He might give you something on it" 
 
 "Blast Cuba!" mutters Jack, as he leaves the office. 
 "Everything is Cuba now. Talk about Tantalus! His 
 case wasn't a marker to mine. Here are all the charac 
 ters in a drama in which I am interested gone to Cuba, 
 while I lag superfluous on the stage, doomed to write 
 up stuff about the confounded island and its affairs at 
 long range. Besides, I haven't fairly got back my land 
 legs, and now I must jaunt up the North River two or 
 three miles. Well, there is no use kicking, I suppose. 
 Guess I will look up Don Manada first, though." 
 
 Ashley's annoyance dissipates rapidly, however, and he 
 has recovered his customary serenity when he tenders his 
 card to the clerk at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, to be taken 
 to Don Manada's rooms. 
 
 "Don Manada has left, sir" the clerk tells him. "He 
 had his effects removed early this morning and stated 
 that he might not return for some months." 
 
 "Where has he gone, do you know?" 
 
 "To Cuba, I think." 
 
 Jack turns away. "To Cuba, of course. Everybody 
 with whom I have business to-day has gone to Cuba. If 
 that filibustering vessel, the Isabel, has not eluded the 
 officers and sailed for Cuba by the time I reach her
 
 ASHLEY LAGS SUPERFLUOUS. 167 
 
 wharf, I shall be. mightily surprised. No; I have decided 
 to be surprised at nothing hereafter. The Isabel! 
 There's another coincidence the first name of Mrs. 
 Harding or Mrs. Winthrop or whatever it is the woman 
 of the Raymond Hotel. Well, here goes for the Isabel." 
 
 It is cold, foggy, dark and altogether disagreeable as 
 Jack alights from the car at the foot of Twenty-third 
 Street and picks his way down the long wharf to where 
 he is informed the detained steamer is docked. She is 
 still there; he sees her smokestacks and masts outlined 
 against the sky. A single lantern is alight on the vessel, 
 but the gang-plank has been hauled in. 
 
 "Steamer ahoy!" Ashley calls, and after several repe 
 titions of the hail a gruff voice sounds from the gloom 
 in the vicinity of the lantern. 
 
 "Ashore, there! What do you want?" 
 
 "Is this the Isabel?" 
 
 "Yes,'' is the brief reply. 
 
 "Well, I want to talk with you a moment. Can't you 
 run out a plank and hold that lantern nearer, so I can see 
 to come aboard? I am from the Hemisphere." 
 
 There is a moment's hesitation and then the lantern 
 approaches the steamer's side and a plank is extended to 
 the pier. 
 
 "Now, all I want to find out is about the alleged seizure 
 of the vessel," begins Jack, thrusting a cigar into the fist 
 that releases the lantern. 
 
 "There ain't much to say," is the reply. "I am a United 
 States deputy marshal and was placed in charge of the 
 vessel this noon. Whether her cargo contains arms and 
 ammunition I can't say for sure, as she is not to be 
 searched till tomorrow, but from the remarks dropped by 
 some of the crew I'll bet a hat the cargo has been taken 
 off. One of the crew was considerably under the weather 
 when 1 came aboard and I gathered from his talk that 
 some of the Isabel's cargo was shifted to another steamer, 
 a long, black craft, some time after midnight or early this 
 morning." 
 
 "What was the name of the other steamer?'' inquires 
 Ashley, a sudden suspicion entering his mind,
 
 168 
 
 "Blessed if I know," replies the deputy marshal. 
 "The Semiramis, Pll wager $4 to a nickel," mutters 
 Ashley, as he thanks the marshal and goes ashore. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 ON TO FAIR CUBA. 
 
 "There are only two bits of evidence needed to com 
 plete my moral conviction that I am the only person 
 connected with the Raymond tragedy who is not in 
 Cuba or on his way thither," remarks Ashley, loquitur, as 
 he boards a cross-town car. "One is the assurance that 
 Cyrus Felton and Miss Hathaway have left the St. James 
 Hotel with no intention of an immediate return; the 
 other, the knowledge that Phillip Van Zandt has closed 
 his quarters in the Wyoming flats for an indefinite period. 
 I believe I will try the St. James first." 
 
 He does. The clerk smiles benignly upon him when 
 he inquires for the Vermonters. "Gone, Jack; but you 
 were not forgotten," he says. "The day clerk turned this 
 over to me/' extracting a note from the letter rack. 
 
 "Thank you, Ed," acknowledges Ashley. He tears 
 open the note and reads: 
 
 "Dear Mr. Ashley: I regret very much that circumstances 
 have made it necessary to postpone indefinitely the luncheon 
 for this afternoon at 1, to which I had looked forward with 
 much pleasure. We have just learned that in order to reach 
 Cuba we must sail on the City of Havana, which leaves New 
 York at 11 o'clock to-day. With many thanks for your kind 
 nesses, believe me, sincerely yours, Louise Hathaway." 
 
 "Far from enlightening me, this note only plunges me 
 deeper in the fog," thinks Ashley, sniffing the faint odor 
 of violet that clings to the dainty stationery. "She asserts 
 here that she is going to Cuba on the City of Havana, 
 yet I discover her aboard the Semiramis. At any rate
 
 ON TO FAIR CUBA. 169 
 
 they have gone to Cuba, and there is no particular reason 
 for my visiting Van Zandt's apartments. It is getting 
 late, anyway, and I believe I will return to the office. 
 If Ricker is in a good-humored mood I will attempt to 
 convince him that the only feature which the paper at 
 present lacks is a live man at Havana who can tell the 
 difference between an overwhelming Spanish or Cuban 
 victory and a fifth-rate scrimmage that a dozen New 
 York policemen could quell in ten minutes." 
 
 Ashley swings himself upon a Broadway car and lapses 
 into a meditation. "How the deuce do Miss Hathaway 
 and Cyrus Felton come to be aboard the Semiramis?'' 
 And if Ernest Stanley is Phillip Van Zandt, where did he 
 get the money to own such a yacht? Forty or fifty 
 thousand dollars of Raymond National Bank funds 
 wouldn't pay for one side of the Semiramis. But it may 
 not be his yacht. I have simply assumed so because he 
 looked as if he owned the ocean as well. Good gracious, 
 I should be inclined to regard Miss Hathaway's disap 
 pearance as a clear case of abduction but for the fact 
 that the fair Louise appeared entirely satisfied with her 
 surroundings when I focused the America's glasses upon 
 her graceful self. I am beginning to believe that I am 
 clear off my reckoning on Van Zandt. The Semiramis 
 may be owned by the Cubans and he may simply be one 
 of the leaders of the expedition. And he may not be 
 Ernest Stanley at all, although I think hang it! I don't 
 know what I think. I shall quit thinking from now on. 
 It is too hard work." 
 
 Much relieved by this determination, Ashley sits at his 
 desk, lights his briar and dashes off a short sketch of the 
 detained filibustering vessel. This he tosses over to the 
 night-desk men, and strolls into the city editor's den. 
 
 "When you are at leisure, Mr. Ricker, I should like to 
 bore you for five or ten minutes," he announces. 
 
 "I am at leisure now, Jack. Sit down. It has been a 
 rather light night and there is an unusual lull just at 
 present. What is on your mind?'' 
 
 "It is something like half a dozen years since I began 
 work on the paper, is it not?"
 
 170 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "Just about, my son." 
 
 "And during that time I have never kicked on an 
 assignment or asked for any particular job." 
 
 "Yes; if I recollect rightly, that is about the size of 
 it," remarks Ricker dryly. "Now, what can I do for 
 you?" 
 
 "I should like the assignment of war correspondent at 
 Havana." 
 
 The city editor is silent for a moment. 
 
 "I am sorry you did not speak of this Havana business 
 before," he says, encircling the pastepot with a ring of 
 smoke. "Unfortunately I have mapped out two or three 
 months' work for you at a place a good many miles from 
 the capital of Cuba." 
 
 Ashley's face does not reveal the disappointment he 
 feels. 
 
 "All right, Mr. Ricker, I have no kick coming. I will 
 break another one of my rules and ask what the assign 
 ment is before I have been notified of it." 
 
 "It is an important mission, my son, and the selection 
 of the man to fill the palace does not come within my de 
 partment. But as a good man was needed I urged the 
 desirability of putting you on the job." 
 
 "You are very kind," murmurs Ashley. 
 
 "I intended to communicate to you his wishes to 
 night," resumes Ricker. "In fact, I received the assign 
 ment for you an hour ago and you would have found it 
 in your box in the morning." The city editor tosses over 
 a yellow envelope and Ashley finds therein the brief notifi 
 cation : 
 
 "Beginning March 18, Mr. Ashley will enter upon the 
 duties as war correspondent at Santiago de Cuba." 
 
 Ashley looks up and catches the indulgent smile of his 
 chief. 
 
 "Ricker, you're a jewel," he says, warmly, extending 
 his hand. The friendship between the two men has long 
 since leveled the wall of official dignity. 
 
 "I had no idea you wanted the job," smiles the city 
 editor. 
 
 "Until to-day I had no desire to visit Cuba," replies
 
 ON TO FAIR CUBA. 171 
 
 Ashley. "But at present I want to go the worst way or 
 the best way. And my wish to reach Cuban soil is not 
 greatly influenced by personal reasons, either. I expect 
 some day to turn over to you a story that will cover a 
 good share of the first page and just now the trail is 
 winding under the flags of three nations 'Spain, Cuba 
 and the United States. But why Santiago, instead of 
 Havana?" 
 
 "For the reason that, as you may see by a look over 
 to-night's telegrams, the eastern province of Cuba is 
 likely to be the principal theater of the struggle for inde 
 pendence. You know the sort of stuff we want. State 
 ments of fact, above all. You may have some difficulty 
 in getting us the facts by wire, as the government con 
 trols the cables; but there are the mails, and in addition 
 to the usual grind you might send a two or three column 
 chatty letter every fortnight or so that would be interest 
 ing reading. Spend all the money that is necessary. Get 
 right out into the fighting; there isn't one chance in a 
 million of your being hurt. Above all, send us facts. 
 We cannot pay too much for facts." 
 
 "Have you considered how I am to reach Santiago? 
 You know there are no steamer lines running to the 
 island." 
 
 "That has been arranged. The bulletin was received 
 early this evening that the new cruiser America had been 
 ordered to Santiago. The managing editor used his in 
 fluence, and permission to send a representative on the 
 vessel has kindly been granted. There is some value in 
 being on the right side of an administration. The 
 cruiser sails the day after to-morrow, the i8th." 
 
 Ashley and Ricker soon complete -heir talk and Jack 
 starts for home in a complacent condition of mind. Ar 
 riving at his rooms he slips into a dressing-gown and 
 stretches himself in an easy-chair for a smoke-lined 
 night-cap, and as the rings curl upward he sees 
 in fancy the various actors in the Raymond drama pass 
 ing in review before a tropical background of hazy blue 
 hills and palm-shaded groves. 
 
 Suddenly he utters an exclamation: "Jupiter! How
 
 172 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 is Barker to get to Cuba? He must have shot off to 
 Key West without reading the morning paper, and he 
 probably was not aware that there are no steamers run 
 ning from Key West any more than from New York or 
 other ports. When he does learn that fact his remarks 
 will not be fit for publication. Well, I suppose, he will 
 get there somehow, even if he has to swim. But in all 
 probability I shall reach the island before him. 
 
 "The trail is plain. It leads to Cuba, and somewhere 
 in the gem of the Antilles the threads of the Raymond 
 murder mystery will touch and cross and interweave." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 THE FLAG OF CUBA. 
 
 "We shall have a race, Don Manada a battle royal, 
 .he new United States cruiser America has just steamed 
 out of the bay ahead of us and we shall soon be abreast 
 of her." 
 
 "A race, Senor Van Zandt? Santissimo! We shall 
 have racing enough before we get to Cuba without chal 
 lenging unsuspicious warships and courting investiga 
 tion." 
 
 Van Zandt laughs at the Cuban gentleman's anxious 
 tones. "I told you, my friend, that once on the high seas 
 nothing short of a cannon ball can overhaul the Sem- 
 iramis. Come on deck in an hour, senor, and I will 
 prove to you what may now seem an idle boast." 
 
 For excellent reasons Manada is keeping in the back 
 ground as much as possible. But he finds the luxurious 
 cabin of the Semiramis much to his liking, and he smokes 
 and dreams of "Cuba Libre" while the Semiramis steams 
 down the bay and out upon the bosom of the Atlantic, 
 and when he goes on deck, wrapped in the long semi- 
 military cloak which effectually conceals his person, the
 
 THE FLAG OF CUBA. 173 
 
 sight which greets his eyes fills him with apprehension, 
 though challenging his liveliest interest. 
 
 The battle of steam is well under way. The America 
 is less than a dozen lengths astern and presents a beau 
 tiful sight to the people on the Semiramis. The glisten 
 ing white hull plows the water at a speed which dashes 
 the spray high in air from the delicately carved cut 
 water, and the triple funnels vomit great clouds of inky 
 smoke. Manada's eyes rove to the United States flag 
 whipping out in the breeze and he mutters a favorite 
 malediction as he thinks of the insurgent arms stored in 
 the hold of the Semiramis. 
 
 But as he grows aware that the yacht of his strange 
 friend is drawing away from the American man-of-war 
 he becomes the incarnation of suppressed excitement. 
 And when Van Zandt claps him on the shoulder and 
 shouts in his ear, "Well, senor, what do you think of the 
 Semiramis?" the Cuban shouts back enthusiastically: 
 "El Semiramis es un diablo verdadero!" 
 
 Without the change of a muscle in his weather-beaten 
 face, Capt. Sam Beals paces the bridge of the Semiramis, 
 while the exciting duel of steam and steel continues, 
 not a gesture or ejaculation indicating that the beautiful 
 yacht is literally steaming away from the cruiser a vessel 
 heralded far and wide as the speediest craft among all 
 the navies of the world. 
 
 But if the chief officer is apparently undisturbed, the 
 same cannot be said of any other person on board. The 
 excitement of the race has roused the owner of the yacht 
 from his cold reserve, and as with sparkling eye and eager 
 step he hurries from the engine-room to the quarterdeck, 
 noting with each return the slowly but steadily lengthen 
 ing space of open water that separates the two vessels, 
 Louise Hathaway mentally retracts her decision that 
 Phillip Van Zandt is cold and unsympathetic. 
 
 As for Miss Hathaway herself, she is thoroughly im 
 bued with the spirit of the race. Securely sheltered 
 from the fierce rush of wind which the tremendous speed 
 of the Semiramis causes to sweep over the deck, she 
 makes an attractive picture as she watches the race. The
 
 174 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 svelte form is outlined in a gown of navy blue; the 
 beautiful face is framed in a golden aureole of wavy locks ; 
 the matchless blue eyes glisten with unwonted excite 
 ment, and a delicate color tints her cheek. It is not 
 strange that Van Zandt divides his time between the race 
 and his fair passenger. 
 
 Even pale, stern-faced Cyrus Felton has for the nonce 
 became stirred by the infectious excitement, and with a 
 zest that he has not manifested for years he watches the 
 unavailing efforts of the warship to overhaul the pleasure 
 craft. 
 
 "Isn't there more and blacker smoke pouring from the 
 America's stacks?" inquires Miss Hathaway, as the owner 
 of the Semiramis returns from a brief interview with the 
 engineer, with the cheery assurance that the engines are 
 running as smoothly as if the yacht were moving at 
 quarter-speed. 
 
 "She is surely making more smoke and, if I mistake 
 not, more speed," answers Van Zandt, a shade of anxiety 
 replacing his almost boyish enthusiasm. "Mr. Beals, 
 what think you of it?" turning to the executive officer; 
 "is she gaining on us?" 
 
 "She has just put on her forced draught, sir, and is 
 now running at her top speed. She is gaining, now, 
 but " 
 
 Without finishing the sentence the captain presses the 
 electric bells which communicate with the engine-room. 
 It is soon apparent that the yacht has not until now 
 reached the limit of her speed. The regular vibrations 
 that mark the revolutions of the twin shafts become one 
 prolonged shiver, and the black hull is hurled through 
 the water at incredible speed. 
 
 The effect becomes noticeable in short order. The 
 white mass astern grows "fine by degrees and beautifully 
 less," and as Capt. Beals closes his glass with a snap he 
 remarks, complacently: "She'll be hull down in an hour 
 or two if she doesn't blow out a cylinder head before that 
 time." 
 
 Just about this time Van Zandt and Manada go below 
 and reappear a few moments later with a closely rolled
 
 THE FLAG OF CUBA. 175 
 
 silken flag, which Van Zandt hands to the captain with 
 the command that it be hoisted to the breeze. Without 
 even examining the emblem, the imperturbable executive 
 officer bends the silken roll upon the halyards. A few 
 hearty pulls by a stalwart blue-jacket and the ensign 
 reaches the masthead, where the stiff breeze quickly 
 breaks it out. 
 
 As a singular flag, with a solitary star in a triangular 
 field of blue, is revealed to the wondering gaze of pas 
 sengers and crew, Don Manada reverently bares his 
 head and his lips frame the words "Viva Cuba Libre!" 
 
 Suddenly there is borne to their ears, above the whist 
 ling of the wind and the mighty pulsations of the ma 
 chinery, the sullen boom of cannon. All eyes instinctively 
 seek the America. A puff of white issues from her 
 forward barbette, and as Capt. Beals returns his glass 
 to its socket, he tells Van Zandt: 
 
 "She has saluted the Semiramis and dipped her ensign. 
 She is bearing off to windward and gives up the race." 
 
 "She saw the flag, do you think?" 
 
 "Doubtless," Mr. Beals replies, with a grim smile. 
 "Shall we slacken speed, sir?" 
 
 "Only to natural draught. I wish to make our destina 
 tion as soon as possible. And by the way, Mr. Beals, 
 you may haul down the flag. It has served its purpose 
 for the present," pointing to the enraptured Don Manada. 
 
 Then Van Zandt conducts his passengers below and is 
 prepared for Miss Hatha way's question: 
 
 "Is that your personal emblem, Mr. Van Zandt?'' 
 
 "No, Miss Hathaway," is the calm response. "That 
 is the flag of the Cuban Republic. You are now under 
 the protection of the provisional government of the gem 
 of the Antilles. Permit me to introduce to you Don 
 Rafael Manada, minister of war of the infant republic. 
 Long may she wave !" 
 
 Manada bows low and looks vastly gratified by the 
 official title jestingly conferred upon him. Cyrus Felton's 
 face, however, is darkened by a frown and Miss Hatha 
 way is not at all pleased. 
 
 "Will you not take seats and make yourselves entirely
 
 176 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 easy?" Van Zandt proceeds, unruffled by the cold de 
 meanor of his passengers. 
 
 "Perhaps I should have told you before you embarked," 
 explains Van Zandt, with a glance at Miss Hathaway 
 that does much toward reassuring her, "that although we 
 are bound for Cuba, our primary destination is not San 
 tiago. The Semiramis has a cargo of arms and ammuni 
 tion which I have undertaken to deliver to the Cuban 
 revolutionists. Senor Manada is the supercargo. Be 
 lieve me," he adds, as Miss Hathaway pales at the word 
 "revolutionists," "there is absolutely no danger, not the 
 slightest and least of all to you. Even if my yacht were 
 apprehended though I do not believe there is a vessel 
 on the waters of the globe that can overtake her you 
 would be subject to no annoyance and but little incon 
 venience. After we have discharged our cargo we will 
 proceed at once to Santiago, and you will be landed much 
 earlier than if you had gone by a regular steamer. And 
 I am sure this vessel is fully as comfortable as any of 
 those stuffy, crowded craft." 
 
 "Then we are aboard a filibustering expedition," de 
 clares Mr. Felton, harshly. 
 
 "Hardly that. You are on board an American yacht, 
 manned by American seamen, with just one Cuban 
 patriot, a man as honorable and true as yourself, Mr. 
 Felton." Van Zandt's voice is stern and dignified. "I am 
 not a Cuban partisan, but liberty to me is as precious as 
 the air of heaven. Until a few hours ago there was no 
 thought of the cargo now beneath us. The arms were 
 designed to go by another vessel. But at the last moment 
 the plans of the patriots were betrayed. Then it was that 
 I stepped in and offered the services of my yacht to 
 convey the much-needed aid to the down-trodden men of 
 the Antilles." 
 
 "And meanwhile you have jeopardized the safety of 
 Miss Hathaway and myself," Mr. Felton sneers. "Sup 
 pose we are intercepted by a Spanish warship? Think 
 you that they will not regard us myself at least as 
 members of this expedition? What then, Mr. Van 
 Zandt?"
 
 THE FLAG OP CUBA. 177 
 
 The latter s lip curls slightly. "Again I assure you that 
 there is absolutely no danger. I will answer for your 
 safety on this voyage with my life." Then to Louise, 
 with a look that brings a flush to her fair face: "Have 
 you no faith in the yacht, if not in her owner, Miss 
 Hathaway?" 
 
 "I think that Mr. Felton is needlessly alarmed," is that 
 young lady's composed reply. "As for the yacht, I am 
 quite carried away with it, figuratively as well as literally. 
 This is my first voyage, Mr. Van Zandt, and if you will 
 insure me against mal de mer, that dread bugbear of the 
 voyageur, I will try to brave, with becoming equanimity, 
 the perils of the Spanish main." 
 
 Cyrus Felton, however, is decidedly alarmed by Van 
 Zandt's admission of the incidental errand of the Semi- 
 ramis. A strong distrust of her owner begins to grow 
 in his mind; this added to the qualms of seasickness, 
 which have begun to make themselves felt, renders him 
 thoroughly miserable in spirit and body, and without rais 
 ing another objection he asks to be shown to his state 
 room. 
 
 It must be confessed that Van Zandt does not manifest 
 heartfelt regret at Mr. Felton's unhappy condition, and 
 even Miss Hathaway is somewhat perfunctory in her 
 expressions of sympathy. An unaccountable confidence 
 in the handsome owner of the Semiramis has replaced 
 her early distrust, and, happily exempt from the "dread 
 bugbear of the voyageur,'' she accepts with pleasure Van 
 Zandt's proposition that they explore the yacht. 
 
 The Semiramis is fair to look upon, from capstan to 
 rudder, and from keelson to main truck. The Vermont 
 maiden marvels at the comfort, convenience and luxury 
 on every hand. The palatial saloon, with its unusually 
 high ceiling, furnished in oriental magnificence and in 
 cluding a superb upright piano, Miss Hathaway's eye 
 notes approvingly; the commodious staterooms, arranged 
 en suite, with the respectable appearing stewardess in 
 charge ; the plain but ample and scrupulously neat quar 
 ters of the crew; the engineroom, with its masses of highly
 
 178 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 polished steel and brass all possess elements of interest 
 to the girl. 
 
 That night, as she lays her head on her pillow, "rocked 
 in the cradle of the deep," she suddenly starts as if from a 
 dream. For there comes to her ears again, from some 
 where, that melody strangely sweet, yet filled with subtle 
 melancholy, the andante of her beloved sonata. 
 
 Then a light goes up, as the Germans have the saying, 
 and Miss Hathaway understands now her blindly placed 
 confidence in the master of the Semiramis. For Don 
 Caesar de Bazan is Phillip Van Zandt and and 
 
 But what Miss Hathaway thinks about as Atlantic's 
 waves lull her to slumber would certainly interest the 
 young man who sits up far into the night, chatting and 
 smoking with the "minister of war of the Cuban repub 
 lic" while the Semiramis rushes on her eventful voyage to 
 the tropics. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 THE FLAG OF CASTILE. 
 
 "Twelve hours from now, Miss Hathaway, you will 
 have your first glimpse of Cuba. Then, our business 
 transacted, a quick and uninterrupted run to Santiago, 
 and tomorrow you will be on terra firma." 
 
 "It has been a remarkably short voyage, Mr. Van 
 Zandt." 
 
 "Deplorably so. I never before regretted the speed 
 of the Semiramis, but now would that she were as snail- 
 like as the old West Indian tub we overhauled yesterday. 
 Can I prevail upon you, Miss Hathaway, to again favor 
 me with my pet Chopin nocturne? The electric fans ren 
 der the saloon as comfortable as the deck." 
 
 "My poor playing is always at your service, Mr. Van 
 Zandt. I assure you that I never expected to enjoy a 
 voyage, to Cuba or elsewhere, as I have this. Your kind 
 ness in granting us ''
 
 THE FLAG OF CASTILE. 179 
 
 "My kindness was purely selfish," interposes Van 
 Zandt. 
 
 It is easy to see that for two people on board the yacht 
 the last few days have swiftly sped. Van Zandt and Miss 
 Hathaway have been much in each other's company. 
 Confidences have been neither asked nor given, but a 
 mutual sympathy has taken root that might prove de 
 structive to the reserve of one and the "marble'' of the 
 other were the voyage to the tropics to last many days 
 longer. 
 
 Cyrus Felton is restricted to his stateroom most of the 
 time, a victim of the malady of the sea and a gnawing, 
 indefinable distrust of the owner of the yacht. As for 
 Don Manada, he divides his attention between the huge 
 cigars from which his fingers or teeth are never free, and 
 a careful outlook for any of the Spanish squadron that is 
 supposed to blockade the coast of the isle of Cuba. 
 
 But the sensuous indolence of the tropic day and the 
 glories of the tropic night lure Van Zandt and Miss 
 Hathaway into dreams of peace and hope and fulfillment. 
 The days spent on the quarterdeck, sheltered by an awn 
 ing from the rays of the sun, the speed of the yacht pro 
 viding a delightful breeze, glide gently into the brief twi 
 light. The .great stars shoot out of the blue with quiv 
 ering points of fire, and the wind sighs musically through 
 the rigging as the tireless steam drives the boat through 
 the phosphorescent waves. 
 
 "Consider what the voyage would have been to me 
 without your presence," continues Van Zandt, as he leads 
 the way to the saloon. "With Don Manada there, en 
 grossed in Quixotic schemes for achieving the independ 
 ence of his beloved country, and Capt. Beals as communi 
 cative as a sphinx, your society has saved me from myself 
 a synonym for dreariness. And now for the nocturne." 
 
 While Van Zandt is telling Miss Hathaway that she is 
 the only woman he has ever heard play Chopin intelli 
 gently, and the latter is modestly disclaiming such ability, 
 the musical echo of the lookout's call is passed to the 
 saloon: 
 
 "Sail ho!"
 
 180 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "Where away?" is the challenge. 
 
 "On the weather bow. A large steamer, judging from 
 her smoke!" 
 
 Don Manada casts his cherished cigar to the waves and 
 glues his eyes to the telescope. 
 
 As announced, the unknown vessel is directly on the 
 weather bow and will pass within half a mile of the Semi- 
 ramis, if the two craft hold to their present courses. 
 
 The captain intently watches the approaching vessel. 
 The Semiramis is far beyond the five-mile limit of the 
 Cuban coast, but if the unknown is a Spanish cruiser 
 she may become suspicious of the trim yacht. 
 
 It therefore behooves the American steamer to insure 
 the stranger a wide berth if the latter displays the arms of 
 Castile; to show a clean pair of heels, in the vernacular 
 of the sailor, if flight is necessary. 
 
 Again are preparations made to force the Semiramis 
 to her highest speed. The awnings are removed, the 
 boats once more unswung from the davits, the force of 
 stokers in the engine-room augmented by half a score 
 of sturdy seamen, and soon the roaring of the forced 
 draught in the funnels again drowns the hum of the en 
 gines. 
 
 At rail or in rigging, from bridge or quarterdeck the 
 people of the Semiramis watch intently the approaching 
 vessel, whose funnels and upper works are now visible 
 through the glass. 
 
 The Semiramis bears gradually to the westward, to af 
 ford the stranger at least three miles leeway. Suddenly 
 Capt. Beals lays aside his glasses and rubs his chin 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 "Do you care to show your papers to the Don?'' he 
 asks Van Zandt. 
 
 "To the Don? Is she a Spaniard, sure? But we shall 
 pass a comfortable distance to windward of her and she 
 will not attempt to interrupt us." 
 
 "She has already changed her course and is bearing 
 directly across our bows. See !" 
 
 The unknown, now less than ten miles distant, seems 
 to be steaming at full speed for a point directly in the
 
 THE FLAG OF CASTILE. 181 
 
 course of the Semiramis. Her broadside is now visible 
 to the anxious watchers on the yacht. She is apparently 
 an armored cruiser of perhaps 5,000 tons, her hull painted 
 a dull and featureless gray. No flag or emblem is as yet 
 displayed from her taut and business-like rigging. 
 
 "She is painted and cleared for action. She is ah! I 
 thought so!" 
 
 A flag is broken from the cruiser's masthead, and Capt. 
 Beals, as he focuses his binocular upon the streaming em 
 blem, mutters between his teeth: "The flag of Castile!" 
 
 "Tis a Spanish warship, Senor Van Zandt!" exclaims 
 Manada, who has been studying the stranger. "Can 
 your beautiful craft bear us from harm's way? I fear 
 that yonder ship is the Infanta Isabel, the latest and most 
 formidable accession to the navy of our hated oppressors. 
 She has been detailed to intercept vessels supposed to 
 bear arms and re-enforcements to our friends, and espe 
 cially to watch for and destroy our gallant Pearl of the 
 Antilles." 
 
 "Have no fears, Don Manada. Your cargo is safe. 
 We will show the Spaniard a trick or two; eh, Beals?" 
 
 Capt. Beals does not reply in words to his employers 
 confident assertion, but an observant man might distin 
 guish a slight relaxation of the muscles about his mouth. 
 
 The Semiramis holds steadily on her course. Only the 
 increasing clouds of smoke that pour from her funnels 
 indicate that anything out of the ordinary is expected of 
 the yacht. 
 
 Only six miles distant! Five! Four! 
 
 A puff of white that rolls lazily from the forward deck 
 of the cruiser is succeeded by a dull roar. 
 
 "Show the Don our colors," Capt. Beals orders the 
 second officer. 
 
 While the smoke from the cannon yet lingers above 
 the Spaniard's deck the glorious stars and stripes unfurl 
 from the mainmast of the Semiramis, and snap gayly, 
 defiantly, upon the breeze. And still the American yacht 
 continues to steadily lessen the distance that separates the 
 two craft. 
 
 Boom!
 
 182 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 Another puff of white, followed a few seconds later by 
 the report; and this time the watchers on the yacht can 
 see the flash of the gun. 
 
 Only two miles distant now, and the Spanish warship, 
 apparently convinced that the American understands and 
 designs to obey the peremptory summons to heave to, has 
 slowed her engines until the cruiser has barely headway 
 on the long swells. 
 
 Calmly pacing the bridge, as if a thousand miles sepa 
 rated the vessels nearly equal in size, but how dissimilar 
 in destructive power! Capt. Beals has not indicated a 
 slowing of the yacht's engines, although the bow of the 
 Semiramis points at the steep side of the Spaniard, di 
 rectly amidship. 
 
 Not half a dozen lengths away! 
 
 The officers and men on the man-of-war are clearly 
 visible to those on the yacht. The captain and his sub 
 alterns are grouped on the quarterdeck, the marines 
 amidship, the blue-jackets crowding the rail and adjacent 
 rigging. The cruiser is stationary on the water. 
 
 But with no sensible diminution of speed the Semira 
 mis bears upon the Spaniard, the white foam dashing high 
 on either side of her bow. Capt. Beals is fingering the 
 electric buttons that regulate the speed and course of the 
 yacht. 
 
 The Spanish captain nearly drops his speaking trum 
 pet. What is El Americano thinking of? He cannot 
 stop in five times his own length at such a frightful speed! 
 Is he mad? Ah! Dios! Caramba! And a dozen 
 more Castilian expletives poured forth in a torrent of as 
 tonishment, rage and chagrin. 
 
 For with a sudden turn to the windward that causes 
 the yacht to careen until her white sides below the water 
 Hne gleam for an instant in the sunlight, with an acces 
 sion of speed that sends her forward as a whip would a 
 nervous horse, the Semiramis darts by the stern of the 
 Spanish man-of-war, the smoke from her furnaces en 
 veloping for a moment the cruiser's afterdeck. 
 
 Two minutes later she is a mile astern of the warship, 
 her long white trail sparkling in the sunlight, and the
 
 THE FLAG OF CASTILE. 183 
 
 red, white and blue still snapping defiantly at the mast 
 head. 
 
 "I wonder if the Don can turn in five times his own 
 length," observes the sententious Mr. Beals, as he watches 
 the warship slowly getting under way. 
 
 Whether he can or cannot is not at this time to be 
 demonstrated. The cruiser makes no attempt to about 
 ship, but another report booms from the forward gun, 
 followed a second or two later by one from the aft bar 
 bette, and a solid shot ricochets along the waves astern 
 of the Semiramis and plunges beneath the water an eighth 
 of a mile distant. 
 
 Van Zandt grows grave as he realizes the significance 
 of this last shot, but a glance at the receding cruiser con 
 vinces him of the futility of the cannonade. The Span 
 iard, too, appears convinced, and the cruiser is soon lost 
 to view in the expanse of ocean. 
 
 The rest of the day the Semiramis holds unmolested 
 her course for the mountain-girth shores of Cuba. As 
 night draws on the engines are slowed, and, with fires 
 banked and double watch posted, the yacht quietly rocks 
 on the bosom of the deep. A wavy outline on the horizon 
 indicates the southern coast of the revolution-racked isle 
 and somewhere on that outline is the sequestered little 
 harbor of Cantero. 
 
 It is a weary, an unnerving vigil, for Don Manada at 
 least. For hours his anxious gaze sweeps the horizon, 
 while the Semiramis rides the breasting waves as grace 
 fully as a summer bird soars into the blue. 
 
 As the first shafts of light radiate from the emerging 
 disk, Louise Hathaway, whom the unwonted excitement 
 of the preceding day has driven early from her pillow, 
 cries out with a girlish enthusiasm that brings a smile 
 to the face of Capt. Beals: "Sail ho! Sail ho!" 
 
 Every one springs to rail or rigging. "Where away?" 
 is the quick challenge of Mr. Beals. 
 
 "Right there, sir," is the unnautical response of Miss 
 Hathaway, and she indicates a point not five degrees 
 north of the rising orb of day. 
 
 With the glass at his eyes, the taciturn commander of
 
 184 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 the Semiramis watches intently the speck on the glowing 
 horizon that means much to the excited Manada at his 
 elbow and to the latter's struggling fellow-patriots on the 
 isle whose outlines are now bathed in the flood of sun 
 light. 
 
 Is it another Spanish warship, or is it the looked-for 
 Cuban cruiser, the doughty Pearl of the Antilles? 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 AN AFFRONT AND AN APOLOGY. 
 
 The Semiramis rests stationary upon the surface of 
 the water, but there are scenes of activity in the engine 
 room. The columns of smoke from her stacks grow into 
 thick black volumes, and the roar of escaping steam 
 drowns ordinary conversation. 
 
 On deck, officers, passengers and crew are watching 
 the rapidly growing spot upon the horizon. That the ap 
 proaching vessel is steaming very fast is apparent. Her 
 upper works are visible as Capt. Beals signals for the 
 Semiramis to steam ahead at full speed. The course of 
 the latter is laid to pass the stranger a mile or two to 
 windward, if she does not change her present course. 
 
 Don Manada has possessed himself of the captain's 
 glasses and is earnestly scanning the distant steamer. 
 Suddenly, in a very paroxyism of joy he embraces the 
 owner of the yacht. 
 
 "It is the Pearl!" he cries; "the Pearl of the Antilles! 
 Santisima! Now will you display the flag of Cuba Li 
 bre?" The English language fails to express the senti 
 ments of the Cuban patriot at this juncture, and he 
 launches a flood of Castilian that bewilders Van Zandt. 
 
 At a nod from the latter, however, Capt. Beals causes 
 the fateful emblem of Cuba to be run up to the masthead. 
 The silken banner is barely unfurled by the wind ere 
 there are signs of excitement on board the strange steam-
 
 AN AFFRONT AND AN APOLOGY. 185 
 
 ship. A duplicate of the Semiramis' ensign is displayed, 
 and then the course of the vessel is changed and she 
 steams rapidly toward the yacht. Don Manada is not 
 mistaken. The steamship is the famous Pearl of the An 
 tilles. 
 
 The Semiramis has slowed down her engines, and 
 awaits the approach of the insurgent cruiser. As the lat- 
 ters nears the yacht the resemblance of the two steam 
 ships becomes more striking. The Pearl is almost precise 
 ly the length of the Semiramis, and like her is rigged with 
 two masts. Her two smokestacks are set at the same angle 
 as those of the yacht and like the latter she is equipped 
 with twin propellers. On deck, however, there is a de 
 cided difference. The engines of the Pearl are protected 
 by heavy plates of steel, while on her forward deck a 
 sort of turret has been improvised, within which, the 
 people on the Semiramis can readily guess, is the fa 
 mous "Yankee gun," the dynamite cannon whose well- 
 aimed projectile sent the Spanish Mercedes to the bottom. 
 
 Five lengths away the Pearl becomes stationary on the 
 waves, while through a speaking tube, the voluble Ma 
 nada acquaints her commander with the character and 
 mission of the yacht. A boat is lowered from the in 
 surgent craft and is rowed to the side of the Semiramis, 
 and a moment later a distinguished looking man in the 
 undress uniform of an officer of the Spanish navy is 
 clasped in the arms of Don Manada. 
 
 "Senor Van Zandt," the latter says, "permit me to pre 
 sent to you Capt. Gerardo Nunez, the commander of 
 yonder vessel. Senor Van Zandt," he explains extrava 
 gantly to Capt. Nunez, "is the good angel who rendered 
 it possible for us to convey the much-needed arms and 
 ammunition in our hold to our struggling compatriots." 
 
 Capt. Nunez cordially grasps the hand of Van Zandt. 
 "Senor," he says, "I am more than pleased to meet you, 
 and join with Don Manada in expressing the gratitude 
 of our people for your services in the cause of liberty." 
 
 Van Zandt waves his hand. " 'Tis nothing. My sym 
 pathies are with the insurgents and being in position to 
 help Don Manada out of a box" the Cuban flushes at
 
 186 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 the recollection of his last conversation with Mrs. Hard 
 ing "I was only too glad to do it. But what is the 
 latest news from the seat of war?" 
 
 Capt. Nunez' eyes light up with enthusiasm. "Glori 
 ous!" he says. "Gen. Masso has just achieved a victory 
 over 3,000 Spanish troops in the Puerto Principe District. 
 El Terredo is receiving constant additions to his forces 
 and the outlook was never brighter. It is to equip El 
 Terredo's army that these arms and ammunition will be 
 used." 
 
 "El Terredo?" inquires Van Zandt. "Is he not attached 
 to the Pearl of the Antilles?" 
 
 "He has been up to within a week, but is now on 
 shore duty. By the way, senor," remarks the Cuban 
 commander, casting a glance over the deck of the Sem- 
 iramis, "you have a magnificent yacht, and I doubt not 
 she is as speedy as she is handsome." 
 
 "Speedy!" breaks in Don Manada. "She is as swift as 
 the wind! She sailed away from the America, the fastest 
 cruiser in the United States Navy, and as for the Infanta 
 Isabel poof! She snaps her fingers at her!" 
 
 Capt. Beals approaches the group at this moment and 
 is introduced to the Cuban captain. 
 
 "I think, sir," he says to Van Zandt, "if we are to 
 transfer our cargo it would be advisable to waste no 
 time. There is no knowing when a Spanish gunboat will 
 show up." 
 
 This advice is manifestly so timely that no time is lost 
 in following it. The two hulls are laid side by side, the 
 smoothness of the water permitting the operation in 
 safety and hundreds of brawny arms are quickly at work 
 transferring the cargo from the Semiramis to the Pearl. 
 
 At last the work is completed and Van Zandt looks 
 inquiringly at Don Manada. 
 
 "Will you continue with the yacht or accompany the 
 cargo on board the Pearl?" he asks. 
 
 The Cuban emissary hesitates. "If I might add to the 
 already heavy debt of gratitude I owe you " 
 
 "Oh. that's all right," interrupts Van Zandt. "So 
 you will remain with us. I am glad of your company.
 
 AN AFFRONT AND AN APOLOGY. 187 
 
 We sail for Santiago and afterward'' he hesitates a 
 moment, his eyes wandering to Miss Hathaway, who is 
 watching curiously the motley crew of the Pearl "well, 
 eventually back to New York." 
 
 Manada nods gratefully. "I am of more service to the 
 cause in America than I could possibly be in Cuba," he 
 says, apologetically. 
 
 The adieus are said, the lines cast off, and the Sem- 
 iramis and Pearl move slowly apart. The latter shapes 
 her coarse for the little harbor of Cantero, where the arms 
 and ammunition are to be landed. 
 
 '"We are but ten hours' sail from Santiago, Miss Hath 
 away," Van Zandt remarks, as Louise idly watches the 
 rapidly disappearing Pearl. "Then you will bid adieu to 
 the Semiramis." 
 
 "Regretfully, indeed, Mr. Van Zandt. The last few 
 days have sped all too quickly." 
 
 " 'We take no heed of time but by its flight,' " quotes 
 Van Zandt. "How long do you expect to remain in 
 Cuba?" 
 
 Louise turns a troubled face toward the owner of the 
 yacht. "That I cannot say. It depends upon Mr. Felton. 
 He has business interests to look after, and if the climate 
 agrees with him we may remain several months.'' 
 
 There is a silence for a little, the thoughts of both 
 dwelling on the coming parting at even. 
 
 "Miss Hathaway/' says Van Zandt, suddenly. "I am 
 but an idle fellow, with nothing to call me hence but my 
 own inclinations. Would it be distasteful to you if I 
 should attach myself to your party while in Cuba? The 
 country is necessarily unsettled during the war and per 
 haps I might be of service. L am familiar with the 
 Spanish language, which I believe Mr. Felton is not, 
 and I should like to see something of the country. Please 
 tell me frankly if for any reason I would be de trop?" 
 
 Van Zandt's luminous orbs are fixed on the fair face of 
 Louise as he awaits the answer to his question. For a 
 moment her blue eyes return his gaze. Then the golden- 
 fringed lids fall and a soft blush mantles her face. 
 
 "I certainly should not be averse to your joining our 
 party," she murmurs softly, "if if it be your pleasure."
 
 188 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "Thank you," Van Zandt returns, simply, and a mo 
 ment after Miss Hathaway retires to her stateroom. 
 
 "Well, Manada," remarks Van Zandt, slapping the 
 Cuban upon the back, "your first engagement as super 
 cargo must be rated a success, eh? The arms and am 
 munition the biggest single consignment ever sent from 
 the States, I think you said have been safely delivered 
 into the hands of the insurgents, without the loss of a 
 single Winchester or cartridge. Why this pensive look?" 
 
 "Only thoughts of the past, senor. I was " 
 
 What were Don Manada's thoughts will never be known, 
 for the people on the yacht are electrified by the hail 
 from the bridge, "Ship ahoy!" followed a second later by 
 the additional information, "Dead ahead and bearing 
 this way!'' 
 
 "There is no special necessity for evading her now, 
 whoever she is, I presume, sir?" inquires Capt. Beals, 
 removing his glasses from his eyes. 
 
 "None whatever," is Van Zandt's prompt reply. "Our 
 papers are straight and we have nothing contraband, 
 unless it be the Don there. Let them look us over if 
 they wish." 
 
 "She's not a very large craft," comments the taciturn 
 executive officer of the yacht, as the two vessels continue 
 to lessen the distance between them. 
 
 "Probably one of the blockading fleet," is Van Zandt's 
 surmise. 
 
 He is evidently right, for the Granger at this point 
 displays the Spanish flag and at the same time the report 
 of a cannon echoes across the water. 
 
 "Show our colors," orders Van Zandt, and the flag of 
 the great republic is caressed by the soft southern breeze. 
 Another shot is fired from the Spaniard, and as the Sem- 
 iramis slows up a third cloud of white floats from the side 
 of the war vessel, followed by the sudden boom of a 
 heavier gun. 
 
 As the Semiramis steams slowly toward the Spaniard, 
 now distant less than a mile, a forth report is heard. 
 
 "Shotted, by heaven!" ejaculates Capt. Beals, his eyes 
 glued to the glass; "and the Don has changed her course 
 and is standing off to pepper us. He is one of those tin-
 
 AN AFFRONT AND AN APOLOGY. 189 
 
 clad gunboats, only half our tonnage, and pays no atten 
 tion to our flag.'' Still another shot is fired, and a solid 
 shot skips over the waves, barely two lengths astern of 
 the yacht. 
 
 "Shall we ram him, sir? We can send him to Davy 
 Jones' locker in ten minutes, and not harm the yacht, 
 either." 
 
 Van Zandt's eyes glance aloft at the Stars and Stripes 
 standing out clear and free from the maintop, and then 
 his eyes turn to the Spanish gunboat. 
 
 "Steam toward him full speed," he says at length, "and 
 if he fires on the American flag again" the white teeth 
 shut with an ominous click "ram him full amidship, let 
 the consequences be what they may." 
 
 But the flag is not fired upon again. The Spaniard has 
 once more laid a new course and is now bearing down full 
 on the yacht. The two craft are quickly within hailing 
 distance, and from the gunboat comes the inquiry in 
 Spanish as to the name and character of the yacht. 
 
 "The Semiramis, pleasure craft, New York for Santi 
 ago," is Capt. Beals' reply. 
 
 The Spanish captain is profuse in apologies for firing 
 on the yacht. She closely resembles a rebel craft, he 
 explains, and the gunboat was sure she was that vessel, 
 even if she did fly the American flag. Would the Sem 
 iramis accept his most humble apologies? His gunboat. 
 La Pinta, was about to proceed to Santiago for orders, 
 and if it please los Americanos they might sail thither in 
 company, which would insure the stranger against the 
 annoyance of being overhauled by some of the other 
 numerous Spanish vessels blockading the ports. 
 
 Van Zandt consults with Capt. Beals. 
 
 "He wants to make sure we don't land anything/' re 
 marks the latter. "It might save some trouble to accom 
 pany him to Santiago." 
 
 Yes, the Spaniard is informed, the American accepts 
 the apology and the escort of the gunboat to Santiago. 
 
 Before the brief southern twilight has drifted into night 
 the Semiramis is lying at anchor in the harbor of Santi 
 ago, under the guns of the Spanish gunboat La Pinta.
 
 190 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 A SPANISH BILL OF FARE. 
 
 "I want some soft-boiled eggs, but I don't suppose you 
 know a soft-boiled egg from a gas stove, eh?" 
 
 The waiter at the Hotel Royal, in Santiago, regards 
 Jack Ashley with an expression as blank as a brick wall. 
 
 "Don't get the idea, I see," remarks Ashley. "Well, 
 let me think. 'Huevos' means eggs, I know that much, 
 but what the deuce is soft-boiled? I believe 'blondo' is 
 soft, and soft eggs might express the idea. 'Blondo 
 huevos,' " he tells the waiter, and the latter, though ap 
 parently puzzled, disappears. 
 
 For the next ten minutes Jack is occupied in receiving 
 and sending back orders of eggs eggs cooked in every 
 conceivable style except soft-boiled. Finally in despair 
 he selects a dish nearest to his wants, and gets along all 
 right until he decides to have some chicken. An exam 
 ination of the bill of fare fails to discover anything that 
 looks like chicken, and the case appears hopeless. 
 
 "If I only had my phrase book with me I might do 
 some business," he reflects. "As it is, I don't see any 
 way out of it except to draw a picture of a chicken. Hold 
 on; 'gallina' means hen, unless I have forgotten my 
 studies, and if there is anything consistent in the linguistic 
 diminutives of the Spanish language, 'gallinoso' must be 
 the equivalent for chicken.'' So he orders "gallinoso" 
 with a complacence born of a problem happily solved. 
 
 The waiter simply stares and waits patiently. 
 
 " 'Gallinoso' doesn't go, then." Ashley looks the bill 
 of fare over again. The most attractive item is "salchi- 
 chas con aroz," but he does not dare risk that. Finally a 
 happy thought occurs to him. 
 
 "Todos!" he orders. "Todos! Todos!" The waiter, 
 with a grin of intelligence, hurries away and Ashley 
 heaves a sigh of relief. "Great word, 'todos,' " he solilo 
 quizes. "Most significant word in the language.''
 
 A SPANISH BILL OF FARE. 191 
 
 It is effective, at least, for the waiter arrives with a 
 little of everything that the kitchen affords and Ashley 
 manages to make out a meal. 
 
 Meanwhile he has noticed that his efforts at Spanish 
 have vastly entertained a gentleman who sits at the table 
 beyond and facing him. Particularly broad was his smile 
 when the order for "gallinoso" was given. As Jack leis 
 urely sorts out the most appetizing-looking of the array 
 of greasy viands, he remarks: "If you were as hungry as 
 I, senor, my attempts to secure a breakfast might strike 
 you as being more tragic than humorous." 
 
 "I meant no offense," replies the senor. "You would 
 yourself smile if you knew what 'gallinoso' is." 
 
 "So? What may it be, an octopus or a mule?" 
 
 "Almost as bad as either. It is a turkey buzzard." 
 
 "Ah, yes; they were probably just out of turkey buz 
 zards. Oh, well, I'll get the hang of the language before 
 I leave Cuba." 
 
 "Undoubtedly. It is easy of acquisition. You have, 
 I assume, provided yourself with a phrase-book." 
 
 "A magnificent affair. It contains every possible 
 phrase except the ones I have occasion to use." 
 
 The two finish their repast about the same time, and as 
 they stroll out upon the veranda to enjoy the long, strong 
 cigar that inevitably follows a Cuban breakfast the senor 
 remarks: 
 
 "You are an American, I judge." 
 
 "New York," is the terse response. 
 
 "Have you been in Cuba long?" 
 
 "About two hours." 
 
 "Indeed? I was not aware that any steamers arrived 
 to-day." 
 
 "Because of the blockade, eh? But I dropped in on 
 the cruiser America." 
 
 "You are of the service?" 
 
 "No; I am just a plain American citizen." 
 
 "Well, senor, this is hardly a desirable time for Ameri 
 cans or others to visit Cuba." 
 
 "An eminently proper time for one in my line of busi 
 ness," replies Ashley. "I am a newspaper correspondent."
 
 192 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 The senor looks the young man over critically. "Your 
 profession is not regarded with especial favor at present 
 by the Spanish Government," he says. 
 
 "I understand so," drawls Ashley. "Newspaper men 
 have an unpleasant habit of stating facts, something the 
 government is not particularly anxious to have abroad." 
 
 A flush of annoyance mounts the senor's face, and on 
 the left cheek Ashley for the first time notices a small, 
 crescent-shaped scar. 
 
 "Aha!" he thinks. "This gentleman rather answers 
 my friend Barker's description of the party who left New 
 York with the fair Mrs. Harding." 
 
 "The Government has no desire to conceal facts," as 
 serts the senor, with some warmth, "but it naturally seeks 
 to prevent the dissemination of false, exaggerated or 
 malicious reports. What journal do you represent, 
 senor?" 
 
 Ashley tenders his card. The senor glances at it and 
 smiles half-derisively. "The Hemisphere! I had that 
 very journal in mind," he says. 
 
 "My paper must be excused from feeling flattered, 
 then." 
 
 "It was only a week or so ago," continues the senor, 
 "that I read in your paper a sensational interview with a 
 visionary enthusiast, which was a little more exaggerated 
 and absurd than the average." 
 
 "That was before you left New York, probably," ven 
 tures Ashley, and the senor shoots a glance at him from 
 a pair of keen black eyes. "You refer to the interview 
 with Don Manada/' goes on Ashley. "I had the pleasure 
 of placing the distinguished Cuban's views before the 
 public." 
 
 "I am not surprised," comments the senor, with quiet 
 sarcasm. 
 
 "In other words you consider me a man who would 
 deliberately put forth false, exaggerated or malicious re 
 ports." 
 
 "I did not say so, senor. I presume you are typical of 
 your profession." 
 
 "And I believe I am. Our journal, like every other
 
 A SPANISH BILL OF FARE. 193 
 
 decent paper, prints the news. If it were to investigate 
 every dispatch that comes to it day by day there would 
 be precious little information for the reader who turns 
 to it each morning. If an injustice is occasionally done, 
 the paper is ever willing to rectify its error and make all 
 proper amends. You must naturally expect the Ameri 
 can newspapers to favor the dispatches received from in 
 surgent sources." 
 
 "Why, pray?" 
 
 "For the reason that little dependence can be placed 
 upon the statements of the opposition. In fact," smiles 
 Ashley, "the situation approximates somewhat the con 
 dition intimated in a joke now going the rounds of the 
 press. A Spanish captain in surrendering to superior 
 numbers or prowess, craves one boon at the hands of his 
 conqueror. 'What is it?' asks the latter. 'Please an 
 nounce the fact,' requests the Spanish captain, 'that I 
 have won an overwhelming victory.' " 
 
 The senor fails to see anything amusing in the jest. 
 "Do you intend to remain at Santiago?" he asks. 
 
 "For the present. The righting appears to be prin 
 cipally at this end of the island. Later I may push on to 
 Havana." 
 
 "There has been more than one instance of expulsion 
 of foreign correspondents, senor." 
 
 "So I am told. Well, I shall do my duty, as well as I 
 know how. I naturally sympathize with the Cubans, 
 but I shall not permit my sympathies to lead me to color 
 any reports of the war's progress. If a battle occurs to 
 morrow and the government forces are victorious, the 
 simple facts in the case will be forwarded, without further 
 comment than is required to make the story interesting. 
 And if the Cubans win, the same impartiality will char 
 acterize my dispatch. I expect the same fair play that I 
 extend. Is that not reasonable?" 
 
 "Well, at any. rate, I like your frankness," says the 
 senor, with something approaching good humor. "I also 
 like America and admire its people. Do your duty as 
 you understand it, Senor Ashley, and should your zeal as
 
 194 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 a correspondent lead you into difficulty perhaps I may be 
 of service to you." 
 
 "Thank you," acknowledges Jack. "But with my 
 present limited means of identifying you, I should be 
 more likely to be garroted or shot before I could send 
 you word." 
 
 The senor smiles. "I am Gen. Murillo, 5 ' he says. 
 "Adios, Senor Ashley." And with a courtly bow the 
 Spanish gentleman takes himself off. 
 
 "So," muses Ashley, looking after the retreating figure. 
 "Gen. Juan Murillo, the chief of staff attached to the 
 captain-general, is the patron of the beautiful Harding. 
 I remember the Hemisphere noted his presence in New 
 York. My lady's services must be booked for something 
 out of the ordinary spy business. Murillo is in Santiago ; 
 so probably is she, but if this city is her base of opera 
 tions she is likely to sail pretty close to the wind. 
 
 "Now, where on earth is Barker?" wonders Ashley. 
 "Probably at the other end of the island, while the ob 
 jects of his quest are at this end. The Semiramis rests 
 serenely on the bosom of the bay, and Miss Hathaway and 
 Messrs. Felton and Van Zandt are either aboard of her 
 or are somewhere about the city. I believe I'll go out 
 to the yacht and settle the question in my mind." 
 
 And he does. He is rowed out over the blazing sea 
 by a sun-cured barquero and climbs to the deck of the 
 Semiramis. 
 
 "Mr. Van Zandt?" repeats Capt. Beals, in response to 
 Ashley's inquiry. "Left yesterday, sir: Where? Ha 
 vana, I believe the destination was." 
 
 "And his passengers?" ventures Ashley. "I am a friend 
 of theirs," he explains to Mr. Beals. 
 
 "His passengers went with him," the latter tells him. 
 
 Ashley is about to return to shore when he hears an 
 exclamation and he sees coming toward him Don Rafael 
 Manada, the distinguished member of the Cuban revolu 
 tionary society. 
 
 "Dios mio! Senor Ashley, I am delighted to see you," 
 exclaims the volatile Manada, embracing him warmly. 
 "What brings you here?''
 
 A SPANISH BILL OF FARE. 195 
 
 "Business, my dear Don Manada. I am at present 
 officiating as a war correspondent. Will you not come 
 ashore and take dinner with me?" 
 
 "A thousand thanks, Senor Ashley; but," with a smile 
 intended to be significant, "I believe it would be wise for 
 me to remain here for the present." 
 
 "By the way," says Ashley, "you recollect that inter 
 view at the Fifth Avenue Hotel a week or so ago?" 
 Manada nods smilingly. "Well, I met a gentleman to-day 
 who spoke rather slightingly of the views which you 
 therein expressed. Perhaps you know him. Gen. Mu- 
 rillo." 
 
 "Murillo!" cries the Cuban. "Ha! Is he in Santiago?" 
 
 "He was half an hour ago." 
 
 "Was he alone? That is, was he not accompanied " 
 
 "By the fair Mrs. Harding?" supplies Ashley. 
 
 Manada's face flushes. "Ah, you know her?" he says. 
 
 "Slightly," returns Jack. "No; Mrs. Harding was not 
 with the general, though she may be in the neighborhood. 
 They left New York together. Now, Don Manada, hav 
 ing imparted some information to you, I should esteem it 
 a great favor if you would reciprocate." Ashley glances 
 about and notices that they are out of hearing. "I will 
 not ask you why you happen to be on the Semiramis, as 
 I have no disposition to pry into your affairs, but I 
 should like to know how Mr. Felton and Miss Hathaway 
 came to be aboard of the yacht?" 
 
 Manada shrugs his shoulders. "I have not an idea," 
 he says. "An hour before the Semiramis sailed they were 
 driven to the pier in company with the owner of the 
 yacht. Where they came from I cannot say." 
 
 "Did they appear to be well acquainted with one an 
 other?" 
 
 "Very nearly strangers, I should say. Senor Felton 
 kept his stateroom during nearly all the voyage and 
 seemed to avoid Senor Van Zandt." 
 
 Ashley is now getting some information of decided 
 interest. "And Miss Hathaway? Did she appear to 
 share the distrust or dislike?"
 
 196 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "Quite the contrary. They were together about all the 
 time." 
 
 "Now, Don Manada, there is one query I should like 
 to put to you." 
 
 "Come," smiles Manada, "I can guess .what your ques 
 tion is to be." 
 
 "I will save you the trouble and ask it. As a man of 
 years and experience, of keen discernment and calm 
 conclusions, what should you say were the precise rela 
 tions existing between Phillip Van Zandt and Louise 
 Hathaway?" 
 
 Manada appears to reflect deeply. Then he says, with a 
 gravity belied by the twinkle in his eyes: "Serious, my 
 dear Senor Ashley; very serious.'' 
 
 "Thank you," responds Ashley. "Well, I believe I'll 
 go ashore and get better acquainted with the natives. I 
 hope to see you again, Don Manada.'' 
 
 "I shall probably be Here until the yacht leaves, senor. 
 Adios." 
 
 As Ashley is borne shoreward he digests the informa 
 tion extracted from his Cuban friend. 
 
 "So far as Miss Hathaway's tender regard is con 
 cerned, I appear to be a rank outsider," he soliloquizes. 
 "But I have the consolation of knowing that I did not 
 permit myself to fall in love with her. Rather a melan 
 choly consolation, but philosophy was invented for just 
 such cases as this. 
 
 "And Van Zandt. Well, Barker can doubt as much 
 as he pleases, but I will stake my reputation as a sooth 
 sayer that Van Zandt and Ernest Stanley are one and 
 the same man. And if Phillip Van Zandt is not a 
 Nemesis, stalking on the trail of his prospective victim 
 or victims, then I am indeed a prophet unworthy of honor 
 in 'mine ain countree' or in the world at large."
 
 A CAFE QUARREL. 197 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 A CAFE QUARREL. 
 
 "I suppose this is the Madison Square of Santiago," 
 remarks Jack Ashley, as he notes approvingly the bril 
 liant spectacle which the plaza affords, now that the tropic 
 night is atoning for the enervating heat of the tropic 
 afternoon. Santiago, like all Cuban cities, wakes up 
 measurably early, bustles about for three hours or so, and 
 then dozes or fans itself until the sun drops into the sea 
 and night comes with scarcely a shadow of twilight. 
 
 And then Santiago wakes again with a start, and for a 
 few more hours laughs and chatters, promenades and 
 flirts until about 10 o'clock, when the curtain falls, not to 
 rise again until the sun is well up the morning sky. 
 
 The nightly gathering on the plaza has been tersely 
 described as "a scene of shoulders, arms, trains, jewels 
 and cascarilla." 
 
 The women monopolize the plaza and the men the 
 cafe, the latter a simple interior, a mere loafing-place for 
 the Cuban, whose capacities as an idler are the result of 
 many years' practice in the gentle art of doing nothing. 
 
 Into one of the cafes that border the panorama of 
 gayety strolls Ashley. The place is crowded, but over in 
 the farthest corner he sees a table at which only one 
 person is seated. Toward this he threads his way, but 
 when almost there his progress is impeded by a party of 
 four who are taking up more space than the law of 
 equality allows. 
 
 "Pardon me," remarks Jack, as he brushes past the 
 chair of an unamiable-appearing individual in undress 
 military attire. The latter moves reluctantly and growls 
 something which Ashley suspects is not complimentary, 
 and as he drops into a seat he asks the gentleman across 
 the table: "Do you speak English, sir?" 
 
 "Occasionally," is the brief rejoinder.
 
 198 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "Then would you oblige me by translating the remark 
 of the chap whose repose I just disturbed?" 
 
 "It's of no consequence," replies the other. "An im 
 pertinence upon Americans. The feeling against that 
 people is very bitter in Santiago just now. The United 
 States is suspected of encouraging practically as well as 
 morally the present insurrection." 
 
 "Perhaps I had better go over and punch his head," 
 observes Ashley. "His suspicions might be better 
 grounded." 
 
 "It would be a waste of time and perhaps lead to a 
 general row. He is only a Spanish captain who has in 
 vested his title with more importance than would suffice 
 for the entire service. Spanish captains are as plentiful 
 as Kentucky colonels." 
 
 "You speak by the card," laughs Ashley, as he orders 
 a glass of jerez and a cigar. "Your English, too, is as 
 pure as a New Yorker's or perhaps I should say as un- 
 foreign. Pure English is not a drug in the New York 
 market." 
 
 "I have resided in New York, as well as other parts 
 of the United States. But after a short residence on this 
 island a man drifts into the indolence and shiftlessness of 
 the natives and loses much of his identity." 
 
 "He does not lose his Americanism, I hope." 
 
 "No; the same thrill comes over him when he sees the 
 most beautiful of all flags streaming out on the breeze, 
 and with it is increased his sense of the outrageous 
 wrongs which the Cuban has suffered from generation to 
 generation." 
 
 Ashley has been looking his acquaintance over with 
 much interest, and the result of his "sizing up" is as 
 follows: 
 
 Age, about Ashley's own; above the medium height, 
 athletic of build, and straight as the proverbial arrow ; 
 general air denoting decision, dash, and a bit of 
 recklessness. His garments are dark and somewhat 
 travel-worn, and on his head, pulled down well 
 over his eyes, he wears a soft hat that borders on the 
 sombrero.
 
 A CAFE QUARREL. 199 
 
 Just now he is scowling at the party of four near by, 
 who are making merry apparently at the expense of the 
 two young men. 
 
 "As I said before/' observes Ashley, "if you will kindly 
 translate the remarks of yonder chaps it will afford me 
 considerable satisfaction to call them to order. Ah, if 
 I could only tell them in Spanish what I think of them 
 in English/' he adds, recollecting an old opera-bouffe 
 jest. 
 
 Ashley's acquaintance is evidently making an effort to 
 keep his temper, but his resentment is apparent in the 
 flash of his eyes and the red spot in each cheek. 
 
 "By Jove!" suddenly reflects Ashley, "perhaps our 
 military friend understands English. I'll try him." Then 
 to the apparent leading spirit ol the quartet, who has just 
 delivered himself of a sally that vastly amuses his com 
 panions, Ashley leans over and drawls: "Pardon me, 
 senor, am I the subject of your mirth?" 
 
 The Spaniard may understand, but he makes no sign. 
 The quartet set down their glasses and stare at the self- 
 possessed young man who has risen and walked to their 
 table and whose mild blue eyes run over the party in 
 calm inquiry. And the young man notes that the time- 
 killers for many tables around have ceased their chatter 
 for the moment and are watching curiously the progress 
 of the colloquy. 
 
 "I have reason to suspect," goes on Ashley, "that you 
 are making a beastly nuisance of yourself, and unless you 
 are anxious for a good American thrashing I would 
 advise you to keep a civil tongue from now on. If you 
 don't understand that I'll knock it through your head in 
 short order." 
 
 The reply is a volley of red-hot Castilian, but Ashley 
 is saved the trouble of attempting to comprehend it. For 
 at this moment a long arm reaches by him and the 
 Spanish captain is dealt a slap across the mouth that 
 transforms his teeth for an instant into castanets. 
 
 Then there is confusion. The quartet spring to their 
 feet and one of them seizes a bottle. But Ashley grips 
 the uplifted arm with a wrist of steel and remarks in tones
 
 200 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 that carry conviction: "Easy, my friend, or I'll throw you 
 through the side of the house." 
 
 The idlers in the cafe crowd about the combatants and 
 the proprietor rushes up and protests against the disorder. 
 
 The Spanish captain and Ashley's friend glare at each 
 other, and the latter, after pronouncing the words "Hotel 
 Royal" with a significance appreciated by his antagonist, 
 slips his arm through Ashley's and draws him from the 
 cafe. 
 
 "Whither?" queries Jack, as they proceed down the 
 street 
 
 "To the Hotel Royal. I am stopping there for the 
 night. And you?" 
 
 "Same cheerful hostelry. Is it the worst in Cuba?" 
 
 "The worst and the best They are all off the same 
 piece." 
 
 "Will you come up to my room?" asks he of the black 
 eyes, when the hotel is reached. "We shall doubtless be 
 waited upon presently." 
 
 "By our Spanish friend?" 
 
 "By his representative, more likely." 
 
 "But how is he to locate you?" questions Ashley. "No 
 pasteboards were exchanged.'' 
 
 His companion smiles sardonically. "Capt. Raymon 
 Huerta and I are not strangers," he says. 
 
 Even as he speaks there is a rap at the door and as it 
 is thrown open in strides one of the Spanish quartet 
 
 "Well, Senor Cardena," says the young man with the 
 black eyes, glancing at the bit of pasteboard in his hand, 
 "what is your pleasure?'' 
 
 "What, Senor Navarro, you may expect," replies Car 
 dena, declining stiffly the proffered chair. "Capt. Huerta 
 demands satisfaction for the insult offered to him." 
 
 "Not only offered, but delivered," mutters Ashley, and 
 he returns in kind Cardena's impertinent glance. "So 
 my unknown friend's name is Navarro," he thinks. 
 
 "You may convey to Capt. Huerta my willingness to 
 afford him the desired redress/' says Navarro. "How 
 will sunrise, on the beach below the city, answer?" 
 
 "I am authorized to make the necessary arrangements.
 
 A CAFE QUARREL. 201 
 
 What you have proposed will be satisfactory. And the 
 weapons?" 
 
 "Pistols, I suppose; I am provided with one." 
 
 "'Hold on," puts in Ashley. "I have just the article. 
 Excuse me a moment, gentlemen." Repairing to his 
 room he extracts from his trunk two superb Smith & 
 Wesson 38-caliber revolvers, and these he submits to 
 Cardena and Navarro. Senor Cardena professes himself 
 to be satisfied with the weapons and, with a perfunctory 
 "Adios," he withdraws. 
 
 When he has gone Navarro tosses his arms impatiently 
 and murmurs: "What a fool I am." 
 
 "All men are or have been at some period," Ashley as 
 sures him. "But what gives rise to your present self- 
 accusation?" 
 
 "The thought that I permitted my temper to play the 
 mischief with my judgment," is the gloomy reply. "A 
 man has the right to risk his own life, but not the life, or 
 what is dearer than life, of those whose interests he is 
 intrusted with.'' 
 
 "See here," Ashley gently protests, "if there is any 
 fighting to be done why not let me have the job? I 
 began the row " 
 
 "And I finished it. No, my friend, this affair must go 
 on to the bitter end. Although, as you rightly suspected, 
 you were the ostensible object of the remarks of the party 
 at the cafe, they were in reality directed toward me. It 
 was inevitable that Capt. Huerta and I should cross, 
 though I might have to-night avoided a meeting which 
 would better be left to the future. May I request you to 
 second me in the meeting?" 
 
 "Assuredly, Senor Navarro. That is your name, I 
 judge?" 
 
 "Yes; Emilio Navarro quite Spanish, you see," with 
 a peculiar smile. "And your name?" 
 
 "Jack Ashley; residence, New York; occupation, news 
 paper man; paper, the Hemisphere; ever heard of it?" 
 
 "The newspaper is not a stranger to me. Pardon me 
 a few minutes," says Navarro, and he occupies himself
 
 202 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 in writing a somewhat lengthy letter, which he seals, 
 without addressing, and hands to Ashley. 
 
 "Ashley, you are a man of honor,'' he says, laying one 
 hand upon the newspaper man's shoulder. "Promise me 
 that if anything happens to me to-morrow you will de 
 liver that letter to a name I will whisper to you." 
 
 "I shall do so with profound regret, sir. The name?" 
 
 "Don Manuel de Quesada. He resides in the Pueblo 
 de Olivet, on the edge of Santos, four miles west of 
 Santiago." 
 
 Ashley places the letter in his pocket. "I will not fail 
 you, if the occasion for my services should arise. But 
 unless Huerta is more familiar with the American re 
 volver than I believe him to be, I shall have the happiness 
 of returning this document to you after you have filled 
 him full of leaden satisfaction. How are you on the shoot, 
 anyway?" 
 
 Navarro smiles grimly. "I have hit a playing card at 
 fifty yards," he says. 
 
 "Oh, well; that's close enough markmanship. I am 
 beginning to feel sorry for Huerta." 
 
 "Save your sympathy. I shall not kill him. And now, 
 friend Ashley, I believe I'll go to bed. I have been riding 
 all day and I am as tired as a dog. At daylight we start." 
 
 "At daylight it is. It is not too late to accept my offer 
 to exchange places with you. I can't hit a playing card 
 at fifty yards, but at least I am alone in the world, and, 
 barring a few excellent friends, would not be especially 
 missed. It is as much my quarrel as yours, you know." 
 
 "My dear Ashley," says Navarro, with much emotion, 
 "I am deeply sensible of the goodness of heart that 
 prompts your offer, but, I repeat, this affair must pro 
 ceed as it has begun." 
 
 "Well, good-night to you, then," says Ashley, and he 
 goes off to bed, wondering what manner of man is he 
 who speaks of a thrill at the sight of the most beautiful 
 of all flags streaming out upon the breeze, and yet claims 
 the distinctly Spanish name of Emilio Navarro.
 
 JUANITA. 203 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 JUANITA. 
 
 The sun is creeping up the range of hills when Ashley 
 and Navarro leave the Hotel Royal and set forth at a 
 smart pace for the meeting with Capt. Raymon Huerta. 
 Ashley is in his usual good spirits, and the enlivening 
 influence of his society is appreciated by Navarro, whose 
 thoughts are plainly of a dejected nature. 
 
 Half a mile or more down the beach that stretches east 
 of the city three men are in waiting. Two of them are 
 Capt. Huerta and Senor Cardena; the third is evidently 
 a surgeon. 
 
 The preliminaries for the exchange of shots are quickly 
 arranged. Ashley, with the fifty-yards range in mind, 
 proposes the comfortable distance of twenty-five paces, 
 and x Cardena assents. Then the revolvers are handed out 
 and carefully scrutinized, and Huerta and Navarro face 
 each other on the sands. 
 
 "How's your nerve, old man?" Ashley asks Navarro, 
 as he gives the latter's hand an encouraging squeeze. 
 
 "Steady," is the response, in low tones. 
 
 "Good." 
 
 "Remember the letter," admonishes Navarro, and as 
 Ashley nods and steps back the duelists signal that they 
 are ready. 
 
 A minute later two shots startle into flight a flock of 
 sea gulls that have been hovering along the shore. 
 
 With the echoes Capt. Huerta staggers and is im 
 mediately taken in charge by the watchful Cardena and 
 the medico. 
 
 "Not scratched, eh?'' Ashley inquires of Navarro. 
 
 "No; but the lead passed close enough for comfort. 
 Unless my aim was poor, Huerta is not seriously hurt. 
 To have killed him would have been to invite serious 
 entanglement." 
 
 Nor is the Spanish captain in any immediate danger
 
 204 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 of parting with existence. The bullet has plowed through 
 the right shoulder, causing a ragged wound and a great 
 flow of blood, but a few days will put him on his feet 
 again, the surgeon reports to Cardena. Wounded honor 
 is satisfied by the physical wound, and after a brief an 
 nouncement of this fact and a stiff "Adios" the Spaniards 
 drive away, and Navarro and his American friend are left 
 upon the beach. 
 
 "Any trouble with the authorities likely?" Ashley 
 queries, as the two turn cityward. 
 
 "I think not. Huerta is a thorough-paced scoundrel, 
 but he has never been accused of being a coward or an 
 informer.'' 
 
 A great change has come over Navarro. His eye is 
 bright and his step elastic and he tells Ashley, as they 
 stride along in the cool air of the morning, that he is 
 terribly hungry and would appreciate a good breakfast. 
 
 As good a meal as Cuba affords is forthcoming, and as 
 Ashley suddenly recollects the now happily unnecessary 
 letter to Don Quesada, Navarro tears it into fragments 
 and says abruptly: 
 
 "Ashley, amigo, have you ever seen the Pearl of the 
 Antilles?" 
 
 "No; I haven't been in Santiago quite twenty-four 
 hours yet. You mean the insurgent cruiser?" 
 
 "Ah, no; I mean the most beautiful girl in Cuba. She 
 is the daughter of Don Manuel de Quesada, and is at 
 once the joy and the despair of half the unmarried 
 jeunesse doree of Santiago. Would you like to meet 
 her?" 
 
 "By all means. Next to a good horse and a trim yacht, 
 I know of nothing that interests me more than a beautiful 
 woman." 
 
 "Good. I am going out to La Quinta de Quesada. 
 Hunt up a horse and accompany me." 
 
 Navarro is already provided with a steed, a magnificent 
 black animal that interests Ashley far more than the pros 
 pects of the acquaintance of the Pearl of the Antilles. 
 "Came into my possession yesterday," Navarro tells him. 
 "Isn't he a beauty?"
 
 JUANITA. 205 
 
 "He is that," is Jack's appreciative reply. "If you run 
 across his mate put me in the way of acquiring him and 
 I will do my war correspondence in the saddle." 
 
 Ashley succeeds in chartering a fairly presentable beast 
 for the day, and the two young men set out for Santos 
 in the best of spirits. They are in no hurry and the ride 
 of something over four miles through El Valle de Bosque 
 Cillos, the wooded valley, occupies an hour. 
 
 Passing through Santos, which is one of the smallest 
 of villages, embracing only a jail, a church and a score 
 of dwellings, the travelers take the road to La Quinta de 
 Quesada, which is located in the center of the Pueblo de 
 Olivet. 
 
 The Quinta is a square, two-storied affair and the 
 principal material in its construction is coral stone. The 
 inevitable and grateful veranda stretches around three 
 sides and an air of quiet luxury is evident in the spacious 
 house and its attractive surroundings. 
 
 As Navarro and Ashley ride slowly up the shaded car 
 riage way and turn suddenly in sight of the quinta, the 
 first objects that greet Jack's vision are two young people 
 in one of the hammocks on the veranda. A young man's 
 arm encircles a young lady's waist and the attitude of the 
 pair suggests either the relations of lovers or of brother 
 and sister. They start up in some confusion upon the 
 advent of a stranger and come forward to greet Navarro. 
 When the latter dismounts the young man embraces him 
 warmly and Navarro, as he rests one arm affectionately 
 about the youth's shoulders, says to Ashley: "My 
 younger brother, Don Carlos." Then he turns to the 
 young lady: 
 
 "Juanita, I want you to know my friend, Senor Jack 
 Ashley of New York. Senor Ashley, La Senorita de 
 Quesada." 
 
 Ashley has slid from his horse and his acknowledg 
 ment of the introduction is rather less debonair than 
 usual; because, as he confesses afterward to himself, he 
 is somewhat confused by the beauty of the young woman, 
 who gives him her hand and tells him that the quinta 
 has no friends more welcome than Don Emilio.
 
 206 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 And here is an outline of Juanita de Quesada, the Pearl 
 of the Antilles, as sketched rapidly but indelibly upon the 
 tablets of Jack Ashley's memory: 
 
 She is 20 or thereabouts, and is considerably below the 
 medium height. The proportions of her slender yet full 
 form are as perfect as nature ever molds. Her face is 
 oval, and her complexion a soft, creamy olive. Evi 
 dences of her race are in the lead-black hair, the dark, 
 dreamy eyes of liquid fire, the rather large, tremulous 
 mouth, with its scarlet lips, and the completing perfection 
 of Cuban loveliness, the dainty little feet with the incom 
 parable arches. All Cuban women are not beautiful, but 
 as Ashley looks upon the present picture he decides that 
 the imperfections of her sisters are amply compensated 
 for by the dazzling loveliness of the Senorita de Quesada. 
 "She is glorious," he thinks; and then: "I wonder if she 
 knows anything." 
 
 Hardly less striking, though dissimilar in character, is 
 the beauty of Don Carlos Navarro. He is a slender 
 youth, with dark-brown eyes and curly hair, and if it were 
 not for the effeminacy of his regular features he would 
 receive the critical approval of the New Yorker. As it 
 is, Ashley confesses that Juanita and Don Carlos are the 
 handsomest young pair he ever set eyes upon, and he 
 wonders what may be the relationship existing between 
 them. For Carlos is no more Spanish in appearance than 
 his brother Emilio. 
 
 "Where is Don Quesada?" asks Navarro, when the 
 party have disposed themselves upon the veranda. 
 
 "With his books and papers, as usual," replies Carlos, 
 with a significant glance at his brother. "Come, I will 
 take you to him. He will be overjoyed to greet you. It 
 is nearly two weeks, Emilio, since we last saw you." 
 
 "And it may be much longer than two weeks ere you 
 see me again," says Navarro, as he follows Carlos into the 
 house. 
 
 Ashley finds himself vastly interested in the young lady 
 with whom he has been left tete-a-tete. He learns that 
 she has not a near relative save her father (Carlos must 
 then be her lover) ; that she is no stranger to the United
 
 JTJANITA. 207 
 
 States, having resided in New York two years; that she 
 loves America and everything American; that, were it 
 not that her father's interests necessitated a residence in 
 Cuba, she would like to live always in America; and 
 much more information, imparted in a quiet, dignified 
 manner which Jack is positive was acquired by her short 
 stay in the land of the free and the home of the enter 
 prising. 
 
 All too soon comes the interruption of luncheon, and 
 Ashley is presented to Don Manuel de Quesada. Jack 
 takes a good, square look at the tall, spare, elderly man 
 who grasps his hand warmly and tells him that he is 
 always proud and happy to meet an American. 
 
 Don Quesada is a typical Cuban in appearance; his 
 bearing is distinguished and his manner partakes of the 
 dignity and repose of his daughter. But there is a certain 
 weakness about the mouth that Ashley at once notes. 
 
 However, Don Quesada is cordiality itself, and after 
 lunch the three men adjourn to the library for a smoke, 
 Carlos and Juanita taking themselves off for a ramble 
 through the park. 
 
 The conversation drifts naturally to a discussion of the 
 patriotic uprising which has almost attained the propor 
 tions of a revolution that promises to be as successful as 
 the struggle for independence of the American colonists. 
 The talk is general, and Ashley surprises his companions 
 by remarking abruptly: 
 
 "By the way, Don Quesada, before I left America it 
 was hinted to me by an influential member of the Cuban 
 revolutionary society that the President of the Provisional 
 Republic of Cuba is a resident of Santiago." 
 
 "Ah?" says Quesada, inquiringly. 
 
 "That is, I suppose Santos may be considered a part of 
 Santiago." 
 
 Quesada and Navarro look at each other meaningly. 
 
 "In other words, that this President is none other than 
 yourself, Don Quesada," continues Ashley; and without 
 waiting for a reply to this direct speech he goes on: 
 
 "I tell you only what, as I say, was intimated to me in 
 the strictest confidence. I shall not ask for a confirmation
 
 208 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 or a contradiction; I am not thinking of interviewing 
 you. I am an American and the representative of an 
 American newspaper. As such, I am supposed, while in 
 Cuba, to maintain a neutrality. I had intended, before I 
 met Don Navarro, to call upon you in a professional 
 capacity, but now I find myself your guest. It is for you 
 to say what is your pleasure in the matter." 
 
 Don Quesada studies keenly the face of the war corre 
 spondent, but reads only sincerity in the frank blue eyes. 
 Then he looks at Navarro and the latter extends his hand 
 to Jack. 
 
 "Ashley, I believe we understand one another," he says. 
 "There is no need of further explanations. If there is 
 any interviewing to be done, you can operate on me. 
 I believe Don Quesada will willingly allow me to sub 
 mit to the ordeal." 
 
 "I will be merciful," smiles Ashley. "But before I pro 
 ceed further, permit me to present the vouchers for my 
 discretion and reliability," and he passes over a letter 
 which relieves Don Quesada of any possible distrust 
 of his acquaintance of a few hours. 
 
 It is late in the afternoon when Navarro announces that 
 he must depart. Ashley is courteously invited to enjoy 
 for as long a time as he may care to the hospitality of the 
 quinta, but duty demands his presence at Santiago until 
 he gets his affairs into shape. However, he promises to 
 call frequently while he is in this part of the country, a 
 pledge he anticipates much pleasure in fulfilling. And as 
 he rides away with 'Navarro his usually cool head is 
 disturbed by speculations as to the probable relations 
 between Don Carlos Navarro and Juanita de Quesada. 
 
 "By the way, Navarro," he says, suddenly to his com 
 panion, "is there any likelihood of my ever chancing 
 upon El Terredo, the mysterious revolutionary leader 
 whom we were discussing this afternoon?" 
 
 "Possibly," is the reply. The travelers have reached 
 a fork in the road, about half-way between Santos and 
 Santiago. 
 
 "My path lies yonder," says Navarro, pointing to the 
 north. "We must part here."
 
 ONE WAY TO GET TO CUBA. 209 
 
 "Well, take care of yourself/' remarks Ashley, gripping 
 the extended hand. 
 
 Navarro rides slowly away, but he has not gone five 
 yards when he checks his horse and turns in his saddle. 
 
 "Would you like to see El Terredo?'' he asks, with a 
 smile. 
 
 "It would satisfy my curiosity," is Ashley's prompt 
 response. 
 
 "Then, my friend, take your first look, and the last for 
 many days, if not forever. For I am El Terredo!" 
 
 Waving his hat with a graceful sweep Navarro rides 
 away to the mountains. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 ONE WAY TO GET TO CUBA. 
 
 "Whew!'' For the nineteenth time John Barker gives 
 utterance to the expressive exclamation, as he mops his 
 perspiring forehead. 
 
 The detective is seated in the parlor car of the Florida 
 express, which has just left Jacksonville, and is being 
 whirled along toward Tampa Bay. 
 
 He soon indulges in a nap, while the train rumbles on, 
 by the scattered negro huts, with their ebon-hued occu 
 pants drawn up in solemn array to watch the flying cars, 
 through the dense forests of moss-entwined trees, across 
 the trestle-spanned marshes and mud-colored rivers. 
 
 Barker is dreaming of a hand-to-hand encounter with 
 Cyrus Felton, wherein the latter has succeeded in clasp 
 ing the handcuffs about his (Barker's) neck and is slowly 
 but surely rendering futile his breathing apparatus, when 
 the porter's voice calling out "Tampa Bay" recalls him to 
 his senses. 
 
 The single hotel at Tampa Bay, Barker subsequently 
 finds, is not a half-bad institution, judged by the midnight 
 inspection, and ascertaining from the clerk that the
 
 210 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 steamer for Key West does not sail until 3 o'clock the fol 
 lowing afternoon, the detective retires m the confident 
 belief that he has overtaken Mrs. Harding at least. 
 
 Barker is right in his surmise. He has nearly finished 
 his breakfast the next morning, when the striking figure 
 of Mrs. Harding enters the dining-room and is escorted 
 by the obsequious waiter to the table at which the de 
 tective is seated. The latter lingers long over his coffee 
 and muffins, while he improves the opportunity of study 
 ing his vis-a-vis. 
 
 "Handsome as a queen," is his conclusion, as the glori 
 ous black eyes glance idly into his. But there is a tinge 
 of melancholy in her face, a preoccupation in her man 
 ner, that does not escape the observation of the detective, 
 and at which he wonders. 
 
 "It cannot be that the military chap has given her the 
 go-by," he thinks. 
 
 He has not, for at this moment the soldierly form of 
 the Spaniard enters the room and he is directed to a seat 
 beside Mrs. Harding. 
 
 "Nothing very lover-like in their greeting," ruminates 
 Barker, as the two exchange salutations. "Since they are 
 to be fellow-passengers on the boat to Key West and 
 Havana I will postpone my interview until then." Barker 
 strolls out upon the hotel veranda. 
 
 "How long does it take to run to Havana?" he inquires, 
 casually, of the porter. 
 
 "About a ten hours' sail from Key West, when the 
 steamers are running," he is told. 
 
 "When the steamers are running? Are they not run 
 ning now?'' 
 
 "No, sir; they run only as far as Key West now, since 
 the blockade was declared." 
 
 Barker paces slowly up and down the veranda. 
 
 "Well, I must be hoodooed," he mutters; "that does 
 settle it. Here I've raced 1,700 miles to head off my 
 game, only to be foiled by a measly blockade. I can't 
 stand it to charter a ship, and it looks mightily as if Cyrus 
 Felton was going to slip through my hands. But how are 
 my lady and the Spanish-looking chap to get there? I
 
 ONE WAY TO GET TO CUBA. 211 
 
 will go to Key West at any rate. There may be some 
 way to cross the channel from there." 
 
 The detective is not in cheerful spirits as he boards 
 the steamer, but he feels a shade of satisfaction while 
 noting Mrs. Harding and her cavalier ascend the gang 
 plank just before the signal for departure is given. 
 
 "We will have a little tete-a-tete by and by, my lady," 
 he murmurs. But, greatly to the detective's disappoint 
 ment, Mrs. Harding does not emerge from her stateroom 
 until the steamer has sighted the yellow stretch of sand 
 that marks the entrance to the harbor of Key West. 
 
 "Well, we shall either be fellow-voyagers again, or 'on 
 a tropical isle we'll sit and smile,' '' reflects Barker, philo 
 sophically. 
 
 Determined that he will not lose sight of the charming 
 Mrs. Harding again, Barker loiters about the steamer 
 until she trips across the gang-plank, the last passenger 
 to disembark. Her traveling companion has preceded 
 her nearly half an hour, and Barker wonders again if they 
 have parted company. Their baggage, he observes, is 
 still on the pier, and even as Mrs. Harding steps ashore 
 Barker sees the Spaniard coming rapidly toward her. 
 He conducts her to the opposite side of the wharf, where 
 is moored a neat little steam launch, manned by a num 
 ber of sailors in the uniform of the Spanish navy. The 
 baggage upon which Barker's watchful eyes are fixed is 
 quickly conveyed aboard the launch, Mrs. Harding fol 
 lows, still escorted by the military-appearing stranger, 
 and a moment later the little craft shoots out from 
 the dock and makes for a man-of-war lying at anchor in 
 the harbor and flying the Spanish colors. 
 
 Mr. Barker's last opportunity for a tete-a-tete with 
 "my lady" has vanished. 
 
 The detective watches the launch until it vanishes be 
 hind the bow of the warship, but words fail utterly to 
 express his feelings. He mechanically picks up his grip 
 and suffers himself to be conducted by an enterprising 
 Bahaman to the American Hotel, picturesquely sur 
 rounded by tropical shrubs and plants. 
 
 "Well, Barker,'' the detective communes with himself,
 
 212 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "it looks decidedly as if my lady possessed a slight advan 
 tage in having a man-of-war at her call. But with all that 
 fleet of boats in the harbor it does seem that there should 
 be one bound for Cuba. How to hit that particular one 
 is the question." 
 
 He strolls down the broad street to the harbor front, 
 and from a wharf wistfully gazes at the Spanish man-of- 
 war now nearly hull down on the horizon bearing away 
 his fair fellow-voyager. A tanned and weather-beaten son 
 of Neptune is making fast a small sloop, whose name 
 Barker notes with idle curiosity is emblazoned in gener 
 ous letters on her stern, "Cayo Hueso." 
 
 "Say, my good fellow,'' he says, "you don't happen to 
 know of any way to reach Havana, do you? Are any of 
 these vessels likely to sail for that port within a day or 
 two?" 
 
 He of the weather-beaten face finishes making fast the 
 little sloop without answering, and then slowly turns and 
 looks at Barker. The gaze is a long and searching one, 
 but apparently it is satisfactory. 
 
 "There's one way to reach Cuba, I reckon," he says, 
 with a pronounced nasal twang. "That is, if you are 
 sailor enough to stand that sloop and wise enough to 
 keep your mouth shut on occasions.'' 
 
 Barker surveys the little craft doubtfully. She is of 
 perhaps five tons' burden, and looks old and risky. 
 
 "I could stand the sail if the boat is seaworthy, and I 
 am anxious to reach Havana," he finally says. "When do 
 you sail?" 
 
 "At 6 o'clock. The Cayo don't go clear to Cuba, only 
 about half-way across the channel. But we can put you 
 aboard another craft that will land you in Havana. Got 
 any baggage?" 
 
 Barker meditates a moment. "How long will it take 
 to make the passage?" he inquires. 
 
 "Wall, if this wind holds you ought to be in Havana 
 by to-morrow night. It will cost you say, $25.'' 
 
 Barker's decision is made. "I'll chance it," he says. 
 "I'll be here at 6 o'clock." 
 
 On his return to the Cayo Hueso, the detective finds
 
 ONE WAY TO GET TO CUBA. 213 
 
 the crew of three already aboard and his sailor friend 
 preparing to cast off. lie ruefully surveys the small craft 
 and thinks of the i2O-mile trip, but there is no alternative, 
 and he clambers aboard. 
 
 As the sails are hoisted Barker is amazed by the rate 
 at which the little craft speeds out of the harbor. There is 
 always a breeze on the keys, the captain of the Cayo tells 
 him. 
 
 Soon the sea begins to growl a bit and Barker does not 
 like it. As the breeze freshens, the commotion beneath 
 his vest increases. 
 
 "Just the kind of a breeze for a run across, eh?" re 
 marks the man at the tiller, with a voice that sounds to 
 Barker like the rasp of a new saw. 
 
 "I dunno," replies the detective, whose face is rapidly 
 becoming "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought." 
 
 But the little vessel continues to spin over the waters, 
 as darkness settles upon the sea. 
 
 The stars are paling in the heavens and the gray dawn 
 is creeping athwart the sloop, when Barker awakens from 
 a troubled nap and struggles into a sitting posture. He 
 sees only the bare horizon, the ocean lying black and 
 leaden and wrinkled like an old man's face. There is no 
 boat in sight, he thinks ; they are not yet half-way to the 
 Cuban shore. 
 
 But there is a boat in sight. Hull down to the east, 
 imperceptible to his untrained eye, a delicate pearl shaft 
 hangs like a pendant just on the horizon. For a time it 
 seems dim and visionary; then even Barker, did he pos 
 sess sufficient ambition to lift his head again, could see a 
 duplicate of the sloop lazily crawling toward her, and, 
 within half an hour, come alongside the Cayo Hueso. 
 
 At once certain mysterious boxes and casks, chiefly the 
 latter, are transferred from one boat to the other. Then 
 Barker laboriously and disconsolately steps from the 
 Cayo Hueso to the strange boat, while his weather-beaten 
 friend communes with the captain of the latter. His des 
 tination is a matter of supremest indifference to the de 
 tective. He manfully strives to hold up his head while
 
 214 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 the exchange of salutations is made, fails and sinks 
 passively into the bottom of the boat. 
 
 The sun is gilding Maro castle as the little craft enters 
 the harbor of Havana. 
 
 "A remarkably quick passage," says the captain in 
 Spanish, as the sloop is being moored to a dilapidated 
 wharf in an obscure portion of the water front. 
 
 Barker struggles to his feet. "Are we in Havana?" he 
 inquires in Spanish, a trifle rusty, but still intelligible. 
 
 "Si, senor." 
 
 "Thank heaven!" is the pious ejaculation of the de 
 tective. "I'll live and die in Cuba before I'll every trust 
 myself in a cockleshell like that again." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 A SOLDIER OF CASTILE. 
 
 "Heavens! They have just sized up my condition and 
 sent an ambulance," Barker grunts, as his eyes rest for 
 the first time on that marvel of vehicular construction, a 
 Cuban volante, which the good-natured captain of the 
 sloop has secured for his late passenger. 
 
 But before he clambers into the conveyance the de 
 tective, whose professional instincts are now awakening, 
 ascertains from the driver that the American steamer 
 City -of Havana has not yet arrived, although due that 
 morning. 
 
 Barker begins to feel better. "Things seem to be 
 coming my way at last," he thinks complacently. "I'll 
 take no chances this time. John Barker, detective, will be 
 the first to greet Cyrus Felton when that gentleman steps 
 on Cuban soil. Now for the hotel and a bath, a visit to 
 the American consul and then to the wharf of the Red 
 Star Line, wherever that is." 
 
 It is a very different individual from the woebegone 
 passenger on the little smuggler that three hours later
 
 A SOLDIER OF CASTILE. 215 
 
 lounges about the dimly lighted freight sheds of the 
 American Steamship Line, awaiting the arrival of the 
 overdue vessel. "Richard's himself again/' he remarks; 
 "or will be when his long-neglected appetite is appeased. 
 I hope the City of Havana will not keep me up all night." 
 
 The night wears on the longest, Barker assures him 
 self, with one exception, that he ever knew, and the sun 
 is well above the horizon ere his heart is cheered by the 
 boom of a cannon on Moro castle, announcing the arrival 
 of a foreign vessel. It is the American liner, and by the 
 time the various custom officers, summoned by the signal 
 gun, have arrived on the wharf, the steamer is being 
 moored to the pier. 
 
 Barker has taken a position where he can command a 
 view of the gang-plank, and with a grim smile he awaits 
 the disembarking of the passengers. There are not many. 
 A few Havana business men, a score or two of Cubans, 
 three or four Spanish officers and half a dozen Americans 
 cross the plank, and then there is a lull in the procession. 
 
 Barker's smile fades and there is a suspicion of anxiety 
 in his expression as the tall, slim form of Cyrus Felton 
 does not appear. 
 
 "Perhaps he is sick," the detective thinks. "I will go 
 aboard and inquire of the purser." 
 
 No; there was no passenger on this trip named Felton, 
 that officer states, running his eye down the rather ab 
 breviated passenger list. 
 
 Barker stares vacantly at the purser. Rapidly there 
 passes through his mind the circumstances preceding his 
 interesting journey to Havana the departure of Felton 
 and Miss Hathaway from the St. James; his (Barker's) 
 hurried trip to Key West; the unavailing effort to inter 
 view Mrs. Harding; the voyage in the smuggler to Ha 
 vana ; last night's long and weary vigil. 
 
 And Felton did not sail on the City of Havana after all ! 
 
 Without a word of thanks to the courteous purser, the 
 detective slowly turns and retraces his steps. He walks 
 aimlessly from the wharf, his disappointment for the time 
 being too bitter for expression. 
 
 But John Barker, whatever his errors of judgment, is
 
 216 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 a clear-minded, persistent man, and after a half-hour's 
 walk in the enervating atmosphere of a Havana midday 
 he pulls himself up with a start. 
 
 "Well," he says as he wipes the perspiration from his 
 face, "I'm euchred this time, it appears, and must make 
 the best of it. But this is the deciding trick, and by 
 heaven," the detective grinds his teeth, "I will track Cyrus 
 Felton down if it takes the rest of my life! I have it! 
 I'll see if the son, Ralph Felton, is actually here, as Ashley 
 believes. If he is, I will at least have something to show 
 for my trip to this awfully hot hole. Now for something 
 to eat at the grand hotel Pasaje, if I can find the way. 
 It's mighty lucky I know some Spanish." 
 
 The shadows are lengthening toward night when 
 Barker awakens from the sound slumber into which his 
 ''siesta" after a comfortable meal has developed. He is 
 feeling greatly refreshed and ready to pick up again the 
 tangled threads of the trail that he has followed so far. 
 
 "Now for a little stroll about the city, to see what the 
 place is like," he thinks, as he lights a cigar and saunters 
 down the broad street. 
 
 Half an hour later, Barker has strayed farther from the 
 hotel than he realizes and has unwittingly penetrated into 
 the most disreputable quarter of Havana. For a brief 
 rest he enters a cafe, and seating himself at a table in a 
 corner of a room orders a light drink, absent-mindedly 
 speaking in English. 
 
 Two dark-browed, yellow-skinned Cubans, who have 
 been conversing earnestly in low tones at a table adjoin 
 ing Barker's, glower at the newcomer, but as he gives his 
 order to the waiter in English they resume their inter 
 rupted conversation. Barker idly sips his jerez and won 
 ders what Jack Ashley will say on receiving the letter he 
 left for him in New York. 
 
 Suddenly the word "Americano," hissed by one of the 
 two Cubans, arrests his attention and he strains his ears 
 to hear in what connection the word was used. The pair 
 are talking in low tones, but the detective's trained sense 
 is able to comprehend the tenor of the conversation. 
 
 The Cubans are discussing the assassination of some
 
 A SOLDIER OF CASTILE. 217 
 
 person, an American, and presumably that American is 
 John Barker! 
 
 The detective slips his hand around to his hip pocket, 
 and as his fingers close over the butt of a 38-caliber pistol 
 his pulse resumes its calm and even beat and he proceeds 
 to make a mental inventory of the prospective assassins. 
 
 "Absolutely the most villainous-looking brace of cut 
 throats I ever saw," he sums up. "But why should they 
 plot to lay me out? Do they take me for a New York 
 millionaire in disguise, and think I carry a million or 
 two around in my pocket? Ah, so you were not the 
 distinguished individual picked out by the precious pair, 
 Barker. It's some other American. But who? And how 
 can I manage to warn him df his danger?" 
 
 Barker rapidly revolves the situation, while covertly 
 watching the Cubans. He suddenly starts, as from words 
 uttered by one of them, as they arise to leave the cafe, he 
 becomes aware that the cold-blooded crime planned 
 within his hearing is to be carried out within the next 
 hour or so. 
 
 "There's nothing for me to do but to shadow the pair," 
 he mutters, as he steps again into the now moonlit street. 
 
 It is a simple matter for the experienced detective to 
 keep the Cubans in sight, especially as they never once 
 take pains to glance backward. They have traversed 
 several streets, when the detective observes that they have 
 halted and are apparently loitering near a larger and 
 rather more elaborate cafe than the majority. 
 
 "So the American is in that cafe," reflects Barker; 
 "now, which is the better plan, to go in and endeavor to 
 pick out my fellow-countryman and warn him, or keep 
 in the rear of these chaps and swoop down on them at 
 the proper moment? The latter I guess is the safer. 
 We'll see what we will see." 
 
 The wait is not a long one. Evidently the Cubans are 
 familiar with the habits of the person they are seeking, 
 for within fifteen minutes a rather tall young man 
 emerges from the cafe, stopping a moment to light a 
 cigar, and then starts down the shadowy street. Barker, 
 after the first glance, pays little heed to the newcomer,
 
 218 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 for his quick eye notes that he wears the undress uniform 
 of a Spanish officer. To his surprise, however, he per 
 ceives that the two Cubans are stealthily following the 
 man. 
 
 "So it is not an American after all," thinks Barker, as 
 he steals silently along. "But I can't stand back and see a 
 human killed in cold blood, whatever his nationality, and 
 I won't!" 
 
 It is nearly 10 o'clock now and the street is deserted. 
 As the form of the officer emerges into a clear patch of 
 moonlight, Barker perceives that the Cubans have nar 
 rowed the distance that separates them from their prey, 
 and he hastens to close up the gap between himself and 
 the trio. 
 
 He is not too soon. When less than two rods from the 
 Cubans he sees the flash of steel in the hand of the fore 
 most of the pair. 
 
 "Look out!" Barker's voice rings out in English, loud 
 and clear, and with the words he springs forward with a 
 speed that rivals his sprinting in his football days. 
 
 "Tackle low!" The whimsical thought flashes through 
 his brain as he clears the intervening space. And he 
 does. The nearest Cuban goes down with a bone-break 
 ing thud, the moonlight glitters for a second on some 
 thing bright in Barker's hand, there is a sharp click, and 
 the detective springs to his feet. 
 
 But there is no further need for his services. The other 
 Cuban is speeding like the wind down the street. 
 
 "I owe you one for this, my friend," says the cause of 
 the exciting episode in excellent English, as he strides up 
 to Barker and warmly presses his hand. "But for your 
 timely shout I should now be lying face downward there 
 with the stiletto ornamenting my back. But what have 
 you done to this scoundrel? He lies like a log." 
 
 "Oh, he'll be all right in a few moments," replies 
 Barker, carelessly glancing down at the prostrate figure. 
 "He went down so hard the wind was knocked out of 
 him. Then I handcuffed him. Are there any policemen 
 handy? If so, we can notity them and have him ar 
 rested."
 
 A SOLDIER OF CASTILE. 219 
 
 "Never mind the police. The soldiers will take care 
 of this cutthroat," returns the other. "But come to my 
 quarters while I endeavor to express adequate thanks for 
 your service to-night. They are near by and I will send 
 a detail of men for this rascal." 
 
 "Oh, never mind the thanks," Barker replies carelessly. 
 "It was nothing. I happened to overhear the pair plan 
 ning to knife some one, and I followed to see the fun. 
 Only I must admit I thought from their talk that their 
 intended victim was one of my own countrymen, an 
 American." 
 
 "So I am, or was, by birth. But I am now an officer in 
 the Spanish army, Capt. Alvarez, of the staff of his ex 
 cellency, the captain-genera!." 
 
 It is as well that a fleecy cloud at the moment dims the 
 moonlight, for Barker, trained to control his emotions 
 though he is, cannot avoid a sudden start. 
 
 Alvarez! the man beside him is Ralph Felton! 
 
 "Ah, here we are," continues the self-expatriated Amer 
 ican, as he stops before a large mansion facing the plaza. 
 'Excuse me a moment while I send a man or two to look 
 after your handcuffed friend." 
 
 Alvarez hurries to the rear of the building and return 
 ing shortly conducts Barker to a comfortably furnished 
 room on the first floor. "My sleeping-room," he explains. 
 "Now, tell me how you happened to overhear that pre 
 cious pair planning to assassinate me." 
 
 Barker briefly details the events leading up to the at 
 tack on Alvarez, the latter listening with knitted brows, 
 but without comment. 
 
 "Well, now of yourself," he says, when Barker has con 
 cluded. 
 
 Barker hesitates a moment, the while studying the face 
 before him. "Cyrus Felton's son, or his double" he 
 thinks. Then he takes a sudden resolution. "I am a 
 soldier of fortune," he laughs. "I came down here to see 
 the country and a little fighting maybe. My name is 
 Parker; residence, the world. What are the chances for 
 a commission in the Spanish army?" 
 
 "Hardly good for a commission. But" Alvarez looks
 
 220 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 Barker over shrewdly "I should like to do you a service, 
 and may. What do you say to becoming my orderly?'' 
 
 Barker's eyes flash. He appears to deliberate for a 
 moment, and finally says: "I would like nothing better." 
 
 "Good! To-morrow, then, will see you enrolled as a 
 soldier of Spain!" 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX . 
 ASHLEY TAKES THE FIELD. 
 
 The big, white moon that rolls through "heaven's ebon 
 vault" and pales the glow of the southern cross looks 
 down upon two young people on the veranda of El 
 Quinta de Quesada. They have retired to the shadows 
 for purely healthful reasons, of course, as a baleful influ 
 ence is attributed to the direct rays of the tropic moon. 
 
 "You leave Santiago to-morrow?" asks Juanita, in 
 tones of real regret. 
 
 "At the first streak of daylight," Ashley replies, light 
 ing the inevitable Cuban cigar. 
 
 "And when shall we see you again?" 
 
 "Ah, quien sabe? I attack Spanish quite boldly now 
 you see. As a matter of fact, I have no definite idea as 
 to when I shall return. Sniffing the battle afar off has 
 become monotonous. I am impatient to hear the rattle 
 of musketry and the swish of the machete." 
 
 "You will not expose yourself!" cries the senorita. 
 
 Ashley laughs softly. "I shall not lead any desperate 
 charges," he says. "For my position demands a show of 
 neutrality, no matter how much I may sympathize at 
 heart with the patriots. There is fighting all along the 
 line between here and Havana, and I want a chance to 
 describe a Cuban battle from personal observation. Be 
 sides, I like a good fight, and I shall probably itch to sail 
 in and help the under dog, if said dog happens to be on 
 the same side as my sympathies." 
 
 "But when such a chivalrous feeling seizes you,
 
 ASHLEY TAKES THE FIELD. 221 
 
 restrain it; think of your friends, if not of yourself," ad 
 jures Juanita, gravely. 
 
 "Ah, well, they would be the only mourners if I stopped 
 a Spanish bullet. I haven't a relative in the world except 
 an amiable aunt in the western states, who threatens to 
 some day turn over to me the squandering of her small 
 fortune." 
 
 "No relative except an aunt?" repeats Juanita, sympa 
 thetically. "No one to weep for you?" 
 
 "Oh, the boys in the office would wear crepe for a 
 week, and " 
 
 "Don't talk so lightly on such a dreadful subject,'' re 
 proves Juanita. "I am sure I should feel a great deal 
 more distress than 'the boys in the office,' and I have 
 known you only a fortnight." 
 
 "Thank you, senorita. You may feel sure that I shall 
 studiously avoid being borne off a Cuban battleground 
 upon my shield." 
 
 "You will keep on through to Havana?'' 
 
 "Unless circumstances bar my way, I shall follow along 
 the line of the railroad, stopping wherever night over 
 takes me, and resuming my journey whenever I feel like 
 it. I have no definite plans. And, now, senorita, I be 
 lieve I will say Adios. It is getting along toward 9 
 o'clock, and the proprietary genius of my hotel looks 
 upon belated guests somewhat askance. I have made 
 my adieus to Don Manuel and Don Carlos, and it only 
 remains to express my regret at saying farewell to you, 
 senorita." 
 
 Juanita watches him while he untethers his horse, and 
 as he turns, bridle in hand, to lift his hat, she comes from 
 the veranda and puts her hand in his. 
 
 "You will surely return?" she asks. 
 
 "As surely as a bad penny." 
 
 "Then I will not say farewell." 
 
 "Au revoir it is, then," says Jack. He lifts the little 
 hand to his lips, and then with rather unnecessary abrupt 
 ness he mounts his horse and rides away in the moonlight. 
 
 "Hang it!" he mutters, when out of sight of the quinta; 
 "that makes at least half a dozen times that I have pulled
 
 222 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 myself together just in season to avoid making a fool of 
 myself. Perhaps my vigilance would be relaxed if I 
 could ascertain the precise relations existing between 
 Juanita and Carlos. I never saw two persons more 
 
 wrapped up in each other, and yet Juanita " He 
 
 stops and repeats the name, dwelling upon each syllable. 
 "Pshaw! I believe I am getting soft in my head! G'lang, 
 old nag, or we won't get to Santiago before midnight.'' 
 
 It is the 5th of April. Ashley has been in Santiago 
 two weeks, and during the fortnight he has, in one way 
 or another, kept his paper well supplied with news. He 
 has also found many opportunities to run out to the 
 quinta, and the welcome has always been so warm, and 
 the adios so sincerely regretful, that he has begun to 
 wonder whether his interest in the beautiful daughter of 
 Don Manuel de Quesada is not lapping over the shadowy 
 line that separates friendship from a sentiment which 
 poets contend to be more powerful and philosophers re 
 gard as infinitely weaker. 
 
 Ashley has seen Murillo several times since his arrival, 
 and between the Spanish general and the newspaper man 
 something of friendship has grown. Murillo left for Ha 
 vana two days before, to join the captain-general, who, it 
 is reported, proposed to transfer his headquarters to San 
 tiago. 
 
 When Jack reaches his hotel he is informed that a 
 horse has been left for him at the stables. 
 
 "For me?" he inquires in surprise, as he goes out and 
 looks upon a magnificent iron-gray beast fit for a king 
 on coronation day. 
 
 For Senor Ashley, he is assured. It was brought dur 
 ing the afternoon. Jack looks the acquisition over, and 
 then, turning to the trappings which hang near by, he 
 discovers a bit of paper attached to the saddle. On it is 
 written the single word "Navarro" and the mystery is 
 cleared. 
 
 "By Jove! This is generous/' he says. "But I'm 
 blessed if I know where to send my thanks." 
 
 Dawn finds Ashley in the saddle and he makes quite a 
 brave appearance as he rides away. He is clad in a suit
 
 ASHLEY TAKES THE FIELD. 223 
 
 of dark corduroy, with long riding boots and white-cloth 
 helmet and as he looks his costume over complacently 
 he remarks: "If my boots were a bit newer and shinier 
 I'd make a good running mate for the war correspondent 
 in 'Michael Strogoff.' It is a manifest libel to christen 
 this horse Rozinante," patting affectionately the neck of 
 his sleek charger, "but as he is a Spanish steed he must 
 suffer from recollections of Cervantes. So Rozinante 
 it is." 
 
 Before the sun has become too aggressive to admit of 
 riding in comfort Ashley has covered some twenty miles 
 and has passed through two villages, wretched little settle 
 ments that have ever existed in their present squalor for 
 generation upon generation. At the second of these he 
 stops for breakfast. The meal is no worse than he expect 
 ed, and after he has finished his coffee he hunts up a shady 
 spot on the outskirts of the town, and, hitching his horse, 
 he smokes and dozes until the late afternoon breezes from 
 the gulf suggest a resumption of his journey. At night 
 he tarries at the house of a farmer. They call them 
 "farmers" in Cuba. They burn charcoal, raise a few 
 vegetables and peddle milk and eggs. 
 
 The next day is very much like the first, except that 
 Ashley introduces the variation of sleeping all the after 
 noon and riding the greater part of the night. And 
 when weariness finally overtakes him he camps on the 
 edge of a vast canefield. 
 
 The third day is equally monotonous. He begins to 
 think that his expedition is to be utterly devoid of ad 
 venture. He has seen no signs of either insurgents or 
 Spanish soldiery, nor have the natives along his route. 
 As evening approaches he rides into the decent-sized 
 town of Jibana, on the line of the railway between Ha 
 vana and Santiago. 
 
 Somewhat to his surprise he learns that the only hotel 
 in the place is kept by an American. Landlord Carter 
 proves to be a decent sort" of chap and his hostelry is 
 clean and inviting. After a really good supper Ashley 
 turns in early; he is thoroughly tired, having ridden 
 farther than on either of the previous days.
 
 224 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 He wakes moderately early and has a brief ante-break 
 fast chat with Landlord Carter. 
 
 "Have I heard of any fighting around here?" repeats 
 Carter, in response to Ashley's inquiry. "No, but I ex 
 pect to see some most any day. There is a report that a 
 large number of insurgents are encamped in the moun 
 tains within a score of miles of Jibana and the natives 
 hereabout are becoming restless. A rebel victory or two 
 would send the whole of this part of the province into 
 the insurgent fold. By the way, a party of three Ameri 
 cans arrived last evening after you had gone to bed.'' 
 
 "So? What are they doing here and who are they?" 
 
 "They are going out to some sugar plantations near 
 here to-day. I haven't learned their names yet, as " 
 
 At this moment the newspaper man hears a familiar 
 feminine voice exclaim in tones of the utmost astonish 
 ment. "Why, Mr. Ashley!" and he turns to see Louise 
 Hathaway standing in the hotel doorway. 
 
 Though somewhat dazed mentally, Jack lifts his hat 
 and remarks, as if he had seen her but yesterday, "Good- 
 morning, Miss Hathaway. You are an early riser." 
 
 "You don't appear a bit surprised to see me," says the 
 young lady, as she gives him her hand ; "while I am com 
 pletely bewildered at meeting an American friend in the 
 midst of this wilderness." 
 
 "Oh, this is a very small world," remarks Ashley. 
 
 "Now, do tell me how you happen to be in Cuba. I 
 am dying with curiosity," declares Louise. 
 
 "Then I will explain in all haste. You should be able 
 to guess from my military bearing and the fierce aspect 
 which this helmet gives me that I am a war correspon 
 dent. I have been in Cuba a little over a fortnight. I 
 arrived at Santiago three days after the Semiramis 
 dropped anchor and was told that you had gone to Ha 
 vana." 
 
 "But how did you know we sailed from New York on 
 the Semiramis? My note, left at the St. James hotel, 
 stated that we were going to Cuba on the steamship 
 City of Havana." 
 
 "Exactly. And I supposed that you had, until I saw
 
 ASHLEY TAKES THE FIELD. 225 
 
 you on the deck of the Semiramis when the yacht was 
 running away from Uncle Sam's cruiser off Sandy 
 Hook." 
 
 And now Miss Hathaway relates the effort which she 
 and Mr. Felton made to reach the pier before the City 
 of Havana sailed from New York. When she tells Ash 
 ley of the adventure of the blockade on West Broadway 
 and of the subsequent appearance of Phillip Van Zandt 
 and his offer to place the Vermonters on Cuban soil, 
 Ashley twists his mustache reflectively. 
 
 Miss Hathaway's story is interrupted by the announce 
 ment of breakfast, and five minutes later Ashley makes 
 one of a party of four at a table in the cozy dining-room. 
 
 Cyrus Felton greets the newspaper man with grave 
 surprise, and Jack's keen eyes note that the ex-president 
 of the Raymond national bank is looking bad. He is 
 paler even than when he saw him last, in New York 
 about a month ago, and in the gray eyes has settled an 
 expression of vague unrest. 
 
 Phillip Van Zandt acknowledges the introduction with 
 his accustomed reserve, and for an instant the eyes of the 
 two young men meet in a searching gaze of mutual in 
 quiry. 
 
 From the conversation that ensues, Ashley gathers 
 that most of the time which the trio have spent in Cuba 
 has been passed in and about Havana, and that they 
 are now en route to Santiago, stopping off at Jibana to 
 visit a sugar plantation in which Mr. Felton has an inter 
 est. And, what is more to the point, Ashley learns that 
 the Semiramis is not to leave Santiago for at least an 
 other fortnight. This information comes from Van Zandt. 
 Mr. Felton and Miss Hathaway do not appear to have 
 any definite plans. 
 
 For his part, Ashley tells them that he intends to push 
 on to Havana, and knows not when he will return to 
 Santiago, if at all. 
 
 But as he watches Mr. Felton, Van Zandt and Miss 
 Hathaway set forth, after breakfast, for the sugar plan 
 tation, which lies east of the town, he tells himself that 
 he will return to Santiago before many days.
 
 22G UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "I must keep my eye on those two gentlemen," he 
 mutters, "and trust to Providence to throw Barker in 
 my way, if indeed he has not already struck the trail. 
 By the stars that shine, but there is a strangely assorted 
 trio, unless I am clear off my reckoning. Nemesis is 
 trailing his inevitable victim with said victim's father, 
 and sooner or later they must meet What is the town 
 beyond here?" Ashley asks Landlord Carter. 
 
 "Cadoza," the innkeeper informs him. 
 
 "I believe I'll jog along to that point, anyhow," Jack 
 decides; "and if nothing turns up in the line of excite 
 ment within twenty-four hours, then back to Santiago." 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 THE APPEARANCE OF THE SERPENT. 
 
 Half a dozen hours from the time that Jack Ashley 
 mounts his newly acquired Rozinante and rides forth 
 from Santiago on his journey into the west, a visitor 
 arrives at Le Quinta de Quesada. 
 
 The Don and his daughter are seated on the veranda, 
 the former dreaming of the day when Cuba shall be free, 
 the latter of the blue-eyed young man who at the moment 
 is many miles on his journey toward Havana and is ex 
 pressing his opinion of Cuban roads in comical apos 
 trophes, rivaling the natural extravagance of Spanish 
 conversation. 
 
 "A visitor," remarks Quesada, as the crunching of 
 carriage wheels sounds in the driveway, and Juanita's 
 day dreams are abruptly terminated by the appearance 
 of a vehicle, not a Cuban every-day volante, but a four- 
 wheeled affair, the best that Santiago can provide. 
 
 The carriage draws up before the quinta, the driver 
 opens the door with a profound obeisance, and out steps 
 a lady whose radiant beauty rather dazzles the .Cuban 
 gentleman, who advances with easy grace to meet her.
 
 THE APPEARANCE OF THE SERPENT. 227 
 
 For Don Quesada, though well past the meridian of life, 
 is not without susceptibility to feminine charms. 
 
 "I have the pleasure of addressing Don Manuel de 
 Quesada, I believe?'' says the fair visitor in English. 
 
 "The pleasure is mine, madam." 
 
 "I am under the embarrassment of introducing my 
 self," with a smile and a glance from a pair of liquid black 
 eyes that instantly win for her the good-will of the mas 
 ter of the quinta. She tenders a bit of cardboard, and 
 as the Don receives it with a bow, she explains: "When 
 I left New York I had a letter of introduction from a 
 gentleman who has the honor of your acquaintance" 
 she glances at the coachman standing near, and lowers 
 her voice "Don Rafael Manada.'' 
 
 "Ah!" murmurs Quesada, regarding his visitor with 
 new interest. 
 
 "But I must have left it among my effects at Santiago. 
 I certainly have not lost it, as I was too thoroughly in 
 structed as to the importance of keeping its contents a 
 secret," the lady finishes, with a meaning smile. 
 
 Quesada extends his hand and presses slightly the 
 dainty palm laid therein. "Any of Don Manada's friends 
 are welcome here," he says. "I am happy to place the 
 quinta at your disposition, and its occupants are yours to 
 command, madam." 
 
 Quesada leads the way into the house, whither Juanita 
 has retired to add a few touches to her toilet. 
 
 "You are an American, Mrs. Harding," ventures the 
 Don, as they pass through the long, wide corridor to 
 the gallery at the rear of the quinta and the lady is pro 
 vided with the easiest of chairs. 
 
 "My accent told you that immediately/' is the smiling 
 response. "Yes ; I am the widow of an American ship 
 owner, who left to me, among other possessions, a sugar 
 plantation somewhere in this fair isle. I had the pleas 
 ure of Don Manada's acquaintance in New York, and 
 when he heard that I purposed visiting Cuba to view my 
 possessions, he desired that I seek you, giving me at 
 the same time the letter of introduction which, as I have 
 said, I have unfortunately left at my hotel in Santiago.
 
 228 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 But perhaps the password which he whispered to me, 
 'Cuba Libre,' will do as well. For the cause of Cuban 
 liberty has no warmer sympathizer than myself, Don 
 Quesada," she adds, earnestly, and the Don's countenance 
 lights with pleasure. 
 
 "Don Manada could have conferred no greater pleas 
 ure," he replies, "and I trust that you will honor my 
 daughter and myself by becoming our guest, for a few 
 days at least." 
 
 Isabel's dark orbs snap with triumph not easily re 
 pressed, but she answers hesitatingly: "Thank you, but 
 I do not see how I can trespass upon your kindness. I 
 have not the pleasure of an acquaintance with the senor- 
 ita, and " 
 
 "Permit me to remove that objection at once," inter 
 poses Quesada, as Juanita at the moment stands in the 
 doorway. "Juanita, mi querida, this is Mrs. Isabel Hard 
 ing, an American lady and a friend of Don Manada, 
 whom you met in New York. I have invited her to 
 remain with us for a few days, or as long as our hos 
 pitality may prove attractive. Will you not add your 
 request to mine?" 
 
 The more mature and voluptuous beauty of the older 
 woman attracts the impulsive Cuban girl, and she sec 
 onds her father's invitation with a sincerity that would 
 have won even a lady who had not come to the quinta 
 with the deliberate purpose of securing such a proffer of 
 hospitality. 
 
 And so the carriage is sent back to Santiago and 
 Isabel Harding is installed at the quinta, the surround 
 ings of which she finds much to her liking. Juanita is 
 much charmed with her American friend, who fascinates 
 the impressionable Cuban girl with her brilliant beauty, 
 her wit and her knowledge of the great world amid whose 
 pleasures and palaces Juanita lived for two years, and 
 which she hopes some day to see again. The two women 
 quickly become inseparable and naturally Juanita tells 
 Mrs. Harding of her other recent New York friend, Jack 
 Ashley. But Isabel, although she enjoys, or otherwise, 
 an acquaintance with that industrious young man, does
 
 THE APPEARANCE OF THE SERPENT. 229 
 
 not know his name, and the adventuress has not even 
 the fear of his reappearance to disturb her present se 
 renity. 
 
 But if the Don and his daughter are charmed by their 
 guest, not so Don Carlos, and it is with difficulty that 
 that gentle youth conceals his dislike. An instinctive dis 
 trust of the beautiful American takes possession of him, 
 and to avoid exhibiting this distrust, which he admits to 
 himself is unfounded, he spends most of his time in soli 
 tary walks about the vast pueblo or in long rides upon 
 the back of his favorite pony. 
 
 Late in the afternoon of the 7th of April, two days 
 after the arrival of Mrs. Harding at the quinta, that lady, 
 her elderly host and his daughter are seated on the veran 
 da, enjoying the light breeze from the gulf which ren 
 ders life in Cuba endurable and even attractive for a 
 few hours. 
 
 An interruption to the conversation comes in the per 
 son of a courier, who rides up to the quinta, delivers to 
 Quesada a small packet of papers, and, after a glass of 
 wine, departs as hastily as he came. 
 
 The Don excuses himself and retires to his study. A 
 few moments later he reappears and calls to Carlos, who 
 is coming up the lawn. Young Navarro bows to Mrs. 
 Harding and follows the Don into the study. 
 
 "I have just received important news/' says the latter. 
 "Capt. Guerra sends word that a big supply train was 
 dispatched by the captain-general from Havana for San 
 tiago this morning or last night. Is it not to-day or to 
 morrow that Navarro was to be at or near Jibana?" 
 
 Carlos nods. "He should certainly be there now." 
 
 Quesada paces the room, his brow knitted in thought. 
 "If word could be got to him at once," he says, "Dios! 
 The train might be captured. But how to send him 
 word there is the obstacle." 
 
 "How far is Jibana from Santiago?" asks Carlos, into 
 whose mind has come a sudden thought that causes his 
 cheeks to alternately flush and pale. 
 
 "A full day's journey by rail. No; I fear word could 
 not be sent him in time."
 
 230 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "But if a courier were to leave on the early morning 
 train, could he not reach Jibana in season to find Emilio?" 
 
 "Perhaps. It will take several days for the supply 
 train to make the trip, but it will also take us too long 
 to find a trustworthy messenger." 
 
 "Do you not consider me trustworthy?" 
 
 "You!" cries Quesada, looking at the slender youth in 
 astonishment. 
 
 "Yes, Don Manuel; I will be the courier." 
 
 "No, no; I cannot permit it. What would Emilio 
 say?" 
 
 "He will be too overjoyed to see me to think of scold 
 ing you. There is no danger. Simply the discomfort 
 of the journey. I will start in the morning." 
 
 Against his better judgment, Quesada consents, and 
 as Carlos throws open the study door the vision of Mrs. 
 Harding flits by. 
 
 Over the teacups half an hour later Isabel tells Don 
 Quesada that, if there is a conveyance to be easily pro 
 cured at Santos, she believes she will run into Santiago 
 for a day's shopping. And Quesada informs her smiling 
 ly that if she cares to arise with the sun she may find 
 a conveyance in waiting, as Carlos is going to the city 
 on business and will undoubtedly be charmed with her 
 society on the short journey. 
 
 At Havana on the morning of the 8th of April. 
 
 With contracted brows and frowning face, the captain- 
 general of Cuba scans a mass of official documents that 
 lie upon his desk. Gen. Truenos is plainly displeased 
 with the condition of affairs on the island. When he 
 sailed from Cadiz it was to "put down the rebellion in 
 three months," as the Spanish press boastfully asserted, 
 but Truenos realizes that it is not now a matter of weeks 
 or months, but of years, ere the red and yellow of Spam 
 will wave again unchallenged over the gem of the An 
 tilles. 
 
 In the meantime, Gen. Truenos gathers from the pa 
 pers before him that some of the matured plans of the
 
 THE APPEARANCE OF THE SERPENT. 231 
 
 Spanish have been checkmated through treachery in 
 some quarter, and he is not enchanted with the glimpses 
 he has obtained of the manner in which his subordinates 
 conduct a campaign. 
 
 An officer enters the room with a dispatch and the 
 captain-general reaches impatiently for the missive. 
 
 "Caspita!" he growls, as he glances over the contents. 
 "Murillo at least is alive to what is transpiring under the 
 very noses of my generals. I wish that I had more like 
 him." Then to the officer: "Send Gen. Velasquez to 
 me at once." 
 
 As the latter answers the summons, Truenos hands 
 him the dispatch, with the query : "Has the supply train 
 left for Santiago?" 
 
 "It left last night, your excellency." 
 
 "It must be stopped. As you will see by Murillo's dis 
 patch, the rebels have learned of the train's departure 
 and a courier is now en route from Santiago to notify 
 that infernal El Terredo. If that courier is not inter 
 cepted, the supply train must be recalled or held. The 
 dispatch contains a description of the rebel messenger. 
 Now, then, to action." 
 
 Truenos unfolds a large map of the island, and as he 
 runs his finger along the line which indicates the rail 
 road, another dispatch is handed in. The captain-general 
 tears it open and reads : 
 
 "Reported that El Terredo is encamped near Jibana, with 
 a large force of insurgents. Alvarez." 
 
 "Ah, remarks Truenos. "This is dated Cadoza. And 
 Cadoza," he consults the map, "is less than a dozen miles 
 from Jibana. Bueno! For once matters are dovetail 
 ing to my wishes. The courier cannot reach Jibana 
 before nightfall, and when he does Alvarez shall arrest 
 him. Let the supply train proceed, Velasquez, and im 
 mediately wire Alvarez to arrest the rebel messenger at 
 or below Jibana. Send the description of the young man 
 given in Murillo's dispatch and have Alvarez wire back 
 that he understands. Quick! There is no time to be 
 wasted. 1 ' 
 
 It is to be an exciting night at Jibana.
 
 232 UNDER THREE FIAGS. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 THE MEETING AT CADOZA. 
 
 It is something like ten miles to Cadoza, another and 
 smaller railway town, and Ashley arrives about noon. 
 There is no American hotel here. Instead, a lazy Cuban 
 keeps a shiftless hostelry to which only necessity would 
 drive a man. A party of soldiers are gathered at the 
 inn and the yard is filled with their horses. 
 
 Ashley tethers his horse at a spot which he can over 
 look, as Rozinante is an animal that would tempt a man 
 even more upright than a soldier in time of war. As he 
 gives the bridle an extra hitch, a hand is dropped on his 
 shoulder and a familiar voice whispers: 
 
 "Jack Ashley, by all that's holy!" 
 
 Ashley turns and cries out: 
 
 "Hello, Barker, old man ! Where'd you get your uni 
 form?" surveying the detective's distinctly military at 
 tire. 
 
 "Hist!" cautions Barker, glancing over his shoulder. 
 "Buy a drink at the hotel and then ride up the road a 
 piece. I'll join you there." Saying which the detective 
 walks away and Ashley enters the hotel. 
 
 The drinking-room is filled with Spanish caballeria, 
 who glance curiously at the American; after procuring 
 a glass of wine and a cigar, Ashley mounts and rides 
 leisurely up the road. A quarter of a mile from the 
 hotel he finds Barker waiting, and he remarks, with a 
 grin: "Barker, you're a fashion plate. Where on earth 
 did you get those togs?" 
 
 "Hang it! Will you be serious ten minutes," growls 
 Barker. "Let me tell you that the commanding officer 
 of the gang at the hotel is Capt. Julio Alvarez, who is 
 none other than our old friend Ralph Felton." 
 
 "So? And to trail him you turned trooper, eh?" 
 
 "Exactly. Through him I expect to find the other 
 Felton, his father."
 
 THE MEETING AT CADOZA. 233 
 
 "I can tell you a quicker way." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "Push along to Jibana, ten miles east of here. I left 
 Cyrus Felton, Phillip Van Zandt and Louise Hathaway 
 there this morning," 
 
 "Quick! Tell me all you know," demands the detect 
 ive, aroused by the information imparted to him by his 
 co-worker. 
 
 Ashley supplies the needed details, and Barker asks: 
 "You are reasonably sure that Felton and Van Zandt will 
 remain in Santiago for a fortnight?" 
 
 "I think you can depend on that." 
 
 Then affairs are shaping themselves advantageously 
 for our purpose. Our command will go to Jibana this 
 evening, but I don't want any collision there. See the 
 position of the game. Van Zandt, is he is Stanley, is 
 tracking the son through the father, and I am trailing 
 the father through the son, intending to bag both of them, 
 as I have an interesting bit of what may prove strong evi 
 dence against Ralph Felton. But I can't do anything 
 with them at Jibana, and if Van Zandt runs afoul of young 
 Felton to-day he is likely to kick over all my plans. San 
 tiago is the place to play the last hand in this interesting 
 game." 
 
 "I get the idea," remarks Ashley. "But what is this 
 new evidence against young Fenton?" 
 
 "This: That I believe he is wearing about his neck 
 at the present time the locket that was removed from 
 Roger Hathaway's watch-chain the night of the murder 
 and bank robbery." 
 
 Ashley whistles softly. "That's interesting," he says. 
 "But how did you learn this? And while you are ex 
 plaining kindly give an account of yourself from the time 
 you jumped New York." 
 
 The detective complies, and when the interesting tale 
 is completed, Ashley says earnestly: "Barker, old chap, 
 my confidence in you has been increased tenfold in the 
 last month." 
 
 "Thank you," responds the detective, though he sus 
 pects some raillery in the newspaper man's remark.
 
 234 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "Yes. There was a time when I doubted you a bit. 
 And when you made arrangements to arrest Cyrus Fel- 
 ton I about concluded that the case was to prove after 
 all an ordinary affair. But you have redeemed your 
 self, Barker. You have proved that the detective I have 
 long admired in the pages of fiction is not a myth, but 
 has his prototype in real life." 
 
 "Indeed?" grunts Barker. "Go- on." 
 
 "Yes; just before you descended upon your victim 
 with a triumphant swoop, said victim gave you the slip. 
 Undaunted by such a trifling discouragement, you 
 struck a bee line for Havana, and there " 
 
 "Come, stow your chaff. I'd like to know whose tom 
 foolery prevented Felton's arrest in New York. By 
 thunder, if I could have got your ear a moment after I 
 discovered Felton's departure for Cuba, I'd have given 
 you a dressing-down that would have knocked some of 
 the self-sufficiency out of you.'' 
 
 "Well, you can consider yourself forgiven," says Ash 
 ley, soothingly. "What's up at Jibana? Anything spe 
 cial?" 
 
 "Yes; a rather important bit of work. This morning 
 Capt. Alvarez, to give him the name he chooses to sail 
 under, learned that a large force of insurgents under El 
 Terredo were encamped somewhere between Cadoza and 
 Jibana. He wired the fact to Havana and not ten min 
 utes later received instructions to intercept a courier for 
 the rebels who was on his way from Santiago to Jibana, 
 presumably with dispatches to El Terredo. Although only 
 his orderly, I am pretty close to Alvarez. The chap has 
 taken quite a fancy to me, and to give him his due he is 
 a devilishly clever fellow, with more pluck and fighting 
 blood in him than a dozen Spaniards. American blood 
 will tell, my boy." 
 
 "Well, what's the plan for the night?" 
 
 "This: We are to flag the train about a mile below 
 Jibana and do the trick quietly, as the feeling about here 
 is pretty strong against the Spanish ; arrest the courier, 
 secure the papers, and wire Havana that the road is 
 clear, as I understand the dispatches relate to the big
 
 THE MEETING AT CADOZA. 235 
 
 supply train which is on its way from the capital 
 to Santiago. Truenos, you know, is shifting his head 
 quarters to the latter city." 
 
 "Then the supply train has already left Havana?" 
 
 "Presumably. The rebels at the Santiago end of the 
 line got wind of the shipment, and have sent Don Carlos 
 to put El Terredo onto the fact.'' 
 
 "Don Carlos!" repeats Ashley, with a start that Bar 
 ker does not notice; "and what disposition will you make 
 of the prisoner?" 
 
 Barker shrugs his shoulders. "He will probably be 
 honorably shot." 
 
 "Unhappy youth !" murmurs Ashley. 
 
 "It is rather tough," remarks Barker, coolly. "But it 
 is the fortune of war." 
 
 Ashley's forehead is wrinkled in thought. "I'd like to 
 take a hand in the fun to-night," he remarks carelessly. 
 "I've been journeying through the desert for more than 
 three days, with not a sign of adventure. I don't sup 
 pose it would do for me to show myself to Alvarez. How 
 many men has he with him?" 
 
 "Twenty, including himself." 
 
 "Does he intend to take the entire command with him 
 to hold up the train?" 
 
 "No; the affair is to be transacted in the quietest man 
 ner. Alvarez, myself and four more men are to leave 
 the hotel about 9 o'clock the train is due at Jibana at 
 10 and proceed down the track a mile or so. A few 
 swings of the lantern and the train will stop, Don Carlos 
 be removed and the train signaled to go ahead. If the 
 arrest were made publicly, word might get to El Ter 
 redo, and the government's plans for a safe passage of 
 the supply train would be frustrated." 
 
 "Your business completed at Jibana, I suppose you 
 will push directly on to Santiago?" 
 
 "Yes, and you?" queries Barker. 
 
 "I shall probably follow at a respectful distance. - I 
 have been stopping at the Hotel Royal in Santiago, and 
 you will probably find me there if I am in the city." 
 
 "How is Felton looking?" asks the detective.
 
 236 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "Badly; I shouldn't wonder if he had a presentiment 
 that some sort of disaster was impending." 
 
 "And Miss Hathaway?" 
 
 "Superb as ever. There is apparently a tender regard 
 existing between her and Van Zandt." 
 
 "Strange, strange are the workings of fate," philoso 
 phizes Barker, and with a sly grin he adds: "How are 
 your studies in statuary progressing, Jack?'' 
 
 "Suspended for the present, most sympathetic Barker. 
 Just now I am interested in a study of the life." 
 
 "Ah; some dark-eyed Cuban senorita?" 
 
 "The most beautiful woman in the world," is Ashley's 
 enthusiastic tribute. 
 
 Barker laughs good-humoredly, then suddenly ex 
 claims: "Hello! There's the trumpet call. I must be 
 off. By the way, I've changed my name to Parker." 
 
 "Parker! Why don't you get a name to match your 
 clothes?" 
 
 "Go to thunder!" retorts the detective. "So long. I'll 
 see you at Santiago." Barker plunges into the woods be 
 side the road and returns to the hotel by a circuitous 
 route. 
 
 "You'll see me again before you reach Santiago," solil 
 oquizes Ashley, gazing after his friend's retreating form. 
 "If Navarro is in these mountains I'll search him out, 
 and we'll have a hand in the game at Jibana to-night 
 that will remind Capt Alvarez of a certain little straight 
 flush he ran up against once upon a time. And if Na 
 varro is not to be found, then, by George, I'll play the 
 hand alone!"
 
 "EL TERREDO." 237 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 "EL TERREDO." 
 
 Ashley waits until he believes that Capt. Alvarez and 
 his men have got fairly on their way toward Jibana; 
 then he mounts Rozinante and rides back to the hotel. 
 
 Half a mile to the eastward, the landlord tells him, 
 a trail leads off into the mountains. Ashley remembers 
 passing it in the morning. Fortifying himself with a 
 dinner, he sets forth. 
 
 After he strikes the mountain path, his progress is 
 slow and painful. It is a dreary road, steep and treach 
 erous. About him nothing but rocks, red clay, cactus 
 and bog and a stunted growth of trees. 
 
 Ashley left the hotel in the vicinity of I o'clock, and 
 by 3 he has hardly covered four miles. "If I do not 
 secure reinforcements within the hour I must 'bout face 
 and ride to Jibana," he reflects. "A man could never 
 find his way out of this howling wilderness after night 
 fall! Jove! It must have been a matter of urgent im 
 portance that necessitated the dispatching of Don Carlos 
 to Jibana. Poor little chap!" he mutters, and as 
 he thinks of young Navarro lying under the stars with 
 a bullet through his heart, he urges Rozinante at a dan 
 gerous pace. 
 
 Another half-hour goes by. Ashley is now in the 
 mountains, and yet no living being has he seen to break 
 the depressive solitude. Suddenly there rings out the 
 command: 
 
 "Alto, ahi!" 
 
 Ashley checks his horse, looks about him and dis 
 covers that he is the center of a circle of leveled mus 
 kets, the owners of which are hidden from view. 
 
 "All right, gentlemen, I'm out," announces Jack, cheer 
 fully, as he removes his eye-glasses and' wipes the dust 
 and moisture from them. 
 
 Forth from the bushes steps a gaunt Cuban, in a tat-
 
 238 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 tered uniform and with feet that have long since parted 
 association with shoes. Throwing his musket across 
 his arm, he hurls an inquiry at Ashley. 
 
 "You've got me there," states the correspondent, and 
 smiling around the ominous fringe of musket barrels. 
 
 Finally, giving up all idea of a conversation with the 
 dark-featured mountaineers, "El Terredo!" he cries, "El 
 Terredo! Endonde El Terredo? I don't know whether 
 that's right or not, but it's the best I have in stock." 
 
 The mountaineer appears to grasp the idea. He 
 shouts something to the men in the bushes, and a dozen 
 lusty fellows, white and black, come forth. The leader 
 makes a sign to Ashley to go ahead, and the latter obeys. 
 
 For a mile or more the little cavalcade proceeds, when 
 suddenly the leader of Ashley's silent escort emits a shrill 
 whistle. An answering signal is faintly heard, and then 
 the march is resumed. Five minutes later Jack rides 
 into a clearing and hears a welcome voice ring out: 
 "Welcome, Senor Ashley!" 
 
 "Glad to see you, Navarro," says Ashley, heartily, as 
 he drops from his horse and grips the insurgent leader's 
 hand. "Is this part of your army?" 
 
 "Yes; hardy fellows, every man of them," replies Na 
 varro, signalling his followers to fall back. "What on 
 earth brings you into the mountains?" 
 
 "Thought I'd drop round and return thanks for your 
 generous gift." 
 
 "Ah, say nothing of that. I should have been glad 
 to have sent you a stable of horses." 
 
 "One was enough. But this is incidental. You ex 
 pect dispatches from Santiago to-night?" 
 
 "No; that is, no special ones." 
 
 "Some are on their way, nevertheless, in the keeping of 
 Don Carlos." 
 
 "Don Carlos!" cries Navarro, turning pale. 
 
 "Ay; but that is not all. The errand of Don Carlos 
 has become known at Havana and orders have been 
 wired to Capt. Alvarez, who is now on his way from 
 Cadoza to Jibana, if he is not already there, to intercept 
 the courier, and secure the dispatches. 5 '
 
 "EL TERREDO." 239 
 
 Navarro staggers as if dealt a blow. "My God ! They 
 will shoot him like a dog!" he groans, his face white as 
 death. "When where is Carlos to arrive?" 
 
 "At Jibana, at 10 to-night." 
 
 "Ho! Then all is not lost," flashes Navarro. "By 
 heaven! I'll wipe Jibana and every Spaniard in it from 
 the face of the earth!'' 
 
 "Easy, my friend," counsels Ashley, grasping the in 
 furiated man by the arm. "If Don Carlos is to be saved, 
 and also the dispatches keep those in mind you will 
 need your wits more than a thousand men. Now, listen 
 to me a moment. There is time enough. 
 
 "Yesterday, or the day before, or sometime within the 
 week, a big supply train left Havana for Santiago. In 
 formation of its dispatch must have been received by Don 
 Quesada, and, knowing your whereabouts did he know 
 them?" Navarro nods "he has sent Don Carlos to 
 notify you, that the train may be captured. This morn 
 ing Capt. Alvarez was at Cadoza. He heard it rumored 
 that a large force of insurgents were encamped in these 
 mountains. He wired Havana to that effect, and ten 
 minutes later received orders to intercept 'Don Carlos. 
 I learned this while at Cadoza, and realizing the danger 
 that threatened your brother, I set off for the mountains, 
 trusting to Providence to run across you or some of your 
 men. On my way hither I devised a plan by which you 
 can outwit Alvarez and later capture the ammunition 
 train and I do not believe in doing things by halves. 
 But first, how far is it to Jibana?" 
 
 "About six miles, as the crow flies." 
 
 "That means eight or ten by these awful bridal-paths, 
 then. You have a score of men here at least. They will 
 be more than enough. Now, I will outline my plan and 
 we can perfect it on our way to Jibana." 
 
 Navarro listens without interruption while Ashley 
 talks. When the programme for the night has been 
 sketched, Navarro's dark eyes moisten and he seizes 
 Jack's hands in a grip that makes the latter wince. "Ash 
 ley, you're a hero!" he cries. 
 
 "Nonsense," laughs Jack.
 
 240 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "I can never repay the debt of gratitude I owe you." 
 
 ''Don't try. Suppose we push along to Jibana. We 
 can talk matters over on the way." 
 
 "Good. We will start at once," says Navarro, and 
 he communicates an order to his men. 
 
 "How many men have you back in the mountains?" 
 Ashley inquires of Navarro as they ride side by side 
 through the desert of rock and chaparral. 
 
 "Two thousand. Accessions have been coming every 
 day. But they are not directly under my command. 
 My part in the revolution has been a rather peculiar one. 
 Up to a fortnight or so ago, when I parted with you on 
 the Santos road, my identity was as much a mystery 
 as that of the president of the provisional republic. Un 
 suspected as a leading factor in the struggle for inde 
 pendence, I mingled with the Spanish and listened with 
 a smile to the stories told of the prowess of the cruiser 
 Pearl of the Antilles and her mysterious commander, El 
 Terredo. At the time the Mercedes was sunk I did 
 command the Pearl and with my own hand aimed the 
 dynamite gun that sent the Spanish battleship to the 
 bottom. But most of my time has been spent on land. 
 I have done more planning than fighting, and while I 
 rejoice not in a single title except that of El Terredo, 
 in a land where titles are cheap, my authority is unlim 
 ited, my orders are implicitly obeyed, and I could ruin 
 Cuba Libre with a single command." 
 
 "Are you not fearful of being recognized during some 
 of your trips into the camp of the enemy?" asked Ashley, 
 looking at the young man with undisguised admiration. 
 
 Navarro smiles. "There will be no further exposure. 
 When I left the quinta with you it was to take the field, 
 not to leave it until Santiago falls. After the capture of 
 the ammunition train, if luck favors us, I leave here for 
 the coast," pointing westward. "In a harbor yonder 
 rides the Pearl of the Antilles, and when I take command 
 of her it will be the opening of a campaign that Spain's 
 navy will long remember." 
 
 "Until Santiago falls?" repeats Ashley. "You look 
 for the capitulation of that city?"
 
 "EL TERREDO." 241 
 
 "Within a fortnight Gen. Masso will hurl 10,000 men 
 upon it. The troops back in these mountains will form 
 part of an army against which 20,060 Spanish will not 
 avail. Unless you insist upon reporting the siege for 
 your paper amid the bursting of shells and the roar of 
 artillery, keep away from Santiago at Santos, for in 
 stance. The Spanish squadron is already on its way to 
 Santiago, and when the city falls into the hands of the 
 patriots the battleships will open fire/' 
 
 "Then I believe I will return to Santiago at once or 
 after our night's work is finished. Shall we reach the 
 edge of Jibana before nightfall?" 
 
 "Probably not, but in season for the work in hand. It 
 will be a night that Capt. Alvarez will long remember 
 if memory lasts beyond this world." 
 
 "By Jove! That will never do," exclaims Ashley. 
 Navarro looks at him inquiringly. 
 
 "Alvarez must not be injured," declares Jack. "I have 
 particular reasons for keeping Alvarez alive for some 
 time to come." 
 
 "Rather awkward," laughs Navarro. "I don't see but 
 that you will have to overlook the job to-night, and sort 
 out your friend, for I expect it will be necessary to kill 
 one or two of the gang." 
 
 Ashley reflects a moment. "You should be able to 
 identify the leader," he says, and he adds to himself: "As 
 for Barker, I shall have to prevent his taking part in the 
 affair. It's a ticklish job all round." 
 
 "Well, your wishes shall be respected," says Navarro. 
 "Capt. Alvarez shall live. He is fortunate in having so 
 influential a friend at court." 
 
 "Some of the most worthless of men are more valuable 
 alive than dead. I have no friendship for Alvarez, but 
 his demise just at present would complicate certain mat 
 ters in which I have a large interest." 
 
 The moon is creeping up over a crest of the range, 
 when, at a signal from the guide, Navarro calls a halt. 
 After a whispered consultation, he tells Ashley that they 
 are some little distance below the Jibana hotel and rail 
 way station.
 
 242 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "Two hundred rods beyond us lies the road," he says; 
 "and fifty yards farther is the track. We will hitch here." 
 
 "Very good," declares Ashley. "Here, then, we sep 
 arate. It is now nearly 8 o'clock," consulting his watch 
 by the glow of his cigar. "Good luck, old man. The 
 signal for my reappearance will be the old rallying cry 
 of 'Santiago.' 
 
 The men exchanged a hearty handclasp. Then Ash 
 ley dismounts, and headed by the guide, leads Rozinante 
 through the brush to the road. Here he vaults into the 
 saddle again and canters toward the town. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 THE FIGHT IN THE MOONLIGHT. 
 
 "Didn't expect you back so soon," declares Landlord 
 Carter, answering Ashley's halloa without the Hotel 
 Americano at Jibana. 
 
 "I am a little ahead on my own calculations," is the re 
 ply. "Are the Americans still here?" 
 
 "No, sir; left this afternoon for "Santiago." 
 
 "Full house, though, I judge, motioning toward the 
 windows of the reading-room, from which emanate 
 snatches of song and the clink of glasses. 
 
 "Yes ; gang of Spanish troopers. Noisy devils. Stop 
 overnight, I suppose?" 
 
 "Sure. I want some supper in a hurry and a room at 
 your leisure." 
 
 The landlord shouts to the hostler, who leads Rozin 
 ante away to his well-earned grain, and Ashley follows 
 Carter into the hotel, with the remark: "I do not care 
 to have those chaps in there see me, or know who I am." 
 
 "All right, sir. This way. The troopers are all in 
 the drinking-room and they haven't moved out of their 
 chairs for an hour." 
 
 Supper over, Ashley is shown to his room and the
 
 THE FIGHT IN THE MOONLIGHT. 243 
 
 landlord is about to make his exit with a cheerful "good 
 night/' when Ashley remarks: 
 
 "By the way, have you an old coat and hat of any 
 description?" 
 
 Carter scratches his head reflectively. "I have an old 
 Grand Army uniform that I brought with me from the 
 states. 1 was a member of the I3th Massachusetts vol 
 unteers, and after the war joined the Chelsea post, 
 when " 
 
 "That will do very nicely," interrupts Ashley. "I want 
 to borrow the uniform for a few hours." 
 
 "All right, sir. I'll get it out in the morning." 
 
 "But I want it to-night." 
 
 "Very good, sir. I've been too long in this business 
 to ask questions. Used to run a small hotel in Boston," 
 grins Carter, as he vanishes. He returns shortly with the 
 clothes, and Ashley, after a glance, pronounces them sat 
 isfactory. 
 
 "One more request, Carter. You noticed, perhaps, 
 among your guests a rather short, thick-set party, with 
 a dark, closely cropped mustache." 
 
 "Smokes a short, black pipe and looks like an English 
 man?" 
 
 "That's the chap. Send him up, but don't attract the 
 attention of his companions." 
 
 Carter nods and disappears, and a few minutes later 
 the good-natured countenance of John Barker is thrust 
 into the room. 
 
 "Buenas tardes, Senor Parker," is Ashley's salutation. 
 "Come in and shut the door." 
 
 "Where the devil did you come from?'' demands the 
 detective, dropping into a chair. 
 
 "Up the road a piece. I got tired of journeying 
 through the desert, and concluded to take the back 
 track. Fill up your pipe and make yourself sociable." 
 
 "Can't stop. It is nearly 9 o'clock and we start at that 
 hour." 
 
 "Oh, yes; on the business you were telling me of this 
 noon. You haven't changed your plans, then?" 
 
 "No; there was no occasion to,"
 
 244 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "Well, it is not absolutely essential that you should 
 accompany Alvarez, is it?" 
 
 "That was his wish. With the exception of Alvarez 
 and myself and the four men who were to supplement our 
 little party, the command knows nothing definite of the 
 evening's work. Alvarez doesn't fraternize much with 
 his followers." 
 
 "Why not send a man in your stead?" 
 
 "I am afraid it is too late to make any changes in the 
 plans. Most of the men below are half-shot now." 
 
 Ashley takes a turn about the room and drops his hand 
 on his friend's shoulder. "Barker," he says, "it was 
 only this noon that you requested me to be serious for 
 at least ten minutes on a stretch. I never was more 
 serious than I am now, when I say to you, don't accom 
 pany Alvarez on his errand to-night." 
 
 "What the deuce are you so interested in the affair for 
 all at once?" queries the detective. 
 
 "Well, remain here, and I will enlighten you." 
 
 At this moment the impatient shout, "Ho, Parker!" 
 floats up from the hotel yard, and with the remark, "I'm 
 off; see you later, Jack," Barker bounds from the room. 
 
 "Hang it! I ought to have told him at the outset 
 how the land lay," mutters Ashley. "Now, I suppose I 
 shall have to direct my undivided efforts to preventing 
 his slaughter at the hands of Navarro's men." 
 
 Ashley slips off his coat and gets into the faded uniform 
 of the landlord, dons the Grand Army hat and pulls it 
 down over his eyes; examines his revolvers to make cer 
 tain that they are in proper working order, and then, 
 blowing out his lamp, seats himself by the open window, 
 where he can command a view of the road. 
 
 Shortly after 9 o'clock he sees six forms cross the 
 band of moonlight into the shadows beyond. He waits 
 ten minutes and then glides softly down the stairway and 
 out into the night. 
 
 Alvarez and his men leave the hotel afoot and instead 
 of taking the railroad track, proceed down the highway. 
 Alvarez rode over the ground during the afternoon and 
 selected a point about a mile and a half below the village
 
 THE FIGHT IN THE MOONLIGHT. 245 
 
 as the place for holding up the train. Here the road 
 crosses the railway and beyond is a long stretch of 
 straight track. 
 
 The six proceed silently to the appointed spot, and 
 then, there being no further occasion for secrecy, they 
 fall to smoking and chatting. The train is due at Jibana 
 at 10 and there is yet half an hour to wait. 
 
 Twenty minutes of it go by, when Alvarez discovers 
 that his party is short two men. 
 
 "Ho! Sancho! Francisco!" he calls, and repeats the 
 shout, there being no response. "Whither went they, 
 Parker?" he asks, turning to his orderly. 
 
 "They were here a few minutes ago, captain. I last 
 noticed them strolling toward the road." 
 
 Alvarez utters an impatient growl. "Search them 
 out, Pedro, and thou, too, Juan. The train will be here 
 in five minutes." 
 
 As the two troopers addressed take themselves off in 
 quest of their companions Alvarez lights a lantern and 
 hands it to the orderly. 
 
 "By the way, what disposition is to be made of the 
 prisoner?" asks the latter. 
 
 "We shall have to shoot him, I expect," is the cool re 
 sponse. "We can't very well take him with us, and we 
 certainly cannot turn him loose." 
 
 "It seems a rather cold-blooded piece of business. It 
 savors of murder." 
 
 At the word Alvarez shivers slightly. The nights in 
 Cuba are damp and chilly. 
 
 "Ten o'clock," he mutters, holding his. watch to the 
 lantern. "Where the devil are my men? We shall likely 
 have to go in search of the second pair. Ha, the train !" 
 
 The whistle of the Havana express is heard in the dis 
 tance and the men leap to their feet. 
 
 "Down the track with you," orders Alvarez. "As for 
 you/' turning to four forms that are approaching from 
 the shadows of the highway, "el diablo! What sort of 
 men have I in my command?" 
 
 The troopers make no reply to the angry query of 
 their leader.
 
 246 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 The orderly swings his lantern and an answering blast 
 comes from the train, which draws up upon the crossing. 
 
 "I have an order for the arrest of one of your passen 
 gers," Alvarez informs the conductor. "Watch the train 
 and see that no one leaves it," he tells the four troopers, 
 and, followed by the orderly, he boards the first coach. 
 
 Within this is the object of their search. Don Carlos 
 Navarro is reclining wearily in a seat about midway 
 of the car. He starts when the soldiers enter and the 
 color flows from his cheeks when they stop before him. 
 
 Alvarez consults a paper, and, glancing from it to 
 young Navarro, remarks: "The very chap. I have a 
 warrant for your arrest, sir." Then to the orderly: 
 "Remove the prisoner, Parker." 
 
 "By thunder, he's fainted," mutters the orderly, as 
 he bears the limp form from the car. 
 
 "Search him," commands Alvarez, signaling to the 
 conductor to go ahead. 
 
 As the train rumbles away the orderly goes through 
 the coat pockets of the prisoner, but without finding any 
 sign of papers, rebel dispatches or otherwise. Then he 
 tears open the unconscious youth's shirt, and the next 
 instant utters an exclamation of astonishment. 
 
 "By heaven ! It's a woman !" he mutters, as he deposits 
 his burden tenderly on the ground and straightens up to 
 
 acquaint his chief of the surprising bit of intelligence. 
 ******* 
 
 The moon swings high above the range when Ashley 
 leaves the hotel and proceeds down the railroad track, 
 the route he naturally supposes Alvarez and his party 
 have taken. 
 
 As the newspaper man, revolver in hand, moves slowly 
 and cautiously along, his eyes on the alert for a glimpse 
 of Alvarez' party, the danger of his situation suddenly 
 occurs to him. If the Spaniards have already stationed 
 themselves at some point along the rail he is likely to 
 stumble upon them at any minute. 
 
 At last he sights the party of troopers. Then he 
 remembers that the road is close by, and stealing through
 
 THE FIGHT IN THE MOONLIGHT. 247 
 
 the brush, he proceeds softly along the highway until 
 the hum of conversation greets his ear. 
 
 He crawls at a safe distance to a position beyond the 
 group, not twenty feet distant from the spot where Alva 
 rez and Barker are seated. 
 
 The brush is dense and he has nothing now to do 
 but keep perfectly still. He has seen or heard nothing 
 of El Torredo or his men, but he knows that secreted 
 somewhere in the waste of chaparral around him are 
 stout hearts and strong arms waiting for the cry of "San 
 tiago !" to rouse them to swift action. 
 
 He watches Alvarez light the lantern, and, as the rays 
 fall upon the orderly's features Ashley thinks: "If I 
 could only get within whispering distance of the old man 
 I'd give him a quiet tip to make himself exceeding 
 scarce." 
 
 But at this instant the whistle of the express is heard 
 and Ashley raises himself on his elbows. He sees Barker 
 start down the track, and his impulse is to follow. But 
 to do so he will have to cross a broad belt of moonlit 
 open, and at this moment the four troopers come up. 
 
 The train comes to a standstill, Don Carlos is removed, 
 the cars rumble away, and Ashley notes with satisfaction 
 that the search for the papers is being conducted by 
 the orderly. "He will not be harmed should Navarro's 
 men open fire, if he keeps close to Carlos," he thinks. 
 
 But where is Navarro? The situation is becoming 
 strained for the young man in the Grand Army uniform. 
 
 Jack is watching Barker. He hears him utter an ejacu 
 lation of astonishment as he lays the unconscious form 
 of Carlos upon the ground. And then he hears a hoarse 
 bellow of rage and sees one of Alvarez' troopers whip 
 out his sword and spring upon the orderly. 
 
 Less than a dozen feet separate Ashley and Barker. 
 With a cry of warning, Jack dashes forward and catches 
 the descending arm just in time to avert the certain 
 destruction of the detective, who is wholly off his guard. 
 As it is, the edge of the falling blade catches Barker 
 across the forehead, half-stunning him and cutting a 
 gash that means a scar to recall this night in years to
 
 248 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 come. At the same instant Ashley recognizes El Terredo 
 in the wielder of the sword, and he whispers, "Easy, 
 Navarro," in time to check a slash at his own head. 
 
 Meanwhile the remaining three troopers have hurled 
 themselves upon Alvarez and Barker. It all occurs in 
 a flash and before Ashley recovers from his surprise 
 at the unexpected turn of events a shrill whistle from 
 Navarro has summoned nearly a score more of men 
 from the surrounding shadows. 
 
 Navarro raises Don Carlos in his arms and the youth, 
 who has recovered consciousness, clasps his arms about 
 his brother's neck and bursts into tears of joy. 
 
 "There, be a man," soothes the latter. "Remain here 
 a few minutes while I look after your Spanish friends." 
 
 Navarro picks up the lantern and flashes its rays into 
 Alvarez' face. 
 
 "What's this?" he cries. "By heaven, Captain Alvarez, 
 I think we have met before." 
 
 As the two men confront each other in the moonlight, 
 there is no need of the lantern for each to see the other's 
 countenance. 
 
 An exclamation of surprise and rage escapes Alvarez' 
 lips, and he struggles in the grasp of the two men who 
 pinion his arms. 
 
 "Curse you!" he grits, in a voice choked with passion; 
 "I'd give half my life for five minutes of fair play now!" 
 
 "Fair play?" sneers Navarro. "You do not know the 
 meaning of the phrase. You are a thief, a blackguard, 
 and a traitor!" 
 
 Alvarez wrenches free by a mighty effort and with a 
 fearful oath hurls himself upon Navarro.
 
 THE METAMORPHOSIS OF DON CARLOS. 249 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 THE METAMORPHOSIS OF DON CARLOS. 
 
 "Stand back!'' commands Navarro, as his men start 
 forward to the enraged Alvarez, whose fingers have 
 twined about the insurgent leader's neck. "Back, I say! 
 I can handle this gentleman without assistance." 
 
 Alvarez is as a child in the steely arms of El Terredo. 
 The latter tears the clutching fingers from his throat, 
 sweeps the Spanish captain off his feet and dashes him 
 to the ground. 
 
 Half-stunned and crazed by passion, Alvarez struggles 
 to his knees and whips out a pistol. It is knocked from 
 his grasp before his arm straightens, as half a dozen 
 watchful Cubans pounce upon him. 
 
 "Away with them!" orders Navarro, with a sweep of 
 his arm, and as Alvarez and Barker are hustled off in 
 the darkness he turns to Don Carlos, who has been a 
 silent and trembling witness of the conflict. 
 
 "In heaven's name, my brother, what brings you on 
 this errand? Don Manuel must be mad." 
 
 "Ah, Emilio, do not blame Don Manuel," gently pro 
 tests Carlos, as he embraces Navarro. "The matter was 
 urgent, a courier was required, and I myself suggested 
 that I be that courier. To see you again I would have 
 dared the perils of the journey, even were nothing more 
 at stake." 
 
 "Brave heart," murmurs Navarro, brushing back the 
 ringlets from his brother's brow. "But let this be your 
 last commission, Carlos. I would not jeopardize your 
 life for a thousand Cubas. But come, is the news you 
 bring me verbal or written?" 
 
 For answer Carlos places a letter in Navarro's hands, 
 and the latter reads it by the light of the lantern. It 
 is brief, and as he thrusts it into his pocket Jack steps 
 forward. 
 
 "Ah, Ashley," cries Navarro, grasping him by the hand;
 
 250 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 the trick was quickly done, eh? Carlos, it is to our 
 American friend that you owe your present safety and 
 perhaps your life. It was he who warned me of the plot 
 for your arrest." 
 
 "Spare me any praise," protests Ashley, as Carlos is 
 about to express his gratitude. "By good fortune I 
 became acquainted with Alvarez' design, and further luck 
 cast me in your brother's way." 
 
 "After you rode for miles into the mountains in search 
 of me," interposes Navarro. 
 
 "Yes," laughs Jack, "for I had a suspicion that, single- 
 handed, I should not have been a match for the Span 
 ish captain and his men. Now, will you tell me, my 
 friend, how you circumvented Alvarez so cleverly?" 
 
 "It was an accident. The Spaniards came down the 
 road instead of the railroad track. When they located 
 themselves at the crossing we established our party about 
 200 yards from them, to wait the coming of the train. 
 The watch growing irksome, I and two of my men set 
 forth to reconnoiter. We had scarcely proceeded fifty 
 yards, when we stood face to face in the moonlight with 
 two of the troopers. 
 
 "Instantly we threw ourselves upon them and stifled 
 their attempts to sound an alarm. They were dragged 
 back to our ambush, bound hand and foot, and pistols 
 placed to their heads with orders that they be instantly 
 shot at the first outcry. I rightly assumed that their 
 companions would institute search for them, and shortly 
 after two more troopers came up the road. These we 
 took from the rear and when all four were safely secured 
 the idea of exchanging our dress for theirs and rejoining 
 Alvarez naturally suggested itself. The rest you know.'' 
 
 "Yes, and I also know that only by a fraction of a 
 second did I prevent your glittering sword blade from 
 carving in twain the head of a very warm friend of mine.'' 
 
 "How? The fellow who was holding Carlos?'' 
 
 "The same. He is an American, like myself, but it 
 suits his purpose for the present to masquerade as a 
 soldier of Castile. At the moment I interfered you were 
 about to slaughter the man to whom Carlos primarily
 
 THE METAMORPHOSIS OP DON CARLOS. 251 
 
 owes his escape to-night, for it was through him that I 
 learned of the plan to arrest the messenger to El Ter- 
 redo." 
 
 "San Pedro!" cries the impetuous Navarro, in tones 
 of sincere regret. "I should never have forgiven myself. 
 But I will at once set him at liberty and add the poor 
 consolation of an honest apology." 
 
 "That is exactly what I do not wish you to do. It 
 was to avoid recognition that I rigged out in this uniform, 
 and I am confident that Alvarez did not recognize me. 
 Barker, that is my friend's name, may or may not have 
 discovered my identity when I cried out to you at the 
 moment I clutched your arm. At any rate, I shall not 
 attempt to ascertain. The principal point I wish to 
 insist upon, if you will permit me, is that Alvarez and 
 Barker shall not be separated; further, that they be per 
 mitted to proceed to Santiago within forty-eight hours." 
 
 "Your wishes shall be respected, my dear Ashley," 
 says Navarro. 
 
 "Where have you had the prisoners taken?" asks Jack. 
 
 "To the ambush I spoke of, about 200 yards up the 
 road." 
 
 "And your further plans?" 
 
 "I intended to have marched the Spaniards back to 
 the mountains as prisoners of war. Within the hour I 
 shall send a courier to the revolutionary camp with orders 
 to forward two hundred men with which to capture the 
 supply train. They should arrive early to-morrow fore 
 noon/' 
 
 "Good. That work successfully accomplished, you can 
 then permit Alvarez and Barker to depart in peace." 
 
 "If you so desire. And now suppose we rejoin my 
 men." 
 
 As the two move away Ashley's eye is caught by the 
 glitter of a small object upon the ground. He picks 
 it up and discovers that it is a locket attached to a broken 
 bit of chain. As he turns it over in his hands and seeks 
 to examine it in the pale light of the moon, Navarro calls 
 to him from the road: "Still surveying the battlefield, 
 Ashley?"
 
 252 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "Coming," says Jack. He drops his find into his hip 
 pocket and proceeds to forget all about it. 
 
 "What is to be done with Carlos, now that he is here?" 
 he inquires as he rejoins the Navarros. 
 
 "Carlos must return to Santiago at once," declares El 
 Terredo. "If I might add to the already large debt of 
 gratitude, I would ask that you accompany him." 
 
 "Gladly, Navarro. My intentions were to make San 
 tiago at all speed. You will not have Carlos return by 
 rail?" 
 
 "No; by horse." 
 
 "There is a possibility of running into trouble upon 
 his arrival at the city." 
 
 "True; and to obviate that I have conceived a plan, 
 not startlingly original. Carlos must disguise himself 
 in feminine attire." 
 
 "Ah, then I pose in the role of a knight errant escorting 
 a beautiful maiden over the desert sands to her ancestral 
 halls." 
 
 Navarro laughs softly. "Is the part distasteful to you?" 
 he asks. 
 
 "Nay. My only regret will be that Carlos is not the 
 beauteous maid she will represent." 
 
 "But he will look the part to perfection, I promise you. 
 Half a dozen of my men will act as escort and conduct 
 Carlos to the quinta. But I want the assurance of your 
 active head and arm the greater part of the journey." 
 
 "Thank you. And the female toggery where is that 
 to be procured?" 
 
 "That is a more difficult matter to adjust. Do you 
 think the same wardrobe that fitted you out to-night 
 could be called upon in this emergency?" 
 
 "It is possible," replies Ashley. "There are women 
 folks about the Hotel Americano, else the house would 
 not present its unusually neat appearance. And there 
 being women some of them probably have a dress or 
 two to spare. I will endeavor to negotiate with the land 
 lord for a suitable costume for your brother." 
 
 "Excellent. I will await you here." 
 
 The village is quiet as a churchyard when Ashley
 
 THE METAMORPHOSIS OF DON CARLOS. 253 
 
 reaches the hotel. Lights are visible, however, and a 
 few raps upon the portals bring forth the landlord. 
 
 Carter receives back his Grand Army habiliments 
 without comment, but his face is a study when Ashley 
 broaches the idea of a feminine rig. 
 
 "By gum," he exclaims; "you're the funniest customer 
 I've run up against in all my Cuban hotel business, and 
 I have met some queer ones, too." 
 
 "My dear Carter," confides Ashley, "as a matter of 
 fact, I am not altogether right in my head. I am seized 
 at frequent periods with the most absurd notions. For 
 tunately, I always have money enough to gratify my 
 freakish ideas." 
 
 "I am not so soft as I look," remarks Carter, dryly. 
 "I'll see what I can do for you. How soon do you want 
 the clothes?'' 
 
 "As usual, at once. And while they are being hunted 
 up I wish you would have my horse saddled, as I must 
 take the road within the hour. It is getting along toward 
 midnight. Where are the troopers drunk or asleep?" 
 
 "Both, most of them," is the laconic response, as the 
 boniface takes himself off to consult with his wife upon 
 the subject of providing a costume for a slender young 
 man about five feet in height, as Ashley describes the 
 prospective wearer of the garments. 
 
 Landlord Carter has a daughter who rejoices in the 
 possession of three dresses. This alone should consti 
 tute her the belle of Jibana. For a sum sufficient to 
 double her wardrobe the young lady is induced to part 
 with the best of her three outfits and a bargain is con 
 summated. 
 
 Miss Carter is not at all pleased at being routed from 
 her slumbers, but she is a rather pretty young woman, 
 and after five minutes of Ashley's persuasive eloquence 
 the landlord's daughter beams with good nature and 
 laughingly inquires: "Do you want a complete cos 
 tume?" 
 
 "To 'the last ribbon," declares Jack. "By Jove!" he 
 adds, mentally, "if Carlos proposes to impersonate a
 
 254 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 young lady, he shall not lack verisimilitude through any 
 neglect on my part." 
 
 "A thousand thanks, Miss Carter," says Ashley, when 
 the clothes are finally tied in a big bundle and given into 
 his possession. 
 
 "Isn't this too much?" demurs the young lady, glancing 
 at the gold coin which he places in her hands. 
 
 "Not a bit," replies Jack. ''If it is" he glances around, 
 sees that papa Carter has disappeared, and snatches a kiss 
 from the young lady's red lips "if it is, will you permit 
 me to balance the debt?" he finishes. Miss Carter 
 blushes furiously, but she does not reprove the audacity. 
 Good-looking young men, alas, are few in Jibana. 
 
 Half an hour later Ashley turns the bundle of apparel 
 over to Navarro and receives the latters warmest thanks. 
 "At what time do we start?" Jack inquires. 
 
 "At daybreak. You will need a few hours' rest before 
 then." 
 
 "I can use them all right. But suppose Alvarez' men 
 come nosing around after their absent leader?" 
 
 "They will not find him. Follow me and I will lead 
 you to our camp for the night. I shall send with you 
 as a guide a man who knows the country well.'' 
 
 With the dawn the little party is under way. Ashley 
 stares in astonishment at the metamorphosis that has been 
 effected in the person of Carlos. And as Carlos raises 
 his veil and returns Jack's stare with a glance in which 
 amusement is mingled with blushing diffidence, the news 
 paper man laughs outright. 
 
 "I told you he would look the part to perfection," 
 remarks the elder Navarro, as he comes forward to say 
 adios. "Take good care of him, Ashley, mi amigo. He 
 is very dear to me." 
 
 "For your sake I will guard him with jealous care," 
 replies Ashley. "Good-by, Navarro. I hope to see you 
 again before many days." 
 
 "Most heartily do I echo the wish. But who can say 
 what the future has in store?" murmurs the insurgent 
 leader. He watches the little cavalcade until it disappears
 
 THE DOVE AND THE SERPENT. 255 
 
 down the forest trail and then turns toward the mountains 
 with a heavy sigh. 
 
 Ashley drops to the rear of the little procession, lights 
 a cigar and relapses into a reverie. Suddenly he bethinks 
 him of the locket which he picked up on the scene of 
 last night's struggle. 
 
 Although his eyes never before rested upon it, as he 
 looks at it now the locket has almost a familiar appear 
 ance. He is somewhat prepared for the surprise which 
 follows his pressing of the spring. 
 
 The locket formerly contained two miniatures. One 
 has been removed. That which yet remains is an exquis 
 ite portrait of Louise Hathaway. 
 
 As Ashley stares at the gold ornament with its broken 
 bit of chain he realizes that he is looking upon the locket 
 supposed to have been removed from the watch-chain 
 of Roger Hathaway the night the aged cashier came to 
 his death in the Raymond National Bank. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 THE DOVE AND THE SERPENT. 
 
 "Whoa, Rozinante ! If thou art as weary of this road 
 as I, good beast, a rest will not go against thy grain, 
 or grass. What say you to a halt of half an hour within 
 the shade of this royal palm?" 
 
 It is the afternoon of the third day since Ashley's 
 return to Santiago, and, having parted with Don Carlos 
 and the escorting party on the edge of Santos, this 
 is the first opportunity Jack has had to ride out to La 
 Quinta de Quesada and pay his respects to Don Manuel's 
 beautiful daughter; for the last three days have been 
 busy ones for the newspaper man. Truenos has arrived 
 with his fleet from Havana, and the next week promises 
 to be big with the fate of Cuba Libre. 
 
 Ashley left Santiago an hour ago, and at the rate he
 
 256 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 has been traveling the heat precludes a gait faster than 
 a moderate amble he judges that he has covered three 
 of the four miles to Santos. 
 
 Hitching the amiable Rozinante, he throws himselt 
 upon the turf beneath the foliage-massed branches of the 
 royal palm, and lights a cigar; as he smokes he grows 
 thoughtful. And from rumination he drifts into moral 
 izing, addressing himself to Rozinante. 
 
 "Look here, Rozinante; if you have any horse sense 
 that you're not using you might assist your master to 
 extricate himself from somewhat of a quandary. As you 
 know, I came to Cuba principally on business for my 
 paper, incidentally to trail down a murder mystery and 
 again incidentally to follow a fair face belonging to the 
 beautiful Louise Hathaway. A good many chaps in my 
 place would have fallen hopelessly in love with Miss 
 Hathaway at first sight, but I well, that is not the cause 
 of my quandary. If it were, I could easily dismiss it 
 with a philosophical 'there is no accounting for the tastes 
 of most women.' Ah, no, Rozinante; it is something 
 far more serious; for what I want to ask you, Rozinante, 
 is whether you believe that I, in my old age, have been 
 so indiscreet as to fall in love?'' 
 
 But Rozinante, being a well-bred equine, declines to 
 poke his nose into young people's affairs and continues 
 his grass-cropping. 
 
 "See how the case stands, Rozinante," continues Jack, 
 tossing a pebble at his four-footed companion to enforce 
 attention. "On the one hand is the Senorita Juanita de 
 Quesada, the acknowledged Pearl of the Antilles, the 
 adored of all the beaux in Santiago; Juanita, the beauti 
 ful, the accomplished, and the only child of the wealthy 
 and elderly Don Manuel de Quesada, who is likely to 
 become the president de facto of this cheerful country if 
 the yellow fever continues to wilt the imported flower of 
 the chivalry of Spain. On the other hand, Rozinante, 
 look at me." 
 
 At this moment Rozinante lifts his head and blinks 
 comically at Ashley, who grins back in the best of 
 humors.
 
 THE DOVE AND THE SERPENT. 257 
 
 "Oh, I know what you are thinking about, Rozinante. 
 You are saying to yourself: 'What a presumptuous fel 
 low! But he is just like all Americans.' Well, you are 
 not far from right, Rozzy. We Americans are a bit 
 fresh. But that is a digression. To return to our sub 
 ject, which is the always agreeable one of myself. Now, 
 I am not a bad-looking chap. You can see that, Roz, 
 with one eye. And I am fairly bright and all that. But 
 hang it! I haven't a bank account bigger than three 
 figures, and it will require nerve, my grass-eating friend, 
 to step up to the wealthy Don Quesada and say: 'Don, 
 old boy, I love your daughter. May I ask your blessing?' 
 No one ever accused me of lacking in nerve, but have I 
 enough to supply the demand of such an occasion? Of 
 course, if Don Quesada becomes president of the repub 
 lic of Cuba, and makes me his cabinet-premier, I might 
 buy a sugar plantation and become enormously wealthy. 
 But that, Rozinante, as you are probably aware, is a 
 twenty-to-one shot. 
 
 "The most perplexing feature of the whole affair is 
 the fact that I have no good reason to suppose that the 
 dark-eyed Juanita returns in the slightest degree the deep 
 interest which I feel in her personal welfare. I know that 
 she likes me why shouldn't she? but her maidenly 
 reserve I do not seem to be able to successfully penetrate. 
 Again, my equine friend, I am not so certain that she is 
 not hopelessly in love with that effeminate, downy- 
 cheeked, pink-and-white and milk-and-water Don Carlos. 
 
 And how any woman can But, pshaw! What is 
 
 the use in quarreling with the chap? And what is the 
 use of my lounging longer here, talking at an unappre- 
 ciative audience? Ah, Juanita, if you would but encour 
 age me a bit I would soon solve my perplexity. Just a 
 draught from this spring back in the bushes, Rozinante, 
 and then we will jog along toward Santos." 
 
 As Ashley bends over the spring the grating of carriage 
 wheels sounds in the road. 
 
 A volante flashes by at what seems reckless speed; 
 but the Cuban volante cannot upset. Two ladies are in 
 the vehicle, and as they sweep by they glance curiously
 
 258 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 at the tethered horse. An instant later they are gone, 
 and the young man who emerges hastily from the bushes 
 and looks down the dust-veiled road emits a long, low 
 whistle. 
 
 "Juanita! And unless my usually correct vision is 
 deceived, her companion is my old friend Isabel Harding. 
 The dove and the serpent! What the deuce is the mean 
 ing of this unholy intimacy? By heaven, Rozinante/' 
 mutters Ashley, as he untethers his horse and vaults into 
 the saddle, "the presence of Isabel Harding at Santos 
 augurs no good to the house of Quesada. Don Manuel 
 must be warned at once." And kicking Rozinante's 
 ample sides Ashley forces that amiable beast into a violent 
 canter. 
 
 The remainder of the journey is quickly covered, and 
 as Jack reins up at La Quinta de Quesada, Don Manuel 
 comes out and greets him cordially. 
 
 "Welcome, Senor Ashley. You are quite a stranger. 
 We had begun to fear that the Spanish press censors 
 had suppressed you." Then, dropping his voice to a 
 cautious undertone: "Any news from the field?" 
 
 "Yes, and rather good news. It is reported in Santiago 
 that your yacht, the Pearl of the Antilles, engaged a 
 Spanish ship of war yesterday, and that El Terredo, 
 after lying alongside, fought a desperate and winning 
 battle on the decks of the enemy's vessel." 
 
 "Bueno!" Don Quesada's eyes light up with pleasure. 
 "Ah, Senor Ashley, there is a fighter after your own 
 American heart. If we had a thousand such men we 
 should drive the Spanish into the sea and off our loved 
 island forever." 
 
 "I was passed on the road from Santiago by your 
 daughter," remarks Jack, as he sits down in front of a 
 brimming glass. "Will she be absent long?" 
 
 "For the entire evening. Surely you have not over 
 looked the grand ball to be given to-night by the new 
 captain-general; a gathering of beauty and of chivalry, 
 to express his supreme contempt of th insignificance of 
 the Cuban cause," says Don Queseda, with faint irony. 
 
 "By Jove! I had overlooked it. The senorita was
 
 THE DOVE AND THE SERPENT. 259 
 
 accompanied by another lady. May I inquire her name?" 
 
 "Certainly. She is Mrs. Isabel Harding." 
 
 "I thought so," mutters Jack. Then: 
 
 "What is her business here?" 
 
 "Mrs. Harding is my guest," replies Don Quesada, 
 rather curtly. 
 
 "She has been here long?'' 
 
 "About ten days." 
 
 Jack stares and bites his cigar viciously. "You will 
 pardon my questioning, Don Queseda. Believe me, I 
 am not actuated by idle curiosity." 
 
 The Don bows and Jack leans over and asks, earnestly: 
 
 "During Mrs. Harding's stay here has she learned any 
 thing that would lead her to suspect that you are identi 
 fied with the movement to free Cuba?" 
 
 "Naturally. She is one of us," replies the Don, dryly. 
 
 "One of us!" repeats Jack, in astonishment. 
 
 "Yes. An American, like yourself; she is an enthu 
 siastic adherent of the Cuban cause and is enabled to do 
 us much service." 
 
 "Then you have trusted her with some secrets?" 
 
 "She is at this moment the bearer of important dis 
 patches to Captain Francisco Guerra." 
 
 "Great Scott!" Jack jumps to his feet. Don Quesada 
 rises with him and demands: 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "I mean that I believe Mrs. Harding to be a spy in the 
 employ of the Spanish government, and that you have 
 signed and given into her hands your own death warrant 
 and the utter ruin of your friends!" 
 
 It is a cruel blow. Don Quesada staggers under it 
 and sinks helplessly into his chair. Jack pours him out 
 a draught of wine and then paces to and fro on the 
 veranda, his active mind intent on some path of escape 
 from the desperate situation. 
 
 "At what hour does the ball begin?" he demands. 
 
 "At eight, I believe," replies Don Quesada, faintly. 
 He is completely crushed. 
 
 "It is now nearly six/' muses Jack, glancing at his
 
 260 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 watch. "And Guerra? Where was he to receive the 
 dispatches?" 
 
 "At the ball." 
 
 "Quick! Pen and paper," requests Jack. And as Don 
 Quesada hurries away to comply the young man mur 
 murs: "There is only one chance in a thousand, but I 
 must take it." 
 
 When the stationery is brought Jack inquires: "In 
 what form were the dispatches sent?" 
 
 "In a plain envelope, such as you have there." 
 
 "Good." Jack writes hurriedly a few moments, passes 
 what he has written over to Don Quesada, and com 
 manding simply, "Copy that," busies himself over another 
 letter. 
 
 Don Quesada follows the directions without question, 
 but as he writes a little of hope comes into his pale face, 
 and he looks admiringly at Jack, with the remark: "Can 
 you do it?" 
 
 "Quien sabe? It's a desperate chance." Jack glances 
 approvingly at the letter which the Don has sealed, places 
 it in his pocket and then addresses and seals the second 
 letter, which he gives to the Cuban president. 
 
 "You must leave here at once. Where is Don Carlos?" 
 
 "He is here." 
 
 "He must accompany you. You must make your way 
 with all haste as secretly as possible to Santiago and go 
 aboard the United States cruiser America. This letter 
 will explain all, and make you welcome. Once under 
 the stars and stripes you will be safe when the storm 
 breaks." 
 
 "But my daughter!" cries the Don, suddenly recollect 
 ing the beautiful Pearl of the Antilles. Jack's eyes grow 
 tender, and, gripping the older man by the hand, he 
 says proudly, as their eyes meet. 
 
 "Don Quesada, I love your daughter. I will answer 
 for her safety with my life. And now, Pm off. Remem 
 ber to Santiago at once. Adios!" 
 
 And without waiting to ascertain how his declaration 
 of love affects the father of his loved one, Jack springs 
 into the saddle and clatters away.
 
 PLAYING FOR HIGH STAKES. 261 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 PLAYING FOB HIGH STAKES. 
 
 Scarcely has a third of the distance to Santiago been 
 covered when horse and rider realize that the pace set 
 is no longer compatible with the Cuban climate. As 
 Rozinante settles into a walk, Ashley pulls vigorously 
 on a fresh cigar and revolves the situation in his mind. 
 
 "Credulous fool!" he grumbles, thinking of the be 
 trayed Don Manuel de Quesada. "Played right into the 
 enemy's hands. But wiser and greater men have been 
 cozened by the smiles of a beautiful woman. Besides, 
 he is Juanita's father. That covers a multitude of short 
 comings. Ah, Juanita, I must indeed love thee when I 
 would willingly risk my valuable life in thy behalf. I 
 am not a hypocrite, and I confess that an absorbing 
 interest in my personal welfare has ever been one of my 
 glittering characteristics." 
 
 ''Those papers must be recovered. But how? But I 
 have a mighty big job on my hands, even if Truenos 
 is not a Richelieu. Well, it is the pen against the sword, 
 and may heaven maintain the vaunted mightiness of the 
 pen.'' 
 
 It is something after seven o'clock when Ashley arrives 
 at Santiago. The first acquaintance he meets, after he 
 has put up his horse and proceeded toward his hotel, is 
 General Murillo. 
 
 "Of course you are going to the ball?" remarks Ashley, 
 as they shake hands. 
 
 Most assuredly General Murillo will be there. It will 
 be a grand affair. Senor Ashley must attend, by all 
 means. 
 
 Senor Ashley means to be there, and he thanks Gen 
 eral Murillo for an offer to introduce him to a score 
 of the prettiest maids in Cuba. And when the general 
 insists upon his American friend dining with him, the 
 latter quickly accepts. He has no time to waste, he tells 
 himself, but he is much relieved when, in reply to his
 
 262 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 query, "And Truenos, is he at the palace?" General 
 Murillo informs him that the captain-general has been 
 called to Mentos, ten miles distant, on business of an im 
 portant nature, and will probably be late in arriving at the 
 festivities, which will not, however, be delayed. 
 
 The first flash of hope comes to Ashley at this intelli 
 gence, and he dines with a lighter heart. After half an 
 hour of chat on commonplace topics, he manages to ask 
 with well-played indifference: 
 
 "At what time did Truenos leave for Mentos, gen 
 eral?" 
 
 "Early this afternoon." 
 
 Ah, then it is not yet too late. Ashley breathes 
 easier. 
 
 "Well, general, you are a loyal adherent of Spain and 
 I am an out-and-out American. There is no chance for 
 an argument between us. Let me fill your glass and we 
 will drink a toast to all honest men and women, whether 
 Spaniards or Cubans." 
 
 "With pleasure, Senor Ashley. To all honest men 
 and women." 
 
 "Which does not include your amiable friend, Mrs. 
 Harding," thinks Ashley, as he raises the glass to his 
 lips. 
 
 The dinner finished, the two men separate, while Ash 
 ley exchanges his travel-worn garments for an evening 
 dress. Half an hour later he and General Murillo leave 
 for the palace. 
 
 "I have a vague suspicion that I am booked for an 
 exciting evening," muses Jack, as he enters the brilliantly 
 lighted sala of the palace and is duly presented by 
 Murillo. 
 
 The dancing has already begun, but Terpsichore is the 
 last goddess he is desirous of wooing on this particular 
 evening. His gaze wanders solicitously about the crowd 
 ed room and rests at last upon her whom he seeks 
 Juanita. 
 
 "She is simply stunning to-night," he mutters, nerv 
 ously tugging at his mustache. 
 
 And indeed Juanita is radiantly beautiful. Her dark
 
 PLAYING FOR HIGH STAKES. 263 
 
 loveliness is set off by a bewitching gown of white; she 
 is fanning herself with that lazily graceful motion which 
 the Saxon cannot imitate successfully, and at the moment 
 that Ashley discovers her she is telling Captain Ramon 
 Huerta, who has requested with Spanish extravagance 
 "the exquisite honor and incomparable delight of a figure 
 with her," that she really does not care to dance this 
 evening. At which Captain Huerta looks disappointed 
 and scowls a trifle. But he continues to inflict upon her 
 a presence which is palpably unwelcome. 
 
 Juanita's eyes light up with unfeigned pleasure when 
 Ashley arrives upon the scene and she greets him with 
 unreserved cordiality. She presents him to Captain 
 Huerta, who bows as stiffly as he holds his revolver arm. 
 Ashley returns the salute with a suspicion of exaggera 
 tion, and grins maliciously when the Spaniard takes him 
 self off, after bestowing a glance of unmistakable enmity 
 upon the American. 
 
 Juanita gazes after the retreating form with distinct 
 aversion. "I have a strange fear of that man," she con 
 fides to Ashley, who smiles reassuringly and tells her 
 that while she is in his vicinity there should be no such 
 word as fear in her bright lexicon of youth. 
 
 Juanita rewards this gallant speech, which from anyone 
 except Jack Ashley would sound boastful, with a glance 
 that sets the American's blood tingling. But he has no 
 time to-night for love-making, whether his suit be favored 
 or hopeless, and as he drops into a chair beside the Pearl 
 of the Antilles he asks casually: "Where is your friend, 
 Mrs. Harding?" 
 
 "Ah, you know Isabel? 
 
 'You passed me this afternoon on the road to Santos, 
 whither I was proceeding to pay my most humble re 
 spects." 
 
 "Then that horse by the big royal palm was yours?" 
 
 "Even so. I was close by, but your volante swept 
 past at such a pace that I hardly recovered from my 
 surprise at seeing you before you were gone." 
 
 "I am sorry we started away so early/' Juanita says, 
 regretfully.
 
 264 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "So am I," Ashley thinks, grimly, but he does not tell 
 her why. 
 
 "I have seen nothing of Mrs. Harding since I arrived,'' 
 he remarks. 
 
 Juanita's glance wanders about the room. "There she 
 is," she indicates, "over by the staircase, the object of 
 the devoted attentions of Count Gonzaga.'' 
 
 "Who the deuce is Count Gonzaga?'' wonders Ashley, 
 and he intimates as much to his companion. 
 
 "Have you not met the count? General Jacinto de 
 Gonzaga is his military title. He is some sort of an 
 assistant secretary of war and is representing the home 
 government in Cuba for a short time. He seems des 
 perately smitten with Isabel. She is very handsome, do 
 you not think so, Senor Ashley?'' 
 
 "Yes, very," replies Jack, absently. He is watching 
 the pair by the staircase, and wondering what sort of a 
 game Isabel Harding is now playing. 
 
 "She is coming this way," says Juanita. "Have you 
 met her?" 
 
 "I have not had that pleasure," Ashley replies, unblush- 
 ingly. "Not lately,' he mentally adds. 
 
 He turns away to admire some flowers and soon he 
 hears Juanita's voice: "Isabel, allow me to present Mr. 
 Ashley to you. Mr. Ashley, Mrs. Harding." 
 
 Ashley turns calmly and the two are face to face. She 
 acknowledges the introduction with a composure equal 
 to Ashley's own, and that young man permits a trace 
 of admiration to mingle with the expression in his eyes 
 which plainly says to the woman before him: "I know 
 your game, my lady." And the answering flash from the 
 midnight orbs is: "You have more than a match in me, 
 Mr. Ashley. Beware!" 
 
 "We shall see," thinks Ashley, and then, led by Juanila, 
 who sees nothing of the mutual recognition, the conver 
 sation drifts into the usual chatter of the ball-room. 
 
 "You remember, Isabel, that big horse we saw lunching 
 so contentedly by the road this afternoon?'' prattles 
 Juanita.
 
 PLAYING FOR HIGH STAKES. 265 
 
 "Yes, dear, and how we wondered whether its owner 
 was enjoying a siesta in the bushes." 
 
 "Well, it was Mil Ashley's horse." 
 
 "I saw you flit by," supplements Ashley, "but I was 
 back drinking at a spring and your volante was out of 
 sight before I had recovered from my surprise at seeing 
 you." He is looking directly at Mrs. Harding and that 
 lady smiles, a bit ironically. 
 
 "And I presume that when you saw the principal attrac 
 tion of El Valle de Bosque Cillos being borne toward 
 Santiago, you mounted your horse and sadly followed," 
 ventures Isabel. 
 
 "No; I knew the senorita was in good company," Jack 
 responds, dryly, "so I continued on to Santos and spent 
 a profitable hour with Don Quesada." 
 
 "Ah!" Mrs. Harding regards him narrowly from be 
 tween her half-dropped eyelids. 
 
 "I say profitable," continues Ashley, "as I did not 
 know, until so informed, that Don Quesada numbered 
 the charming Mrs. Harding in his list of acquaintances." 
 
 "Of course you congratulated him." 
 
 "Most assuredly." 
 
 The half-veiled contempt expressed in Isabel's face 
 exasperates Ashley. Hidden somewhere in that corsage, 
 against which beats the falsest heart in Cuba, are papers 
 that mean the ruin of the innocent girl at his side. 
 
 He must have time to think, think, think. So he 
 excuses himself and leaves the crowded ball-room for 
 a walk in the cool air of the garden. 
 
 In one corner of the spacious inclosure he finds a little 
 arbor, and in this nook Ashley sits and smokes and thinks, 
 but no plan for the confusion of the adventuress suggests 
 itself, unless, as he growls vindictively, he abducts or 
 chloroforms her. 
 
 His meditations are disturbed by voices close at hand. 
 Two gentlemen have, like himself, forsaken the heated 
 ball-room for the outer air, and they pause in their stroll 
 within a few feet of Ashley's retreat. 
 
 Jack pays no attention to them until by their voices 
 and conversation he realizes that one of them is Captain
 
 266 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 Julio Alvarez and the other is Count Gonzaga. "That's 
 a happy combination," he laughs softly. "They ought to 
 get a few more of Isabel's friends and hold a reunion." 
 
 "You are an excellent judge of beauty, Count Gon 
 zaga," he hears Alvarez remark, with a faint sneer. "I 
 have been noticing your devotion to the handsome Mrs. 
 Harding, the widow of the enormously wealthy ship 
 owner." 
 
 "Ah, amigo, is she not beautiful?" the count replies, 
 enthusiastically. He appears to be in rare spirits. "I 
 must ask you to congratulate me, Captain Alvarez." 
 
 "I have on your excellent taste." 
 
 "On more, amigo. The beautiful American has con 
 sented to become the Countess Gonzaga." 
 
 "The devil!" 
 
 "You are surprised." 
 
 "Rather. I am surprised that a gentleman of Count 
 Gonzaga's position should think of linking his name with 
 a lady of her character." 
 
 "Por Dios! Your meaning?" cries the count, with a 
 flash of Castilian wrath that causes Captain Alvarez to 
 curse his hasty words, which must have emanated from 
 jealousy or something deeper. Ashley wonders what. 
 
 "Oh, nothing," Alvarez replies, carelessly. "You must 
 
 pardon my unthinking remark, count. Believe me, 
 j > 
 
 "You will explain yourself to me, and at once, senor," 
 declares Gonzaga, with frigid emphasis. 
 
 There is a silence, which Alvarez, who sees that he is 
 in for it, finally breaks with: "Very well, count, but I 
 warn you that you will regret your insistence. You will 
 have to excuse me now, as I have promised to dance this 
 next figure. Meet me at this place a quarter of an hour 
 hence, and I will endeavor to satisfy you." 
 
 "Very good," grits Gonzaga. "I will be prompt," and 
 the men separate. 
 
 "The fair Isabel is a star, surely," soliloquizes Ashley. 
 "Who would have dreamed that she was playing her 
 cards for the role of a countess? Alas! Gonzaga will be
 
 THE PEN WINS. 267 
 
 brutally undeceived by Alvarez. The latter has put his 
 foot in it' and there is only one way out. Jupiter!" 
 
 Ashley leaps to his feet, for the inspiration of his life 
 has come to him. 
 
 "By George, I have it! But will she do it?" he cries. 
 "She must do it. It is not her nature, still it's a chance, 
 and if the fates are on the side of right Don Quesada and 
 the senorita are saved!" 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 THE PEN WINS. 
 
 Upon his return to the ball-room Ashley is taken to 
 task by General Murillo. "I have been searching for you 
 for over half an hour," the general assures him. "Come 
 over here while I introduce you to the prettiest girl in 
 Cuba." 
 
 "Confound his kindness," grumbles Jack, mentally, 
 who has no time to squander in talking nonsense with 
 dark-eyed senoritas. There is work to be done. But 
 he follows Murillo over the floor and is amused to find 
 himself being introduced to Juanita de Quesada, who is 
 the center of attraction of a group of young Santiago 
 swells. 
 
 "Oh, Senor Ashley and I are old friends," cries Juanita, 
 smiling at General Murillo. 
 
 "Are you, indeed?" remarks the general, favoring the 
 American with a keen glance. "Well, I will leave you 
 together with my blessing," and the warrior takes himself 
 off. 
 
 "I have much to tell you to-night, senorita, but at 
 another moment," Ashley says, as he makes his excuses 
 for terminating a conversation that has hardly begun. 
 "I have work to do, and it means much to you," he 
 explains to the pouting young lady, and leaving her
 
 268 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 somewhat mystified and not at all pleased, he goes off to 
 hunt up Isabel Harding. 
 
 He finds the latter alone. For excellent reasons Count 
 Gonzaga is holding himself aloof. Captain Alvarez is 
 not in sight. 
 
 "Don't you find the atmosphere of the room close?" 
 he inquires, as he reaches Isabel's side. 
 
 "Not at all. I am entirely cool/' she responds. 
 
 "But it is ever so much pleasanter in the garden," per 
 sists Ashley, as he twists his mustache and meets her 
 curious glance with a smile that is amiability itself. With 
 out another word she rises and accepts his extended arm. 
 
 "How delightful it is out here under the stars," rattles 
 on Jack, as they emerge into the garden. "These glor 
 ious nights almost repay one for the sweltering days. 
 Ah, here is an ideal summer house. You will find it as 
 cozy as a society darling's boudoir. Won't you take a 
 seat?" 
 
 Mrs. Harding laughs, a trifle ironically, as she sinks 
 upon the wooden bench that runs around the interior. 
 
 "Now, Mr. Ashley," she remarks, "will you be good 
 enough to inform me what you have brought me out 
 here to tell me?" 
 
 "With pleasure, madam," responds Ashley, dropping 
 back into his old deliberate self. 
 
 "If you will let your thoughts stray back about six 
 weeks, Mrs. Harding, you will perhaps remember that 
 on a certain evening I had the pleasure of relating to you 
 a fairy tale, to assist you in dissipating the monotony of 
 an attendance upon the French ball. The fairy tale 
 lacked the closing and most interesting chapter, you will 
 recall, and I requested that you supply it. 'Not to-night' 
 you protested, but you kindly promised me an interview 
 upon the following forenoon. 
 
 "That promise, I regret to say, you broke with as little 
 ceremony as one would " 
 
 "I presume," interrupts Mrs. Harding, "that it will be 
 unnecessary for me to assign my reason for failing to 
 keep my promise." 
 
 "Quite. It would not mend matters. Now, suppose,
 
 THE PEN WINS. 269 
 
 as the novelists say, we take up the thread of our narra 
 tive, which was broken when I left your box at the 
 garden." 
 
 "Suppose we do? What do you desire of me?" 
 
 "I wish to possess myself of certain information in 
 your keeping." 
 
 "Relative to that Vermont affair?" 
 
 "Precisely." 
 
 "I can tell you nothing," 
 
 "Excuse me. Perhaps you mean you will tell me 
 nothing." 
 
 "As you please, sir." 
 
 "I think you will," Jack says, calmly. "Will you par 
 don a cigar, Mrs. Harding? Perhaps the smoke ,will 
 keep these inquisitive mosquitoes at a distance." 
 
 Isabel laughs unpleasantly. "Do I understand you 
 to intimate that you will resort to force?" she inquires, 
 sarcastically. 
 
 "Assuredly; although I don't fancy the word 'force.' 
 'Induce' is the better term." 
 
 "A truce to your euphemism, Mr. Ashley. I am curi 
 ous to learn what possible lever you can possess." 
 
 "I shall not delay the information. I have in mind a 
 lever whose potency you can readily appreciate. I refer 
 to the Count de Gonzaga." 
 
 "Good heavens! What do you mean?" In awed, 
 whispered tones. 
 
 "I think you grasp my meaning," Jack returns, coolly. 
 "Or will it be necessary for me to relate another fairy tale, 
 concerning a beautiful woman who posed successfully 
 for a time as the widow of an enormously wealthy Amer 
 ican ship-owner?" 
 
 "You would not dare " 
 
 "I would dare do several things, if the occasion for 
 unusual trepidity seemed to arise. Besides, the vaunted 
 brotherhood of man " 
 
 "The vaunted brotherhood of man would lead you to 
 betray a defenseless woman one who never did you 
 aught of harm, would it?" pants Isabel. 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Harding, consider how easily you may
 
 270 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 avert such an unfortunate denouement. I don't care a 
 rap about Count Gonzaga. Conceding your natural 
 charms, which are legion, the count's affections are 
 undoubtedly, centered in your supposed fortune. That is 
 usually the principal item in the matrimonial calculations 
 of European nobility that seeks alliance with American 
 beauty. As a matter of fact, I should rather enjoy seeing 
 Gonzaga thrown down, if you will excuse the slang. 
 Come. A bargain is a bargain!" 
 
 There is a silence. Isabel is presumably weighing the 
 situation carefully, and she disappoints Ashley by rising 
 and remarking: "I think I will return to the ball-room, 
 Mr. Ashley, if you will kindly escort me." 
 
 "One moment," detains Jack. Isabel resumes her seat. 
 "Have you carefully considered the probable result of 
 your silence?" 
 
 "Perfectly." 
 
 "You must have some powerful reason for sealing your 
 lips on that Raymond affair," comments Jack; and then 
 he growls under his breath: "Why in thunder don't they 
 come?" 
 
 "We may as well terminate this interview. Do your 
 worst, Mr. Ashley.'' 
 
 "That is rather theatric, Mrs. Harding," banters Jack. 
 "Clever woman, this," he thinks. "She knows I would 
 not be such a beastly cad as to tell her story to Gonzaga. 
 Ah!" 
 
 Footsteps are heard approaching. They stop just 
 without the summer house. 
 
 "Stay!" Ashley whispers in Isabel's ear. "The count is 
 here." ' 
 
 She starts to ask, "how do you know it is he?" but 
 remains mute. An instant later the new arrival is joined 
 by another. 
 
 "Captain Alvarez!" breathes Jack, gripping Isabel's 
 arm. "Not a word!" 
 
 Isabel sinks into a seat. Ashley can feel her tremble. 
 He tosses away his cigar and remains standing. The 
 silence that broods over the garden nook is broken by
 
 THE PEN WINS. 271 
 
 Captain Alvarez, who is so near the listeners that they 
 could reach out and almost touch him. 
 
 "While I can find no objection, Count Gonzaga, to 
 satisfying your unfortunate demand, I would advise that 
 you drop this matter where it is. No good can come of 
 wittingly injuring your amour propre. Believe me '' 
 
 "Captain Alvarez," interrupts the count, frigidly, "you 
 made a distinct accusation against the character of the 
 lady whom I have honored with an offer of my hand. 
 I demand that you retract your statement and apologize 
 for its utterance, or prove its truth." 
 
 "I am willing to recall my hasty words, count." 
 
 "Then you lied?" 
 
 There is a short but eloquent silence. "Very well," says 
 Alvarez. "I perceive that you are determined to be 
 wholly undeceived as to the imposition which has been 
 put upon 'you. Know then that the wealthy American 
 widow, Isabel Harding, is neither wealthy nor a widow." 
 
 "Not a widow?" repeats Count Gonzaga. "Caramba! 
 What, then, is she?" 
 
 "What you will," replies Alvarez, indifferently. "What 
 usually is an adventuress?'' 
 
 "But the proof? Dios! The proof?" demands the 
 count. Perchance Alvarez is lying to him. 
 
 A low, unpleasant laugh from the latter. "I had the 
 honor of being at one time the very good friend of 
 madam," he says. 
 
 "Scoundrel!" grits Ashley in Mrs. Harding's ear. The 
 critical moment is at hand. "Victory!" murmurs Jack, 
 as Mrs. Harding, who has risen and is twisting her lace 
 handkerchief into shreds, gasps once or twice as Alvarez 
 finishes his brutal story, and then faints in Ashley's 
 arms. 
 
 "El Diablo!" the latter hears the count ejaculate, and 
 with the mortification in his voice is mingled much of 
 mental relief. 
 
 "Rather indelicate, but when a life is at stake delicacy 
 must go by the board," mutters Ashley. 
 
 "Ah, the precious papers ! Now, my lady, we will part 
 company."
 
 272 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 The fanfare of trumpets in the ball-room announces 
 that the captain-general has at last arrived to grace the 
 festivities with his presence. 
 
 "Have you quite recovered?" Ashley asks Isabel, with 
 as much solicitude in his voice as he can command. 
 
 "Yes, thank you. You see I am yet a woman," she 
 says bitterly. And she adds in tones of intense hatred: 
 "The cur! The coward! But come, let us return to the 
 ball " 
 
 They have reached the entrance of the ball-room. Mrs. 
 Harding stops and favors Ashley with the kindest look 
 she has ever bestowed upon him. 
 
 "Mr. Ashley, you are no friend of mine. In fact, you 
 are the only man I have ever feared. But I know you 
 would not have been the coward that Capt. Alvarez has 
 proved." 
 
 Ashley's response is an enigmatic smile. He remarks, 
 lightly: "I have the honor of wishing you a very good 
 evening, Mrs. Harding." 
 
 He watches her disappear in the crowd and sees her 
 a few moments later in the long line that is passing the 
 "reviewing stand/' As she pauses an instant before the 
 captain-general Ashley notes the latter incline his head 
 slightly. Some words are spoken and Mrs. Harding con 
 tinues on. 
 
 A triumphant smile flits over Ashley's face; he thinks 
 exultingly: 
 
 "The pen wins this time! Now for Juanita!" 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 THE SWORD TRIUMPHANT. 
 
 "You are in unusually good spirits this evening, Senor 
 Ashley." 
 
 "I am always happy when I am near you, senorita," is 
 Jack's fervent response. At which speech, the warmest
 
 THE SWORD TRIUMPHANT. 273 
 
 she has ever heard from his lips, Juanita grows as rosy 
 as the morn and does not appear displeased. 
 
 "Is that dreadfully important work which has occupied 
 so much of your time this evening yet finished?" 
 
 "Very nearly." 
 
 "And you can devote a little time to your friends?" 
 
 "I am ready to devote the remainder of my existence 
 to one of them, senorita." 
 
 "Oh, what unselfishness! When do you expect to 
 begin?" 
 
 "Whenever I have reason to believe that such devotion 
 will be rewarded by " 
 
 "Reward? Then it is not a bit unselfish and does not 
 deserve encouragement," interrupts the young lady, with 
 a toss of her head, 
 
 "You are cruel, senorita," murmurs Ashley, but his 
 voice does not betray a great deal of grief. 
 
 "I am just," declares Juanita. "While I have been 
 sitting here at the mercy of a lot of frightfully stupid men, 
 you have devoted your time to the entertainment of Mrs. 
 Harding. Perhaps that was the devotion you alluded to 
 a moment ago," ventures the young lady, with a pretty 
 frown. 
 
 "Hardly," laughs Jack. "You do not know Mrs. Hard 
 ing, senorita." 
 
 "Perhaps not as well as you, Senor Ashley. My op 
 portunities have not been so good. I saw you come in 
 from the garden. One would hardly judge that you had 
 met her only half an hour ago." 
 
 "Oh, the fair Isabel and I are old friends," Ashley 
 remarks, serenely. 
 
 "Indeed? Yet you told me " 
 
 "I will tell you more, senorita." 
 
 "I don't want to hear any more," opposes Juanita 
 crossly. "You have deceived me once and I " 
 
 "Deceived thee? Ah, Juanita " Jack checks him 
 self as he notes the flush of annoyance in her cheeks. 
 
 "Hello ! There's the chap I've been looking for," sud 
 denly remarks Ashley, as he catches a glimpse of Capt. 
 Guerra over by the big staircase. "Will you pardon me
 
 274 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 just a moment, senorita? That will complete my evening 
 work, and then if a lifetime of devotion will 
 
 "Stop! I shan't hear another word," breaks in Juanita, 
 imperiously. "And you need not hurry back," she adds 
 irritably, provoked by Ashley's serenity. 
 
 Meanwhile Ashley is telling himself that he must be 
 progressing in his wooing, since Juanita has betrayed 
 symptoms of jealousy. "Devotion? She little knows how 
 much need she has of a clear head and strong arm," lie 
 thinks. "Ah, Capt. Guerra," he remarks, pausing before 
 a distinguished-appearing gentleman who is idling by the 
 staircase, "will you be good enough to follow me into the 
 garden?" 
 
 Ashley passes out and Guerra follows him curiously. 
 When they are alone and unobserved Ashley takes an en 
 velope from his pocket and presses it into the captain's 
 hand. 
 
 "Read that and then destroy it," he directs. 
 
 "Your meaning, senor?" 
 
 "No explanation is necessary. I am ignorant of the 
 contents of the documents further than that their publicity 
 would be deuced awkward for you and incidentally for 
 myself." 
 
 "Wonderful! How came you by them?" 
 
 "That is my affair, senor. Had I not rescued them 
 they would now be in the hands of Truenos. Adios!" 
 And Jack leaves the mystified Spaniard to his own de 
 vices. 
 
 Meantime a little scene that would afford Ashley the 
 keenest delight to witness is taking place in one of the 
 rooms of the palace. Gen. Truenos is seated at a table 
 littered with maps and papers and Gen. Murillo and Isabel 
 Harding have just been ushered into the apartment. 
 
 "You have succeeded?" Truenos asks as Mrs. Harding 
 approaches. 
 
 "Beyond expectation. Quesada may not be the head 
 and front of the offenders, but he is certainly one in 
 whom there has been placed some authority." 
 
 "Quesada is now a fugitive," asserts Truenos.
 
 THE SWORD TRIUMPHANT. 275 
 
 "Indeed?" This is news to Isabel. "Ashley's warning," 
 she thinks. "When did you learn this, general?" 
 
 ''To-day. He has taken refuge on board the United 
 States cruiser. I have strongly suspected Quesada, but 
 have not particularly feared him. Quesada is a figure 
 head. What I want is proof of conspiracy on the part of 
 men any one of whom is more troublesome than a dozen 
 Quesadas men I suspect to be conspiring against the 
 government even while pretending to serve it/' 
 
 "Would certain dispatches from Don Quesada ad 
 dressed to Capt. Francisco Guerra furnish the necessary 
 evidence?" asks Mrs. Harding. 
 
 "Ah! You have intercepted such?" 
 
 "Better. I am the bearer of them." 
 
 Truenos regards his spy admiringly. "Bueno! The 
 papers at once!" he cries. 
 
 "And my reward?" suggests Isabel, as she takes from 
 her bosom the precious envelope. 
 
 "Anything that you may ask in reason," replies the 
 captain-general, reaching impatiently for the documents. 
 "Why, how is this? This letter is addressed to me. 
 
 "To you?" exclaims Isabel in astonishment. "Surely 
 why there must be some mistake." 
 
 "Evidently," rejoins Truenos, as he breaks the seal. 
 
 Isabel watches him anxiously as he scans the document. 
 A pale sickly light is beginning to break upon her be 
 wilderment. 
 
 Ashley! The papers have been tampered with! It was 
 for that he led her to the garden. How did he know, be 
 fore they spoke, who were the two men whose meeting 
 had interrupted their conversation in the summer house? 
 And, oh, how weak she had been! She sees it all now and 
 she swears she will be revenged. Aha! She knows where 
 to wound him, to repay him in awful torture for the trick 
 he has played upon her. 
 
 While these dark thoughts are flitting through her 
 mind the captain-general has finished his brief examina 
 tion of the letter, which he tosses over to her. She picks 
 it up mechanically and reads:
 
 276 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "To His Excellency, Honorato de Truenos: Indisposition 
 prevents my attending the grand ball to-night and offering my 
 congratulations upon your safe arrival at Santiago. Under 
 the directions of such a general there should be no difficulty 
 in quickly subduing the insurrection, which I believe to be 
 nearly at an end. Manuel de Quesada." 
 
 "I have been tricked, Gen. Truenos," says Isabel, 
 crushing the paper in her hand. 
 
 "It would seem so," remarks the captain-general. It is 
 apparent that he is vastly disappointed. "Come, tell me 
 of your stay at the quinta, all you know concerning Que 
 sada and his movements." 
 
 There is much of importance to relate, and when Mrs. 
 Harding has finished her story Truenos summons Capt. 
 Huerta. 
 
 "Take a dozen of your men and repair at once to La 
 Quinta de Quesada. You know where it is?" Capt. 
 Huerta knows perfectly. "Ransack the house thorough 
 ly and fetch me every scrap of writing upon the prem 
 ises. Gen. Murillo, do you follow in the morning and 
 look over the place. Go!'' to Huerta. 
 
 The latter bows and leaves the room. Mrs. Harding 
 follows. "One moment, Captain Huerta," she says. 
 
 A short but earnest conversation ensues. Isabel talks 
 in rapid whispers, and the Spanish captain listens eagerly, 
 while surprise, anger, hope and malicious joy are mir 
 rored in succession upon his swarthy countenance. 
 
 "Within ten minutes," he breathes, and hurries away 
 to execute the commands of the captain-general. 
 
 "I told you it would be better if you delivered the 
 papers to me during the afternoon," General Murillo 
 tells Mrs. Harding, after Truenos has gone. "Who has 
 been the cause of your undoing?" 
 
 Isabel tells him of her suspicions, which she has come 
 to regard as virtual facts, and Murillo is inclined to 
 agree with her. 
 
 "The game is not yet played out, general," flashes 
 Isabel. 
 
 "Well, take care, take care," admonishes Murillo, as 
 they separate. 
 
 "Ah, here is the very man now," frowns the general,
 
 THE SWORD TRIUMPHANT. 2?7 
 
 as he re-enters the sala grande and is greeted by Ashley, 
 who has just left Captain Guerra. 
 
 "My dear Senor Ashley," he observes dryly, "let me 
 give you a piece of advice." 
 
 "With pleasure, general. I am always open to kindly 
 counsel, although I do not always follow it." 
 
 "Do not let your interest in a young lady lead you 
 into mixing with the affairs of a country toward which 
 you are expected to maintain a strict neutrality," is Muril- 
 lo's blunt remark. 
 
 "I don't think I catch your drift, general/' drawls 
 Jack. But he does, and the gleam of quiet triumph in his 
 blue eyes irritates Murillo. 
 
 "I have warned you," says the latter, and turns on his 
 heel. 
 
 "So I am suspected," thinks Ashley. "I imagined the 
 fair Isabel would like to know to whom to ascribe her 
 confusion. And now to undeceive Juanita." 
 
 But Juanita is not to be found. There are few guests 
 remaining in the sala and she is not among them. 
 
 Ashley explores the garden, with like success. Then 
 he questions the line of volante drivers drawn up before 
 the entrance to the palace grounds. Have any of them 
 seen Senorita de Quesada? None that he interrogates 
 have had that pleasure, and the Pearl of the Antilles is 
 known by sight to nearly all of them. Ashley is in 
 despair. 
 
 "The Senorita de Quesada?" queries one of the Cuban 
 jehus, who has just joined the group. "The senorita and 
 another lady were driven away in a volante not ten min 
 utes ago." 
 
 "In what direction?" demands Ashley. 
 
 "To Santos." 
 
 "To Santos? Heavens, man, they cannot go to Santos 
 at this hour of night unescorted!" 
 
 Unescorted? Is not Captain Huerta and his men all 
 the escort that one could desire? 
 
 This intelligence is a frightful strain upon Ashley's 
 composure, as he thinks of Juanita, Isabel, Captain 
 Huerta and the deserted La Quinta de Quesada.
 
 278 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "Quick ! To Santos !" he cries, springing into a volante 
 and tossing a handful of coin to the driver. "To Santos 
 as fast as your horse will travel!" 
 
 The man leaps to his seat, cracks his whip and they 
 are off. 
 
 As they clatter through the streets of Santiago and 
 swing into the road which Ashley traversed only a few 
 hours before, Jack shouts impatiently, "Faster! Faster! 
 Great Scott! This is no funeral! Though it may be, 
 before I'm through with it," he adds, savagely. 
 
 "But senor, we will dash the volante to pieces/' pro 
 tests his charioteer. 
 
 Inwardly chafing, but realizing the futility of impa 
 tience, Ashley forces himself to be calm. It seems an age 
 before the distance to Santos is traversed, but finally the 
 outlines of the few buildings which the hamlet boasts are 
 seen against the starlit sky. 
 
 The driver reins up his steed for further directions. 
 
 "To La Quinta de Quesada," orders Ashley, and they 
 rattle on. 
 
 Suddenly rings out the command, "Alto!" and the 
 volante stops with a suddenness that nearly unseats its 
 passenger, directly ir\ front of El Calabozo de Infierno, 
 the local carcel. 
 
 "What in the devil's name " begins Ashley, but he 
 
 is seized and dragged roughly from the volante, a pistol 
 clapped to his head and the command hissed in his ear: 
 "Callese!" 
 
 Lights appear about the entrance of the carcel, and as 
 Ashley is hustled toward the gloom beyond he sees, 
 standing near the passageway and watching the strange 
 proceedings with a troubled face, the aged priest whom 
 he noted at La Quinta de Quesada a few days before. 
 
 Ashley is hurried through the patio and along the ill- 
 smelling corridor beyond to an open cell. Into this lie 
 is pushed and his ungentle captor tells him: 
 
 "En la manana muere V. sobre el garote!" 
 
 "Thank you," says Ashley. His stock of Spanish is 
 just sufficient to enable him to comprehend the nature
 
 EL CALABOZO DE INFIERNO. 279 
 
 of the cheerful intelligence, which is to the effect that he 
 is to die by the iron collar to-morrow. 
 
 "Will you leave the light?" he requests. 
 
 The smoky lantern is set upon the floor. Then the 
 door clangs to, there is a rattle of chains and the echo 
 of departing footsteps and he is alone. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 EL CALABOZO DE INFIERNO. 
 
 An ordinary man, suddenly placed in the position in 
 which Jack Ashley finds himself, would perhaps exhaust 
 his strength in useless imprecations upon his oppressors, 
 and finish by sinking into utter hopelessness as to his 
 fate. 
 
 But, as was intimated when the reader first made his 
 acquaintance, Jack Ashley is not an ordinary man. The 
 practice of self-restraint has enabled him to retain to a 
 remarkable degree his self-possession at more than one 
 exciting moment, and his sublime confidence in himself 
 is never wanting. 
 
 Clearly his arrest has been arbitrary and unofficial. 
 He has not even been searched. His watch and money, 
 his papers, even his revolver, are upon his person. 
 
 "And best of all, they have not deprived me of this 
 incomparable solace," he says, as he draws a cigar from 
 his pocket and lights it at the smoky little lantern in the 
 cell. Then he throws himself on the wretched straw 
 couch, to think of some way out of the snare into which 
 he has stumbled. 
 
 Isabel Harding has undoubtedly imparted to Truenos 
 all she knows, all she suspects. But suspicion is not 
 proof. And the strongest suspicion would not have war 
 ranted, much less likely have caused, such an outrage 
 upon a citizen of the United States,
 
 280 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 Plainly there is some private villainy back of it all. 
 Then a light flashes through his brain. 
 
 Juanita! In his selfish though natural consideration 
 of his own unpleasant position he has forgotten for the 
 nonce the Pearl of the Antilles, the one woman who has 
 ever stirred his light heart to a love that, once given, 
 means all of life to him. 
 
 He sees it all now. Don Quesada gone, his daughter 
 unprotected, worse than unprotected as the companion 
 of Isabel Harding, and at the mercy of Captain Raymon 
 Huerta, who has haunted her for weeks and forced his 
 unwelcome attentions upon her! The only man who 
 could lend a defending arm locked fast in a Cuban jail, 
 with the prospect of being garroted before another sun 
 goes down! 
 
 It is infamous! Ashley leaps to his feet and paces the 
 cell like a raging lion, and shakes the iron door with 
 impotent energy. 
 
 "Pshaw!" he cries, and laughs recklessly. "What is 
 the use in wasting my strength and nerves in this man 
 ner? Courage, Jack. If the senorita is to be saved, 
 and yourself incidentally, you will need all of your 
 strength and nerve. Let's take an account of stock." 
 And he falls to meditating again. 
 
 How come Captain Huerta and his men to be at Santos 
 at this hour of the night? Sent by Truenos, who perhaps 
 has ordered Don Quesada's arrest, or, if he knows of 
 the latter's flight, has ordered the quinta to be searched. 
 How came Juanita to leave for home without bidding 
 him adios? She could not have been so piqued by jeal 
 ousy or by his good-natured banter that she would have 
 left the palace without even a cold farewell. Isabel's 
 work, without a doubt. Why has he been set upon by a 
 horde of ruffians and thrust into a cell? Because his 
 presence at Santos would interfere with some devilish 
 plans afoot. Again Isabel's work, assisted by Captain 
 Huerta. 
 
 But what vile plot is maturing outside the walls of 
 El Calabozo de Infierno while he lies helpless here? As
 
 EL CALABOZO DE INFIERNO. 281 
 
 he thinks of Juanita he grits his teeth in suppressed fury 
 and chews his cigar to a pulp. 
 
 As for his captor's gratuitous information, that he is 
 to be executed in the morning, nonsense! That is what 
 an American would term a cold bluff. They would not 
 dare to proceed to such an extremity. They have gone 
 to dangerous lengths already. 
 
 At this moment his meditations are broken in upon by 
 a key being inserted in the cell door. The door swings 
 open and closes behind Father Hilario, the venerable 
 padre of the little church of San Pedro. At sight of the 
 priest, Ashley's composure returns. 
 
 "Good-morning, father," is his salutation. "I noticed 
 you at the entrance to my lodgings for the night, and I 
 should have spoken, but my friends rather insisted on 
 my maintaining a strict silence. I believe 'callese' means 
 keep your mouth shut, or something of that sort, does 
 it not?" 
 
 "I have but a short time to remain," says Father Hila 
 rio, surveying with some wonder the composed face of 
 the young man before him. 
 
 "Well, whatever your errand may be, I am indebted 
 to you for this visit," remarks Jack. "It's confoundedly 
 lonesome here. I will not apologize for my apartment, 
 as it is not of my own selection. Now, what can I do for 
 you, father, or what can you do for me?" 
 
 "My son, you are not of the faith of Rome, but I have 
 called to offer you the consolation which a clergyman 
 can extend in your last hours." 
 
 "Is it as bad as that? Really, I don't take any stock 
 in this garroting business. I believe that is thrown in for 
 theatrical effect." 
 
 Father Hilario shakes his head. "Captain Huerta 
 is a desperate man," he avows. "There is nothing to 
 prevent his wreaking his enmity upon you." 
 
 "Oh, is there not? Thank you, father, for the offer of 
 your ministrations, but really, I do not believe I shall 
 need them. Do not misunderstand me," Ashley adds, 
 quickly, as a pained expression passes over the kindly 
 face of the priest. "What I mean is that I have too
 
 282 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 healthy an interest in life, liberty and the pursuit of hap 
 piness to pass many hours in such a stuffy, ill-smelling 
 donjon as this.'' 
 
 Father Hilario holds up a warning finger. 'There are 
 listeners about," he says. 
 
 "Let them listen. If their stock of English is equal 
 to my collection of Spanish they will be vastly entertained 
 by my remarks." 
 
 "You will attempt to escape?" queries the priest, in a 
 cautious whisper. 
 
 "At the first opportunity." 
 
 "The attempt will fail." 
 
 "It will succeed," retorts Ashley. 
 
 "No; it will fail," repeats Father Hilario. "The carce- 
 lero, always watchful, will be doubly vigilant to-night. 
 He has probably been bribed." 
 
 "But a larger bribe '' 
 
 "Is out of the question. His life would pay the 
 penalty." 
 
 "I don't believe it. But enough of that," says Ashley, 
 impatiently. "Now tell me, father, of the Senorita de 
 Quesada. Have you seen her to-night?" 
 
 The priest is silent. In his muteness, Ashley finds the 
 confirmation of his worst fears. 
 
 "Speak, man!" he cries impatiently. "Do you know 
 that the life and happiness of the senorita are more to me 
 than my own existence? Speak!" 
 
 "She is in the church of San Pedro." 
 
 "In whose company?" 
 
 "She is alone." 
 
 "Alone in the church of San Pedro after midnight? 
 What mean you?" 
 
 "She is a prisoner. 
 
 "A prisoner? Ten thousand devils!" rages Ashley, 
 striding to and fro in his narrow cell. 
 
 "Calm yourself, my son," remonstrates Father Hilario. 
 "Nothing can be accomplished by such wild outbursts." 
 
 "Oh, yes; I'll be calm!" grits Ashley. "By heaven, I'd 
 give ten years of my life for ten minutes of liberty!" 
 
 "Come. Time flies, and the carcelero will soon be
 
 EL CALABOZO DE INFIERNO. 283 
 
 here," admonishes Father Hilario. "Is there aught I 
 can do for thee, my son?" 
 
 Ashley forces a tranquillity of mind that he little feels. 
 "How came you to learn of the senorita's imprisonment?" 
 he asks. 
 
 "I was returning from a midnight summons to a death 
 bed and had nearly reached my house when Captain 
 Huerta and his men entered the town, escorting a vo- 
 lante. Suddenly the party were attacked in the dark 
 ness.'' 
 
 "By Huerta's own men?" 
 
 "That was doubtless part of the plot. The two women 
 in the volante were separated. The senorita was borne 
 fainting into the church and then quietness reigned again. 
 I lingered about the scene, and was a witness of your 
 arrest not many minutes afterward. I begged permission 
 to see you, and the carcelero, in granting it, bade me 
 roughly to tell you that you die on the morrow." 
 
 "A merry knave," remarks Ashley. "Well, father, you 
 can be of great service to me. Will you not bear a mes 
 sage from me to General Truenos? Or, no; hang Tru- 
 enos. To General Murillo, then. You know him. My 
 detention here is without his knowledge, of that I am 
 assured. It is a vile outrage that he would not brook." 
 
 The priest shakes his head. "It would be useless," he 
 says. "From the instant I leave this place I shall be 
 watched, shadowed every step of the way to my house. 
 An attempt to leave Santos would be at once frustrated." 
 
 "You believe so?" 
 
 "I am positive of it." 
 
 "But the senorita. Can you communicate with her." 
 
 "Ay; and without the knowledge of Captain Huerta." 
 
 "You can?" cries Ashley, eagerly. "But you said you 
 would be watched." 
 
 "Ah," says the priest, with a faint smile, "there is an 
 entrance to the church that Captain Huerta knows not 
 of an entrance from my house through the little garden 
 intervening." 
 
 "Good. Excellently good," remarks Ashley, into 
 whose active brain has flashed an inspiration. "Father
 
 284 tINDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 Hilario, I have a plan. You must join the senorita and 
 myself in marriage." 
 
 "Marry you? Impossible!" exclaims the astonished 
 padre. Have the American's troubles driven him insane? 
 
 "Impossible nothing. Easiest thing in the world if the 
 lady is willing/' is Ashley's cheerful response. "Now, 
 listen to me, father. Don Quesada is a fugitive, and his 
 daughter, being a Cuban, is amenable to the laws of this 
 country. From the Spanish government she would not 
 likely receive much earnest protection or reparation for 
 any wrongs she might suffer. But when she becomes 
 Mrs. Jack Ashley," says Jack, dramatically, working up 
 to a mild enthusiasm, "she is then an American citizen 
 and as such she will be under the protection of a flag 
 that the Spaniard dare not affront with impunity. You 
 get the idea, eh?" 
 
 "Impossible, impossible, I tell you," repeats Father 
 Hilario. "You are not a Catholic, Senor Ashley; the 
 senorita is. Besides, the consent of her father " 
 
 "This is no time for quibbling over technicalities. 
 Would you see a woman, your friend's daughter, insulted, 
 perhaps murdered, when a few words from your lips 
 would save her?" 
 
 "I would do my duty," replies the priest, calmly. "The 
 idea is madness. I cannot bring the senorita here, and 
 you cannot reach the church." 
 
 "Oh, I'll be there in season," is the cool response. 
 "Just leave the way from your house to the church open 
 to me." 
 
 "If you have any message to send the senorita, you 
 must make haste, adjures the priest. "The carcelero is 
 approaching." 
 
 "It will be brief," replies Ashley. Then hurriedly: 
 "Go to her at once. Comfort her. Pray with her. And 
 tell her that I will be with her before the sun rises. Say 
 nothing about the marriage. I prefer to do my own pro 
 posing. But, above all, remain with her until I come." 
 
 Then, in a different tone, as the cell door is swung 
 open by the carcelero: "Many thanks, dear father, for 
 your kindly visit and spiritual solace. I have made my
 
 AT BAY IN THE CHURCH OF SAN PEDRO. 285 
 
 peace with heaven, and to-morrow I will show these 
 Spanish gentry how an American can die when he gets 
 ready," he adds, under his breath, as the iron door clangs 
 to and he is once more alone. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 AT BAY IN THE CHURCH OF SAN PEDRO. 
 
 As the echo of Father Hilario's footsteps dies away 
 adown the gloomy corridor Ashley glances at his watch. 
 It lacks a quarter of two o'clock. 
 
 "The trick must be done within two hours, or all is 
 lost," he mutters. Then he extinguishes the light and 
 throws himself down upon the pallet of straw. 
 
 Ten, fifteen minutes pass. The tread of the carcelero 
 on his rounds sounds from the corridor and a light is 
 flashed into the cell. A counterfeit snore from Ashley 
 greets him and he passes on with a muttered "Dios! He 
 sleeps as if to-morrow were his wedding day." In five 
 minutes, his round of inspection completed, he repasses 
 the cell door and continues on, until silence again en 
 shrouds the prison. 
 
 Then Ashley arises, takes out his jack-knife and opens 
 one of the blades, a finely tempered steel saw. 
 
 "Thank heaven for that much Yankee inventiveness!'' 
 he murmurs, as he sinks on one knee beside the iron door 
 of his cell and applies the saw blade to the lower end of 
 one of the rusty bars. 
 
 As the steel slowly but surely eats its way into the cor 
 roded iron and finally slips entirely through, Ashley again, 
 aided by a match, consults his watch. It is nearly three 
 o'clock. Scarcely had he extinguished the lucifer than 
 the approach of the carcelero is heard, and he retreats to 
 his pallet, to again feign an audible slumber. 
 
 All still once more, and he attacks the upper end of 
 the bar. When almost severed he seizes it with both
 
 286 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 hands and exerts all his strength. The iron snaps, and as 
 Ashley falls back the bar slips from his hands and drops 
 to the floor of the cell with a loud clang. 
 
 Jack inwardly curses his carelessness. Such a tremen 
 dous noise would alarm the sleepiest of guards. He must 
 act, and act quickly. 
 
 To squeeze through the space made in the door is the 
 work of some moments, and it is not accomplished an 
 instant too soon. A light approaches. 
 
 Ashley remembers that opposite his cell is another, the 
 door to which is ajar. With the iron bar in his hand he 
 gropes his way across the corridor and into the open 
 cell. A moment later the carcelero, lantern in hand, 
 stands before the now tenantless pen, and stares stupidly 
 at the wreck of the iron door. 
 
 Before he can utter an outcry the bar in Ashley's hand 
 descends upon his head with crushing force and he drops 
 like a log. 
 
 "I hope I didn't kill the poor devil," thinks Jack. He 
 drags the unconscious man into the open cell, and, tear 
 ing and tying his handkerchief into a gag, he makes 
 assured the silence of the carcelero. Then he extin 
 guishes the lantern and is soon standing at the entrance 
 of the prison. 
 
 To his left is life and liberty. To his right ah, some 
 thing dearer than life Juanita de Quesada, locked in the 
 little church of San Pedro, the outlines of which stand 
 boldly against the star-gemmed heaven. 
 
 Within that little sanctuary the altar lamp sheds a soft 
 light over a strange picture. Juanita is lying upon the 
 steps of the altar, her head buried in her arms, and near 
 by stands Father Hilario, his arms folded, gazing com 
 passionately upon her. 
 
 "Why does he not come?'' moans the girl, lifting her 
 head and looking at the priest with tear-stained eyes 
 from which hope has not yet fled. 
 
 Father Hilario is silent. The American does not come 
 because, forsooth, he cannot leave his prison. But why 
 undeceive the girl? Let her hope on to the end. 
 
 The opening of a door behind them causes both to start.
 
 AT BAY IN THE CHURCH OF SAN PEDRO. 287 
 
 Jack Ashley stands upon the threshold, a smile upon his 
 face. 
 
 With a glad cry Juanita runs to him and takes both 
 his hands. "I was expecting you/' she says, simply. 
 
 "Thank you. And you?" asks Ashley, turning to 
 Father Hilario. 
 
 "I bore your message. I did not expect you," replies 
 the priest, regarding the young man with mingled wonder 
 and admiration. 
 
 "Then you must have a more flattering opinion of the 
 security of Cuban jails than I. And now, senorita, tell 
 me how you come to be in this unhappy position." 
 
 The story is brief, but interesting. 
 
 "Five minutes after you left me in the ball-room at the 
 palace," narrates Juanita, "Isabel came to me and declared 
 that we should leave for Santos. She explained that Cap 
 tain Huerta and his men were going to Santos at once, 
 and would escort us, and that the ride would be enjoyable 
 after the heat and excitement of the ball. At the mention 
 of Captain Huerta I know I looked displeased, and Isabel 
 remarked disagreeably: 'Perhaps you would prefer the 
 escort of Mr. Ashley.' I replied that I should certainly 
 prefer it to that of Captain Huerta, and she declared that 
 you would not be likely to offer it, as " 
 
 "As what?" asks Ashley, as Juanita pauses in confu 
 sion. 
 
 "She gave me to understand that you had proposed to 
 her that night and that she had refused you." 
 
 "And you believed her?" 
 
 "I don't know what I believed. But I agreed to Isa 
 bel's proposition and we left for Santos at once. On 
 our arrival there we were set upon by a party of men. 
 All I remember is being lifted from the volante by Cap 
 tain Huerta. Then I fainted, and when I recovered con 
 sciousness I was in the church, alone with Captain Huer 
 ta. He told me that he loved me. I replied that I hated 
 him, and when he attempted to put his arm around me 
 I struck him in the face. Then he swore frightfully and 
 
 told me I would regret the blow. 'My father ' I 
 
 began. 'Your father is a fugitive,' he sneered. 'You are
 
 288 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 wholly in my power.' 'Then I will kill myself/ I cried. 
 'Oh, no; you will come to your senses in a few hours,' 
 he said, tauntingly. 'I shall expect to find you in a better 
 humor when I return.' Then he went away, locking the 
 church door behind him. 
 
 "When he had gone I piled all the furniture of the 
 church against the door and then threw myself down 
 before the altar and prayed. The opening of a door 
 aroused me. I lifted my head, expecting to see again 
 the hated face of Captain Huerta. Instead, to my great 
 joy, I beheld Father Hilario. When he told me of your 
 arrest I cried out in terror. Then he gave me your mes 
 sage and hope came to me." 
 
 "And Satan came also," quotes Ashley. "I fear your 
 barricade would not withstand a very earnest assault," 
 surveying the rude defense critically. 
 
 "It was all I could do. But tell me of yourself," urges 
 Juanita. "What is the meaning of your violent arrest?" 
 
 As Ashley unfolds the black plot, beginning with the 
 first appearance of the adventuress at La Quinta de Que- 
 sada, the Cuban girl grows very pale, and she realizes 
 how much she owes to the blue-eyed young man who 
 finishes his story with the smiling quotation: "And now, 
 senorita, if a lifetime of devotion " 
 
 "There, do not remind me of my folly," she protests, 
 choking back a sob. "I will never doubt you again." 
 
 Thus encouraged, Ashley takes both of Juanita's hands 
 and whispers very tenderly: 
 
 "In this darkest hour before the dawn I have found 
 the courage to tell you what has been in my heart for 
 for nearly three weeks," he finishes with a smile. Even 
 amid the dangers that surround them, the humor of his 
 declaration impresses him. 
 
 A wave of crimson spreads over the girl's face, and in 
 the big black eyes Ashley sees the light of a great love. 
 
 The young people's eyes meet in mutual understanding. 
 He draws her to him, and the first kiss of love is ex 
 changed. It must be followed by many others, for Father 
 Hilario, after waiting what he considers a reasonable
 
 AT BAY IN THE CHURCH OF SAN PEDRO. 289 
 
 length of time, turns to the pair with an uneasy: "Well, 
 what is all this leading up to?'' 
 
 "A marriage, I should say," replies Jack, cheerfully. 
 "That is usually the logical outcome of such a situation/' 
 Father Hilario bites his lips impatiently. 
 
 "The church and the pastor are here, and I think the 
 bride is willing," continues Jack. The young girl gives 
 the priest an anxious look. 
 
 "It is useless to argue that matter further," is the firm 
 reply. "My duty to the church forbids/' The priest's 
 face convinces Ashley that the debate on the matrimonial 
 question is closed. 
 
 "Then we must seek elsewhere for a clergyman," he 
 remarks, coolly. "Come, Juanita." And he leads her 
 toward the little door by which he entered the church. 
 
 "This is madness!" cries the priest, barring the way. 
 "The town is overrun with your enemies. It is nearly 
 day and the place is already astir. Hark! Do you not 
 hear the tread of feet in the street?" 
 
 "Spanish or no Spanish, I don't propose to remain here 
 and be trapped like a rat," declares Ashley. "We can 
 at least make a break for liberty. I do not " 
 
 The sound of a key being tried in the church door 
 cuts short his words. 
 
 "It is Captain Huerta," whispers Juanita, and she trem 
 bles like a leaf in Jack's arms. 
 
 "Quick, father!" commands the latter. "You recon- 
 noiter and see if the way through the garden and your 
 house is clear." The venerable padre hurries away and 
 Ashley improves the opportunity to shower kisses upon 
 Juanita's cold and unresponsive lips. 
 
 "What a man you are!" she murmurs. "I believe you 
 would make love on your way to execution." 
 
 "I should if the opportunity was offered," laughs Jack, 
 softly. "What could more brightly illumine the last 
 moments of a condemned man than to hold in his arms, 
 if but for a few minutes, so much loveliness?" 
 
 At that moment Father Hilario reappears. "There is 
 no hope," he reports. "Suspecting all was not right,
 
 290 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 Captain Huerta has surrounded the church and grounds 
 with his men." 
 
 "Then fasten that door," says Jack. "An attack at 
 one end is all I care to look after." 
 
 The bolt is shot into place, and with the click comes 
 the sound of muttered oaths from without, followed by a 
 savage kick at the barricaded portal. 
 
 "Ho, there, within!'' demands an impatient voice. 
 
 At the sound of the hateful tones Juanita shudders and 
 throws her arms about Ashley's neck. "Save me from 
 that man!' she whispers. 
 
 For answer Jack takes another reef in his confidence- 
 restoring arm, and draws his revolver. 
 
 "Don't move, dear," he murmurs, solicitously. He 
 rather enjoys the tight embrace of those soft arms, to 
 which terror has lent a delightful fervency. "You need 
 not fear Captain Huerta so long as there is light enough 
 to shoot by." 
 
 It is a strange tableau that the altar lamp dimly shows. 
 The three figures stand immovable, as if carved in stone. 
 Ashley is calm, resolute, and his eyes are fixed upon the 
 barricaded door. The resignation of despair is depicted 
 in the beautiful face of the Cuban girl; her eyes seek 
 those of her lover, her head upon his breast. They will 
 at least die together. Near by stands the aged priest, 
 his arms folded, his eyes turned heavenward and his lips 
 moving as if in prayer. The tread of soldiery and the 
 rattle of steel sound from the street. 
 
 The stillness within the church is broken only by a 
 sharp click as Ashley's revolver is brought to half-cock. 
 
 The seconds drag by. Every one of them seems an 
 hour. 
 
 Then there is the sound of a rush of feet without, fol 
 lowed by a loud crash, as the church door is hurled from 
 its fastenings and piled upon the debris of the barricade. 
 
 The gap thus made throngs with Spanish soldiery, at 
 their head, sword in hand, Captain Raymon Huerta. At 
 sight of the picture within the church he starts back with 
 a cry of surprise and a choice assortment of Castilian 
 imprecations.
 
 UNDER THE RED, WHITE AND BLUE. 291 
 
 "You here, dog of an Americano? Who opened to 
 thee the doors of the carcel?" And the Spanish captain 
 glowers around upon his followers. 
 
 "I am indebted to no one except myself for my escape 
 from your infernal den," replies Ashley; and he adds, 
 sternly: 
 
 "Hark ye, Captain Raymon Huerta. I am here to 
 protect this young woman from your deviltry, to protect 
 her with my life. I warn you that any violence to her 
 will cost you yours." 
 
 "Your life is already forfeited," sneers Huerta. Then 
 to his followers: 
 
 "Ho, there, men! Seize the Americano and leave the 
 girl to me!" 
 
 Ashley's arm comes up. 
 
 "Halt!" he thunders. "This woman is my wife and as 
 such she is an American citizen. Another step, and, by 
 the stars and stripes, I'll send your leader to perdition!" 
 
 The streak of dawn that struggles in through the little 
 window above the altar glints upon the polished barrel 
 of a revolver pointed straight at the heart of Captain 
 Raymon Huerta. 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 UNDER THE RED, WHITE AND BLUE. 
 
 "You lie!" shouts Captain Raymon Huerta, white with 
 rage. 
 
 Ashley retorts calmly. "I repeat, Captain Huerta, what 
 I have asserted. As my wife, this woman is an American 
 citizen. An order from you to your men to fire upon or 
 seize us, will be the last words you will utter in this 
 world!" 
 
 "The marriage? Impossible! The proof? The proof ?" 
 cries Huerta, foaming with passion. 
 
 Ashley points to Father Hilario. "The proof is the
 
 292 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 word of yonder man of God, by whom we were wedded 
 not an hour ago!" 
 
 Captain Huerta glowers upon the priest. "Speaks the 
 Americano truly?" he fumes. 
 
 Father Hilario is silent. His eyes wander from the 
 lovers to the rage-distorted countenance of the Spanish 
 captain. 
 
 Ashley holds his breath. He has made a superb bluff. 
 Will the priest fail him at this supreme moment? 
 
 "Speak, vile dog of a priest!" snarls Huerta, the padre's 
 silence adding fuel to his rage. 
 
 At the brutal epithet Father Hilario's cheek flushes. 
 Then he speaks, slowly and deliberately: 
 
 "It is true. They are man and wife in the sight of God, 
 and around them are the protecting arms of the church 
 of Rome." He raises his arms as if pronouncing a bene 
 diction, and murmurs under his breath a pious: "May 
 God forgive me the deception V 
 
 Captain Huerta bites his lip till the blood comes. One 
 word to his men would mean the destruction of the heroic 
 trio. But over the shining barrel of Ashley's revolver, 
 pointed straight at his heart, the Spanish captain reads, 
 in a pair of flashing eyes, a grim resolution that means 
 his death if he but raises his sword. 
 
 The situation is critical. The strain is beginning to 
 tell on even Ashley's steel nerves. 
 
 At this moment a commotion is noted in the throng of 
 soldiery that bars the entrance to the church. 
 
 Pushing them right and left, a tall, distinguished-look 
 ing military man strides into the sanctuary. 
 
 Don Huerta dashes his sword back into its sheath and 
 sullenly awaits developments. 
 
 General Murillo, for the arrival is he, glances from one 
 of the party to the other, and then addresses himself to 
 Ashley: 
 
 "Senor, may I ask the meaning of this warlike demon 
 stration?" 
 
 Ashley lowers his revolver. "It means, general, that 
 your arrival has averted an international episode."
 
 UNDER THE RED, WHITE AND BLUE. 293 
 
 General Murillo turns to Huerta. "Withdraw at once,;' 
 he commands. "I will see you anon.'' 
 
 When Captain Huerta and his men have left the church 
 Murillo asks: 
 
 "And now, Senor Ashley, will you be good enough to 
 explain this peculiar affair?" 
 
 "Willingly. But first, general," says Jack, with a faint 
 grin, "allow me to introduce you to the prettiest girl in 
 Cuba." And for the first time since the storming of the 
 church door he removes his arm from about the waist of 
 the Pearl of the Antilles. 
 
 Murillo bows with Spanish profundity. "I have the 
 honor of the acquaintance of the Senorita de Quesada," 
 he remarks. 
 
 "Who is now plain Mrs. Jack Ashley," corrects the 
 newspaper man. "Pardon me one moment, general,'' 
 and he whispers to Juanita: 
 
 "Father Hilario looks very disconsolate; go and com 
 fort him. And now, general," to Murillo, "I am at your 
 service." 
 
 Ashley recounts briefly the exciting events that took 
 place from the hour he left the ball-room until the arrival 
 of his auditor. He says nothing of Mrs. Harding. 
 
 As the recital progresses Murillo's face darkens. 
 
 "I am convinced," declares Ashley, in conclusion, 
 "that my arrest was wholly the work of that scoundrel 
 Huerta." 
 
 "And what do you propose to do now?" asks Murillo. 
 
 "Well, I have no special plans beyond settling accounts 
 with Captain Huerta." 
 
 "I will do the settling with Captain Huerta," observes 
 the general, dryly. "As for you you must leave Cuba.'' 
 
 "My duty to my paper will not permit me to leave at 
 present. And even were I free, general, I should not 
 desire to be understood as running away." 
 
 Murillo makes a gesture of impatience. "Just like you 
 Americans. You would all want to fiddle like Caesar 
 while Rome was burning." 
 
 "Your pardon; but I believe Nero was the soloist on 
 that red-letter occasion."
 
 294 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 The general frowns. "Come with me," he says; "I 
 will furnish to you the necessary papers and you may pro 
 ceed without interruption to Santiago. The cruiser Amer 
 ica sails for Key West to-morrow. You must take pas 
 sage on her. 1 do you a service, Senor Ashley, and I do 
 it gladly, as I have a friendship for you. But I warn you 
 that any delay in leaving Cuba may subject you to much 
 annoyance, to use no harsher term. The government 
 suspects you of secretly aiding the insurrection.'' 
 
 "The government is mistaken." 
 
 Murillo glances at Juanita, and smiles ironically. "Se 
 nor Ashley," he says, "I am not so easily deceived. The 
 instrumentality that saved the senorita from annoyance 
 is the same instrumentality that placed the traitor Que- 
 sada in his present safe retreat. But what I as a man 
 might applaud, I cannot as a loyal adherent to Spain 
 condone; nor would the government take a sentimental 
 view of the matter. You will see the wisdom of my advice. 
 Come." And Murillo leads the way from the church. " 
 
 Before he leaves the scene of his new-found happiness 
 Jack Ashley presses warmly the wrinkled hands of Father 
 Hilario. "Father, you're a brick," he says, and adds solic 
 itously: "Will not Captain Huerta seek to revenge him 
 self upon you?" 
 
 "I fear him not," replies the priest, raising his head 
 proudly. Then, placing the hand of Juanita within Ash 
 ley's, he lays a hand on the head of each, and in a voice 
 choked with emotion says: 
 
 "My children, I have sinned for your sake, but I trust 
 that God will condone the offense. Heaven bless and 
 keep you and when you are happily sheltered in your 
 northern home think sometimes of Father Hilario, of the 
 little church of San Pedro." 
 
 Imprinting a kiss upon the brow of the Cuban girl, 
 the aged priest turns away and sinks upon his knees 
 before the crucifix over the altar. 
 
 It requires but a few minutes for General Murillo to 
 make out the necessary passports and as he hands them to 
 Ashley, he remarks: "You will follow my advice?" 
 
 "I will follow it to Santiago, at least, general.''
 
 UNDER THE RED, WHITE AND BLUE. 295 
 
 The general shrugs his shoulders. "Do as you please. 
 I have warned you," he says, and turns away. 
 
 Ten minutes later Ashley and Juanita are en route for 
 Santiago in a volante. 
 
 The young lady is sad. The natural reaction has set in. 
 
 "I am thinking of my father," she replies to Jack's 
 attempt to rally her. 
 
 "Your father is all right," he confidently assures her. 
 "In an hour or two you will be in his arms, and I shall 
 have the pleasure of asking him for the hand of the 
 dearest girl in the world. Or, stay, I am progressing too 
 rapidly," he mu'ses, in mock concern. "It has occurred 
 to me," he goes on, "that oh, well, of course a proposal 
 of marriage must naturally be regarded more conserva 
 tively now than '' 
 
 "Jack!" 
 
 "Yes, senorita." 
 
 "What are you talking about?" 
 
 "Of you, senorita. Ah, something in your eyes tells 
 me that I may be presumptuous enough to hope." 
 
 "What nonsense! There, I knew you were joking," 
 declares Juanita, as she catches a stray twinkle in Jack's 
 eye. "You foolish boy, you know I love you. I have 
 loved you ever since I met you." 
 
 "Three whole weeks ago," muses Ashley, as he draws 
 the blushing face to his and kisses it. 
 
 "Do you know, I have been insanely jealous of your 
 friend Don Carlos all along," confesses Jack, after a long, 
 happy silence, during which the pair quite forget the 
 volante driver. 
 
 "Jealous of Don Carlos? Oh! 5 ' cries Juanita, bursting 
 into merry laughter. 
 
 "I admit it is highly humorous, in the light of recent 
 developments," says Jack, who sees nothing to laugh at 
 in his remark. "What is there so amusing in it all?" 
 
 "Oh, you dear, foolish Jack/' exclaims the girl, throw 
 ing her arms around his neck. "To be jealous of Don 
 Carlos! Why, Don Carlos is a girl." 
 
 "I am aware that, to the public gaze, Don Carlos is at 
 present a young lady," returns Ashley, loftily, "but you
 
 296 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 must remember that I knew Don Carlos before he ex 
 changed his customary attire for his present feminine 
 toggery." 
 
 "Oh, how superiorily wise you look," banters Juanita. 
 "But I tell you that Don Carlos has always been, is now 
 and always will be a girl!" 
 
 "What!" 
 
 "And you never suspected it you who are so pene 
 trating?" mocks the young lady. 
 
 But Jack makes no reply. His mind is attempting to 
 digest this surprising bit of information. Then a light 
 begins to break upon him. 
 
 "Her real name what is it?" he asks, suddenly. 
 
 Juanita becomes serious again. "I must not divulge 
 it, Jack, dear. I should not have told you what I have, 
 but you looked so comical when you told me you had 
 been jealous of Don Carlos. There, please don't catec-hise 
 me further." 
 
 "I shall not," replies Ashley. "Besides, it will be un 
 necessary for you to betray her identity." 
 
 "Then you know " 
 
 "I think I do. As I more than once remarked, I have 
 an excellent memory for faces, although I am sometimes 
 
 a dev a diablo of a while in recalling the names that 
 
 go with them." And Ashley relapses into meditation. 
 
 "Well, here we are at Santiago," announces Jack. "In 
 a short time you can bid a temporary adieu to the soil of 
 Cuba; and the sooner the better." 
 
 And indeed, the streets of Santiago are in apparent 
 possession of a riotous mob, swarming in and out of the 
 cafes. 
 
 Ashley and Juanita find no obstacles in their path ; half 
 an hour later they are aboard the America, under the red, 
 white and blue, and Juanita is in her father's arms, relat 
 ing breathlessly the thrilling incidents of the last few 
 hours. 
 
 Ashley leaves them to their exchange of confidence and 
 affection, and goes off to talk with Captain Meade. When 
 Ke sees Don Quesada again that gentleman takes his
 
 UNDER THE RED, WHITE AND BLUE. 297 
 
 hand and assures him that he is honored by his prospect 
 ive entrance into the family. 
 
 "As for Cuba," declares the Don, his eyes lighting with 
 a trace of their old-time fire, "the cause of the patriots 
 was never brighter. To be sure, I am a fugitive, and 
 El Terredo yesterday suffered a severe defeat, the Pearl 
 of the Antilles having been destroyed in an unequal en 
 gagement with three Spanish cruisers and gunboats. But 
 General Masso is advancing upon Santiago, with 10,000 
 revolutionists, and the fall of the city is looked for within 
 forty-eight hours. Already the Spanish warships are 
 gathering preparatory to shelling the place should it 
 come into the hands of the patriots, and foreign vessels 
 are preparing to leave the harbor." 
 
 "I believe I will take Murillo's advice for the present^' 
 reflects Ashley, "but I shall return to-morrow with the 
 cruiser and be in at the death." Then he goes in search of 
 Juanita. 
 
 "Now," says that young lady, "if you have finished 
 squeezing my hand before all these officers and seamen, 
 come below and I will introduce you to to 'Miss Car 
 los'." 
 
 "All right, sweetheart," replies Jack, gayly. "Let me 
 see. I believe you remarked early this morning that you 
 would never doubt me again." 
 
 "Yes?" responds the young lady, inquiringly. 
 
 "Then, after you have introduced me to 'Miss Carlos' 
 will you leave us alone for a short time?" 
 
 "What a strange request! But it is granted." 
 
 " Grood. And now let us go below." 
 
 The interview, whatever its nature, has a peculiar effect 
 upon Ashley. Upon returning from it he is saying to 
 himself, sotto voce. 
 
 "By Jove! This case has taken a turn that I little 
 looked for. I'd give four dollars to see John Barker, 
 detective, at this moment."
 
 298 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 THE ENCOUNTER AT THE CAFE DE A'LMENDRAS. 
 
 "You have settled your business interests in this coun 
 try satisfactorily?" 
 
 "Perfectly so. Much more profitably, indeed, than I 
 expected." 
 
 "Then there is nothing further to keep you here except 
 sight-seeing?" 
 
 "Nothing except sight-seeing." 
 
 Cyrus Felton, Phillip Van Zandt and Louise Hathaway 
 are seated on the veranda of the little Cafe de Almendras, 
 on the outskirts of Santiago. They have returned this 
 morning from a short jaunt to the interior and are not 
 impressed favorably with rural Cuba. So they gladly re 
 turn to the contemplation of that view which is ever 
 welcome, no matter where one may roam old ocean. 
 
 "And you, Miss Hathaway have you any Cuban ties 
 that you will sever with regret?" inquires Van Zandt. 
 
 Miss Hathaway is more thoughtful than the occasion 
 would seem to require. "None," she replies, slowly. 
 "Unless," she adds quickly, "the pleasure of your society 
 for the last month may be regarded as a Cuban tie." 
 
 "Thank you," rejoins Van Zandt, with a glance that 
 brings a blush to the face of the Vermont maiden. 
 
 "No; I am utterly, uncompromisingly disappointed 
 with Cuba," she says. "And the people! But I have 
 been here but a few days, so I shall not place my opinion 
 upon record." 
 
 "And yet your brief impression of Cuba, Miss Hatha 
 way, would not be likely to change much for the better 
 if you were to spend a dozen years here. The country is 
 uninteresting. The Spaniard cannot be changed. The 
 Cuban that is, the Cuban we see about us does not 
 deserve freedom. He lets the blacks and his brothers 
 of the chaparral do all the fighting, and hardly dares, ex 
 cept in private, to express his cordial hatred of his ancient
 
 ENCOUNTER AT THE CAFE DE ALMANDRAS. 299 
 
 enemy. Do you know, Mr. Felton, I rather fancied that 
 you had relatives in Cuba." 
 
 "Relatives in Cuba?" The little color suddenly recedes 
 from Mr. Felton's face. 
 
 "Yes," says Van Zandt. "The day before I had the 
 pleasure of meeting you and Miss Hathaway I was read 
 ing in a New York paper an interview with a member of 
 the Cuban revolutionary society. In speaking of the 
 diversified character of the Spanish officers in Cuba, the 
 gentleman mentioned that attached to the staff of Gen 
 eral Truenos was a young American, a former sugar 
 planter. His name was Felton, but he changed it to 
 Alvarez. When I first discovered your name and learned 
 that you were en route to Cuba I unconsciously associated 
 you with this young sugar planter so friendly to the Span 
 ish cause." 
 
 During Van Zandt's speech, delivered in apparently- 
 careless tones, Mr. Felton succeeds in mastering a strong 
 emotion. Louise is regarding him somewhat nervously, 
 but Van Zandt quickly refills Miss Hathaway's glass with 
 jerez and passes it to her with a smiling comment on the 
 quality of the wine. 
 
 The rather awkward silence is broken by Mr. Felton. 
 
 "Mr. Van Zandt, and to you, Louise, I may say that 
 I believe I have a son in Cuba, and that he is the young 
 man alluded to in that newspaper. One reason why I 
 have come to Cuba is to find that son. I supposed he was 
 operating the sugar plantation that we visited last week. 
 I did not know that he had joined the Spanish service." 
 
 "I regret," remarks Van Zandt, "that my idle remark 
 should have stirred you to speak of a matter on which 
 you might have preferred to have remained silent." 
 
 "The subject is a painful one, it is true, but once started 
 I may as well go on to the end. It is nearly a year ago 
 the ist of June that Ralph left home, and since then 
 I have heard from him but twice, and vaguely each 
 time." 
 
 Both Mr. Felton and Louise are gazing seaward, else 
 they would note the swift look of surprise that passes 
 across Van Zandt's face.
 
 300 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 'The ist of June," he repeats, as if attempting to recall 
 some incident of the past. "Did not something peculiar 
 occur in Raymond that is the name of your town, is it 
 not? about that time?" 
 
 Mr. Felton shoots a quick, inquiring look at Van 
 Zandt's face, but reads nothing there except disinterested 
 curiosity. 
 
 "Something very peculiar occurred two days before 
 that date," he replies, gravely. "On the night of Memorial 
 day Roger Hathaway, Louise's father, the cashier of the 
 Raymond National Bank, was found dead in his office at 
 the bank, and the institution was discovered to have 
 been robbed of a large amount of money. The murderer 
 has never been discovered and presumably never will be." 
 
 An expression of self-reproach is visible in Van Zandt's 
 face as he turns to Louise. 
 
 "Forgive me, Miss Hathaway; I was not aware " 
 
 "There is nothing to forgive, Mr. Van Zandt," Louise 
 replies. "But I do not share Mr. Felton's opinion that 
 the veil of mystery enshrouding the tragedy will never 
 be lifted. Something within me tells me that one day 
 the slayer of my father will be brought to justice." 
 
 Miss Hathaway again turns her eyes, now wet with 
 tears, toward the sea. Mr. Felton is very pale and it 
 is apparent that he would welcome a change in the con 
 versation. Van Zandt, however, continues: 
 
 "Now, that you speak of it," he says, knitting his 
 brows, "I recall that I read something about the case 
 in the papers at the time. Was no one suspected?" 
 
 "Three persons were suspected two of them unjustly. 
 Derrick Ames" with a quick glance at Louise, who 
 flushes scarlet and bites her lips "was one and my son 
 the other. You may be surprised at my stating this," 
 in response to Van Zandt's questioning gaze, "but you 
 will understand better why I am so anxious to find Ralph. 
 He had some motive for leaving Raymond as he did, 
 and until that motive is discovered and his name cleared 
 I shall be one of the most unhappy of fathers." 
 
 "And the third party suspected? You have mentioned 
 only two," says Van Zandt.
 
 ENCOUNTER AT THE CAFE DE ALMENDRAS. 301 
 
 "The thiid? Oh, yes; the third was a young man 
 named Ernest Stanley. He was the only stranger in 
 Raymond, so far as known, on the day of the tragedy. 
 This young man had been liberated from state prison 
 on Memorial day, after serving two years of a three 
 years' sentence for forgery." 
 
 "Then there was fairly good reason for suspecting 
 him?" comments Van Zandt, with an enigmatic smile. 
 "Give a dog a bad name, you know. But tell me about 
 the fellow. I confess I am rather interested in him. Was 
 his forgery a very serious affair?'' 
 
 "A matter of $1,000. Mine was the name he forged." 
 
 "Indeed. How did you trace it?" 
 
 "That was a peculiar feature of the case. Stanley 
 presented the check at the bank of which I was presi 
 dent." 
 
 "Rather a blundering piece of business, should you 
 not say? But may he not have been innocent?" 
 
 "The forgery was proved.'' 
 
 "Ah! Stanley admitted it?" 
 
 "No; he told a fanciful story of the check having been 
 given to him in New York, in payment of a gambling 
 debt." 
 
 "Nothing impossible in that story, Mr. Felton. I will 
 tell you why. A night or two before we left New York 
 I was seated in Madison Square garden, listening to a 
 concert, when a party of sporting men sat down at the 
 next table, and one of them entertained his companions 
 by relating a reminiscence of a game of draw poker in 
 which he had played a part two or three years before. 
 I will not repeat the story, but perhaps you will under 
 stand the point I am trying to make. Four men were 
 playing and during the course of one hand the betting 
 had narrowed to two of them. A held what he believed 
 to be a well-nigh invincible hand. Flushed with con 
 fidence, and irritated by his opponent's insinuation that 
 he had no more money to wager, A took a check-book 
 from his pocket, wrote a check for $1,000 or some such 
 sum, and tossed it upon the table. The bet was covered, 
 the hands shown down, and A lost. Now," finishes Van
 
 302 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 Zandt, "A might not have had a dollar in the bank. He 
 might have put a worthless check upon the table, know 
 ing, as he thought he knew, that there was not one chance 
 in a thousand of a necessity for its payment arising. 
 That being the case, what mattered it whose name was 
 on the check, his own or well, say his father's? I am 
 only theorizing on what might naturally occur some time, 
 you know." 
 
 Cyrus Felton's face has become ghastly and he ap 
 pears to be on the verge of collapse. Miss Hathaway 
 regards Van Zandt with wonder and apprehension. The 
 latter seems unconscious of the effect his words have pro 
 duced, and he remarks carelessly: "But I will not dis 
 cuss the matter further, as I suspect it bores you." 
 
 At this instant the clatter of hoof-beats sounds from 
 the road, as a detachment of Spanish caballeria ride up, 
 tether their horses and hurry boisterously into the cafe. 
 The Americans are established on a quiet veranda at 
 the rear of the building, where they may be free from 
 just such interruptions. 
 
 "Are you ready to depart?" says Van Zandt to his com 
 panions. 
 
 "I am anxious to return to Santiago as soon as pos 
 sible," declares Mr. Felton. 
 
 Van Zandt raps upon the table for the waiter, but no 
 response is made. Host and helpers are busily occupied 
 with their noisy guests. 
 
 "Pardon me a moment. I will step within and settle 
 the account,'' says Van Zandt, as he rises and enters the 
 cafe. 
 
 The drinking-room is crowded with the boisterous 
 soldiery, disporting themselves as if war were an amuse 
 ment and the curtain nearly down on the farce of revolu 
 tion. 
 
 The presumptive leader of the troopers is a tall, rather 
 handsome young fellow, who sits with his back against 
 the wall and a glass in his hand. There is no one within a 
 dozen or twenty feet of him except one caballero, with 
 a scar across his forehead, who sits by himself at a 
 table.
 
 ENCOUNTER AT THE CAFE DE ALMENDRAS. 303 
 
 As Van Zandt enters and closes the door behind him 
 the Spanish captain glances up and their eyes meet. 
 
 "Great heavens! Am I dreaming," mutters Van 
 Zandt. And then he stands with white face and clenched 
 fists, staring at the man before him. 
 
 The latter returns the stare. "I trust you will know 
 me again senor," he remarks, ungraciously, as he sets 
 clown his glass and strikes a match to ignite a cigarette. 
 
 "I believe I have had the misfortune of meeting you 
 before," Van Zandt replies, folding his arms and regard 
 ing the other with blazing eyes. 
 
 The Spanish captain shrugs his shoulders. "May I 
 ask where?" he inquires coolly. 
 
 "In the United States." 
 
 "The senor is mistaken. I have never been in the 
 states." 
 
 "You lie!" 
 
 "Curse you! What d'ye mean?" demands the Spanish 
 captain in the purest of English, as he drops his hand 
 upon his sword hilt. The man at the table near by lays 
 down his paper and turns a pair of interested eyes toward 
 the young men. 
 
 "You lie !" repeats Van Zandt, moving not a step. Then 
 he says in a voice passionate with hatred and ringing 
 with the exultation of a Nemesis about to strike: 
 
 "So, Ralph Felton, I have found you at last!" 
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 A WOMAN'S VENGEANCE. 
 
 The cigarette falls from the Spanish captain's nerveless 
 fingers and his face turns gray. 
 
 "Who are you?" he gasps. 
 
 "My name is Phillip Van Zandt. I don't wonder, 
 Ralph Felton, that you fail to recognize me by that name, 
 though it is my true one. But you will understand why
 
 304 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 I have sought you and why I exult in now standing face 
 to face with you, when I breathe the name of Ernest 
 Stanley!" 
 
 "You are Ernest Stanley?'' 
 
 "I was Ernest Stanley. Now, I am his avenger. 
 Listen to me," commands Van Zandt, as Felton strives 
 to speak. "When the doors of that New England prison 
 closed upon me, nearly three years ago, I swore that 
 I would be avenged upon the scoundrel who put me 
 there. Until a month ago I did not know his name. 
 Until to-day I was not sure that the father was an ac 
 complice to the villainy of the son. But when I did 
 learn who the coward was for whom I suffered I told 
 myself that this world, vast as it is, was too small to hold 
 him and me. Do you understand? You cur! Do you 
 understand?" 
 
 Felton glances about the cafe. The soldier at the table 
 near by has again picked up his newspaper and is ab 
 sorbed in its columns. But any one who might take the 
 pains to investigate would discover that he is not reading 
 the paper. The score or more of others are occupied in 
 their drink, jest and song. 
 
 Felton has regained his composure and lights a ciga 
 rette with a steady hand. 
 
 "Are you aware, Senor Van Zandt, that at one word 
 from me my men would cut you to pieces?" he sneers. 
 
 "I know that one such word will mean your instant 
 death," is the stern response. 
 
 "Well, I shall not utter it," says Felton, coolly. "I am 
 competent to take care of myself. A moment ago you 
 called me a coward. I will prove to you that I am not. 
 You seek satisfaction?" 
 
 A bitter smile flits over Van Zandt's face. "Satisfac 
 tion!" he murmurs. "Ay, I demand satisfaction for two 
 years of utter misery and, by heavens, I shall have it!" 
 
 "You shall! I swear it!" 
 
 "Ah! And when?" 
 
 "At once. This is my only opportunity to accommo 
 date you at present, as I am ordered to Cienfuegos to-
 
 A WOMAN'S VENGEANCE. 305 
 
 morrow. Come, I will wait for you without." So say 
 ing, Felton turns on his heel. 
 
 Van Zandt regards him with a look in which suspicion 
 is mingled with a trace of admiration for his sang froid. 
 
 "You will attempt no treachery?" he says, sternly. 
 
 "I tell you, sir, I am not a coward," answers Felton, 
 haughtily. 
 
 "That he is not/' mutters the soldier with the scarred 
 forehead, and he adds, as if addressing the newspaper 
 in his hand: "This is a devilish unfortunate affair. I 
 must have a hand in it. Hello ! Was not that a woman's 
 scream?" He rises and, throwing open the door leading 
 to the rear of the cafe, steps out upon the veranda. An 
 instant later he dashes the door shut with an ejaculation 
 of amazement. 
 
 Standing at the further end of the veranda, terror de 
 picted in her colorless cheeks, is Louise Hathaway. A 
 dozen feet from her is one of the troopers, who has 
 strolled out upon the veranda, and, while much the worse 
 for liquor, has plainly insulted the American girl. When 
 the new-comer arrives on the scene, he sees the caballero 
 wiping the blood from a long, deep scratch across his 
 rage-contorted face. Between insulter and insulted Cyrus 
 Felton interposes a feeble barrier. 
 
 With a muttered malediction the baffled Spaniard turns 
 and re-enters the cafe, followed by the scarred soldier, 
 whose timely arrival has doubtless saved Miss Hathaway 
 from further affront. 
 
 "Jove! I shall have my hands full for a few minutes," 
 that individual soliloquizes. "Ah, one moment," as Van 
 Zandt attempts to brush by him. "You have some 
 friends out here, senor." 
 
 "Well?" demands Van Zandt, with a stare. 
 
 "Get them away at once, or these devils in here may 
 make it hot for them." 
 
 "I do not understand." 
 
 "You have no time to listen to a lengthy explanation. 
 Do as I direct. Send your friends to the consul's and 
 have them avoid the main road. There is a path through 
 the garden, and beyond that a trail down the hillside to
 
 306 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 the beach. It is but a mile to the consul's residence by 
 that route. They'll be safe at the consul's." 
 
 All this is delivered in low, rapid tones and as Van 
 Zandt moves away the soldier turns and sees the drunken 
 cavalier standing within a few feet of him, a malicious 
 smile upon his evil face. "Hello! What the devil are 
 you playing the spy for?" cries he of the scar, and passes 
 on with the muttered thought: "I wonder if the chap 
 understands English." 
 
 When Van Zandt rejoins Mr. Felton and Louise he 
 finds the old man as white as death and his head sunk 
 upon his breast, while Miss Hathaway is in a semi-hy 
 sterical condition. 
 
 "I'm so glad you have returned," says the latter, as 
 she comes forward to greet him and she tells him of 
 the encounter with the Spaniard. 
 
 "The scoundrel !" grits Van Zandt, starting toward the 
 cafe. But he remembers that he has more serious busi 
 ness on hand than thrashing a drunken trooper, and lj.e 
 turns gravely to his companions: 
 
 "Miss Hathaway, and you, Mr. Felton, I must ask you 
 to proceed immediately to the residence of the American 
 consul. I have a little matter that demands my presence 
 here for another half-hour, and meanwhile it will not be 
 safe for you to remain. Nor will it be well to go by the 
 main road. The city is in the hands of a mob. The 
 scoundrel who insulted you is a fair example. I was 
 warned by one of the men within an Englishman, I 
 should judge from his voice and manner." 
 
 Mr. Felton and Miss Hathaway regard Van Zandt ap 
 prehensively, and Louise wonders at the pallor of his 
 face and the strange look in his eyes. 
 
 "You know where the residence of the consul is. You 
 must follow yonder path through the garden, and strike 
 the trail down the hillside to the sea; it is only a short 
 walk. I will rejoin you there within the hour if I 
 live," says Van Zandt, with a significance not understood 
 by his auditors. 
 
 Without a word Cyrus Felton rises and, followed by
 
 A WOMAN'S VENGEANCE. 307 
 
 Miss Hathaway, starts off through the garden in the di 
 rection indicated by Van Zandt's outstretched arm. 
 
 While all this has taken place Ralph Felton has been 
 leaning in the doorway at the front of the cafe. He looks 
 up when Sanchez, the besotted sabaltern, comes in from 
 his encounter with the American girl, and signals to 
 him. 
 
 "Sanchez, I have a little affair of honor to settle within 
 the hour, he says. "If I do not return, you are second 
 in command. You understand?" 
 
 "Is it 'a la mort'?" inquires Sanchez. 
 
 Felton nods and turns away, and Sanchez goes back 
 into the cafe in season to hear the last words of the 
 warning extended to Van Zandt by the soldier with the 
 scar. 
 
 Felton lights another cigarette and awaits indifferently 
 the appearance of his implacable foe. 
 
 "I am ready, sir," says a stern voice at his elbow. 
 
 "And I have been ready for some minutes. Come." 
 And Felton leads the way across the road and into a path 
 to the woods. 
 
 The soldier with the scar walks out into the dooryard 
 and watches the disappearing figures, "That duel must 
 not take place," he says. "But how on earth am I to 
 prevent it? Hello! What's this?" 
 
 His attention is attracted by an ejaculation within the 
 cafe. Two men are whispering by the window next the 
 entrance. 
 
 "What deviltry is this?" he scowls, bending his head. 
 And as he listens the scowl deepens on his face, and his 
 fingers clutch at his pistol stock. "By heavens! I must 
 prevent that duel now," he mutters. 
 
 Simultaneous with a command given to the half-in 
 toxicated Sanchez, he of the scar hears the sound of a 
 shot over in the woods. 
 
 "Treachery!" he exclaims, and bounds away in the di 
 rection of the report.
 
 308 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 Felton and Van Zandt proceed silently into the thicket. 
 A short distance from the entrance to the woods is a 
 cleared spot. 
 
 "This will probably suit our purpose," remarks Felton, 
 and, coolly, he measures off ten paces. 
 
 "That will be distance enough, will it not?" he asks. 
 Van Zandt nods. 
 
 "Will you give the word, Mr. Van Zandt?" 
 
 "As you please. We will fire at the word 'Three.'" 
 Both men draw their revolvers. 
 
 "One moment," interrupts Felton. "In the event of 
 a second fire?" 
 
 "There will be no second fire," is the grim rejoinder. 
 "I shall kill you with the first." 
 
 "And I will endeavor not to waste mine. Well, sir, I 
 am waiting." 
 
 "One!" Two arms are raised, and not a tremor in 
 either. 
 
 "Two!" The pistols click. 
 
 The word "Three" is trembling on Van Zandt's lips, 
 when a shot rings out from the thicket. Felton clasps 
 his hand to his abdomen, with an exclamation of pain, 
 sways a moment and pitches headlong to the earth. 
 
 The bushes part and a woman, heavily veiled, steps 
 forth, smoking pistol in hand and walks to where Felton 
 lies. 
 
 She looks upon the body for a moment in silence, and 
 hisses: 
 
 "You cowardly hound! Your end is fitting!" Then, 
 throwing back her veil, she reveals the face of Isabel 
 Harding. 
 
 "I have saved you, Phillip," she says, with a calmness 
 that is very near madness. 
 
 "You have cheated me of my vengeance," he replies, 
 looking gloomily upon the body of her victim. 
 
 "My wrongs called for greater vengeance than yours,'' 
 cries the woman, her eyes glittering feverishly and her 
 voice breaking hysterically. "I followed him here. I 
 saw through the cafe window your meeting with him, 
 and I exulted that I was in time in time to save the
 
 A WOMAN'S VENGEANCE. 309 
 
 man I loved! Phillip! Phillip," sobs Isabel, sinking on 
 one knee beside him, "I told you that some day you 
 would realize how much I loved you!" 
 
 But Van Zandt, with a shudder and expression of utter 
 aversion, turns away. 
 
 "Ah, I see I am too late," remarks a quiet voice, and 
 Van Zandt looks up to see the friendly soldier with the 
 scar. 
 
 "To the consul's if you would save the American girl," 
 says the latter. "I'll look after these obsequies. Come, 
 be off," as Van Zandt stares at him in surprise. "A plot 
 is afoot, headed by that precious Lieut. Sanchez, and you 
 have no time to lose." 
 
 "But the consul " 
 
 "The consul was at his office in the city two hours 
 ago, and is doubtless there yet. Ah, you are too late." 
 The clatter of departing hoof-beats is borne upon their 
 ears. "No; you can reach the consul's ahead of them, 
 by the short-cut down the hillside. Here! Take my re 
 volver! You may need more than one. And mind, don't 
 waist any ammunition," shouts the soldier, as Van Zandt 
 dashes off. 
 
 Then he turns to the scene of the tragedy. He kneels 
 beside Felton's body and makes a brief examination. 
 Then he straightens up. 
 
 "Go !'' he says sternly, to Mrs. Harding. "Your work 
 is done!" 
 
 She stares at him a moment, with her glittering eyes; 
 then, with a little shudder, tosses the revolver into the 
 bushes, turns and walks slowly away. 
 
 The caballero watches her out of sight and again turns 
 to the body of the Spanish captain. 
 
 "Humph!" he grunts, as he lifts the limp form from 
 the ground. "He is worth a dozen dead men, or my 
 name isn't John Barker."
 
 310 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 AT BAY IN THE CONSUL'S HOUSE. 
 
 "There is something very odd in Mr. Van Zandt's ac 
 tions," remarks Miss Hathaway, as she and Mr. Felton 
 follow the winding trail down the hillside to the sea. 
 The latter offers no explanation. He has aged fearfully 
 in the last half-hour, and it is now a bowed, feeble, old 
 man whom his companion more than once has to assist 
 over the obstacles in their rough path. 
 
 "To the consul's. To the consul's," is all he says, and 
 the journey is finished in silence. 
 
 The residence of William Atwood, United States con 
 sul, is situated about two hundred yards back from the 
 shore, about a half a mile below the mole at Santiago. 
 The nearest neighbor is a quarter of a mile away, toward 
 the city. It is a plain, square, two-storied structure. A 
 broad veranda fronts both stories and ivy very nearly 
 conceals three of the walls of the building. An innova 
 tion, to the Cuban view absurd, is an electric door-bell, 
 put in by the consul himself. It is this bell that Mr. 
 Felton presses, with the remark: "I begin to feel at 
 home already." 
 
 The summons are answered by a porter who tells 
 them that the consul is gone. 
 
 "Gone? Gone where?'' demands Mr. Felton, with a 
 start of uneasiness that is inexplicable to Miss Hatha 
 way. 
 
 The consul is at the city. Where, quien sabe? Prob 
 ably at his office in the city. 
 
 "We can do nothing except await his return or the 
 arrival of Mr. Van Zandt," Louise says, as they step 
 into the hall. 
 
 At the right of the entrance is the library. On the 
 desk is pen and paper, and here Cyrus Felton seats him 
 self and writes, while Louise stands in the doorway and 
 watches him with troubled eyes.
 
 AT BAY IN THE CONSUL'S HOUSE. 311 
 
 Suddenly she hears the sound of footsteps hurrying up 
 the walk. The door is thrown open, and Van Zandt, 
 breathing hard from the exertion of his run, stands be 
 fore her. 
 
 "Thank God, you are safe!" he cries, fervently. 
 
 "What danger threatens?" asks Louise, laying one 
 hand upon Van Zandt's arm. 
 
 For answer he leads the way out upon the veranda. 
 "Look!" he says; and Miss Hathaway beholds the Semi- 
 ramis, resting quietly upon the still bosom of the bay. 
 
 "We must reach that yacht, or I fear we may not 
 leave Cuba alive!" he tells her. 
 
 Louise gazes at him in questioning dismay. 
 
 "Ah, there comes the enemy," says Van Zandt, point 
 ing up the beach toward the city. A small troop of 
 horsemen is approaching at a lively canter. 
 
 "What is all this mystery? Why do you fear those 
 men?" asks Louise, as they re-enter the house. 
 
 "It is not for myself that I tremble," replies Van 
 Zandt, who is critically examining his pistols. 
 
 "Then it is I whom they seek. Your silence answers 
 yes," says Louise quietly. She is very white, but her 
 voice does not tremble. Like a true heroine she has 
 grown calm in the face of danger. 
 
 "By heaven!'' Van Zandt bursts forth; "my life stands 
 between you and those Spanish devils, and gladly do I 
 place it there. As for you," turning to Cyrus Felton, 
 who has risen from the library table and stands near 
 them, "I would not lift a finger to save your worthless 
 existence. For the wrongs which I have suffered, for 
 the misery which you and your son have caused me, 
 I meant to have exacted a bitter reparation, but fate 
 has otherwise decreed. Ah, you know me!" 
 
 "Spare me your reproaches," says the old man, lifting 
 his hand in protest. "I know you. You are Ernest Stan 
 ley. What I have dreaded, yet for nearly a year expect 
 ed, has come at last. My sin has found me out." 
 
 "Ah, that it has. But you are safe from my hands now, 
 and maybe from that of the law before this day is ended. 
 Out of the way, unless you wish your miserable life cut
 
 312 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 short by a Spanish bullet. Miss Hathaway, I must ask 
 you to step into the library, as our visitors have arrived." 
 And, throwing open the door, Van Zandt stands upon 
 the threshold, waiting. 
 
 Lieutenant Sanchez and his men rein their horses with 
 in a dozen paces of the house. The leader dismounts 
 and comes leisurely up the walk, apparently oblivious 
 of the presence of Van Zandt, whose watchful eyes are 
 covering every movement of the scoundrelly band. 
 
 "One moment," commands the American, holding up 
 his hand. But the Spaniard pays not the slightest atten 
 tion. 
 
 "Halt!" 
 
 This time Sanchez pauses and strokes his mustachios 
 with exasperating calmness. "I would advise the senor 
 to make no opposition if he values his life," he says. 
 
 "What is your errand here?'' 
 
 "The American senorita, to whom I am indebted for 
 this token.'' Sanchez indicates the long, dull-red scratch 
 upon his unamiable visage. "I have no time or inclina 
 tion to parley with you, senor. Out of the way, or I shall 
 order my men to fire upon you." The troopers half-raise 
 their carbines. 
 
 Van Zandt tears down a worn edition of the stars and 
 stripes that decks the wall above his head, and as he 
 throws it across his breast and shoulder his voice rings 
 out defiantly: 
 
 "Fire upon the American flag, if you dare!" 
 
 The answer is a volley that splinters the woodwork 
 about him and brings down the glass above the door in 
 a shower. Van Zandt feels a sharp twinge in his left 
 arm, and with an exclamation of rage and pain he lifts 
 his revolver and fires. 
 
 Lieutenant Sanchez falls dead in his tracks and there 
 is an instant scattering out of range on the part of his 
 followers. 
 
 As Van Zandt closes the door and slips the bolt he 
 turns to see Cyrus Felton lying upon the floor, a stream 
 of blood flowing from a wound in his side.
 
 AT BAY IN THE CONSUL'S HOUSE. 313 
 
 "Fool! I cautioned him to keep out of range," he ex 
 claims, as he bends over the old man. 
 
 "Is he badly hurt?" asks the voice of Louise. 
 
 "I fear so. We must retreat upstairs, as we may ex 
 pect an assault at any instant. Quick!" 
 
 As Louise ascends to the floor above, Van Zandt fol 
 lows with his unconscious burden. In the rear room 
 is a sofa, and upon this Mr. Felton is laid. 
 
 "I have but a few minutes to live. Forgive me," he 
 gasps. 
 
 "God may forgive you," replies Van Zandt, turning 
 bitterly away. Louise takes his hand in hers. 
 
 "Surely, Mr. Van Zandt, you can forgive the past in 
 this awful moment," she says, softly. "Remember, he 
 was a father and he loved his son." 
 
 At the contact of that little hand Van Zandt feels a 
 thrill creep over him. 
 
 "You know now who I am,'' he says, dully. The blue 
 eyes meet the dark ones unwaveringly. 
 
 "I know that I believe in your innocence and that I 
 trust you," is the quiet response. "Listen, he is speaking 
 again." They bend their heads to catch the sinking 
 man's last words. 
 
 "In my coat papers," gasps Mr. Felton, with his 
 fast-glazing eyes fixed on Van Zandt. "They will 
 clear your name," he finishes and sinks back, exhaust 
 ed by his effort. 
 
 "Cyrus Felton," says Van Zandt, gravely, "if any for 
 giveness of mine will afford you an iota of comfort on 
 your journey to the other world, it is yours." 
 
 The dying man acknowledges the absolution with a 
 glance. An instant later his spirit passes to his Maker, 
 to be judged by his deeds in this world of sorrow and sin, 
 of hope and happiness. 
 
 Again the Cafe de Almendras. The boisterous troop 
 ers are gone and in their place a dozen or so quiet-
 
 314 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 appearing men in civilian dress are grouped about the 
 tables, drinking little and talking less. 
 
 It has been a noisy day, the patron tells a tall man 
 with black eyes and fierce mustachios, who lounges in 
 the doorway and sweeps the street with his keen gaze. 
 
 But the tall man heeds not the chatter of the patron ; 
 his gaze is fixed curiously vtpon an approaching soldier, 
 who bears across his shoulder the limp form of a man 
 in the uniform of a Spanish captain. The face of the 
 latter is hidden. 
 
 Barker brushes by into the cafe with the body of 
 Ralph Felton, and meets the contemptuous glance of the 
 tall man with a searching look that the latter does not 
 fancy. 
 
 "Ho, there, patron! A room and a doctor at once!" 
 orders the detective, and he gives the patron a handful of 
 coin and effectually silences his grumbling protest about 
 making a hospital of the place. 
 
 Having deposited his burden above stairs, Barker re 
 turns to the drinking-room and astonishes the tall man 
 with the black eyes by tapping him on the shoulder and 
 remarking: 
 
 "I think I have met you before." 
 
 "The mischief you have!" is the curt rejoinder. 
 
 "Now I am sure of it," grins Barker. "Your voice 
 has not changed, but your mustachios do not fit you. 
 Pardon me," he adds, just in season to prevent an out 
 break, "I am indebted to you for this slash/' indicating 
 the scar across his forehead, "but I do not lay up any 
 hard feelings. I'll call it quits if you will lend some 
 friends of mine a helping hand. I have got my hands 
 full upstairs. Listen." Barker briefly recounts the epi 
 sodes narrated in the previous chapter. 
 
 As the tall man listens his brow grows black as night, 
 and when the tale is finished his voice rings through 
 the cafe in a sharp command : 
 
 "Haste, my comrades! To the American consul's to 
 save my friends!" 
 
 The quiet-appearing civilians about the tables leap to 
 their feet as one man, and, leaving the unpaid patron
 
 A SIGNAL FROM MACEDONIA. 315 
 
 standing in hopeless astonishment amid the ruins of 
 the glassware he has dropped, the little band sweeps out 
 of the cafe. 
 
 "There will be music at the consul's this afternoon, un 
 less I am greatly mistaken," mutters Barker, as he looks 
 down the dust-veiled road. "And now for my patient 
 If he dies with his secret unrevealed I'll never forgive 
 him!" 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 A SIGNAL FROM MACEDONIA. 
 
 Van Zandt and Louise stand, hand in hand, gazing 
 sorrowfully upon all that is mortal of Cyrus Felton. A 
 crash is heard below, as the front door is burst from its 
 hinges. 
 
 Van Zandt leaps to the head of the staircase just as the 
 feet of a brace of ruffians are on the lower step. Twice 
 cracks his revolver and his aim is true. One of the 
 Spaniards falls and the second drops back with a cry of 
 pain. Then, as Van Zandt throws himself to one side, 
 there is a flash of fire below, and the bullets whistle harm 
 lessly by. 
 
 As he judges, there is no immediate second rush by the 
 attacking party, so he proceeds to examine his surround 
 ings and the result is far from satisfactory. There is no 
 serious danger of the besiegers attempting to carry the 
 staircase by storm. The Spaniard is not lacking in cour 
 age, but it requires a considerable amount of sand to 
 lead the way to certain death. But the room to which 
 they have retreated was not built for a fortress and he 
 realizes that the end must come when the enemy will 
 gain access to the second floor by the veranda or by the 
 rear entrance to the building. 
 
 Suddenly his eyes rest upon a ladder at the other end 
 of the short hallway.
 
 316 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "Quick!" he whispers to Louise, as he points the way 
 to temporary safety. 
 
 A minute later and they are on the roof of the building, 
 the ladder pulled up, and the scuttle fastened down. 
 Over them floats, from the flagstaff, the glorious banner 
 of their native land, and above that bends a sky of heav 
 en's deepest blue. 
 
 "Fairly outwitted!" says Van Zandt. Suddenly he feels 
 a weakness come over him and he sinks upon the sun 
 baked roof. Then for the first time Louise notices that 
 he is wounded, and she kneels beside him with a very 
 white face. 
 
 "It is nothing," he reassures her. With her assistance 
 he removes his coat, tears open the left sleeve of his shirt 
 and discloses a bullet hole in the fleshy part of the arm. 
 It looks more serious than it really is and Louise feels an 
 inclination to faint. But she resists it and proceeds to 
 bind up the still bleeding wound with strips torn from her 
 own silken petticoat. The golden head is very close to 
 the brown one, and as the fair surgeon bends to tie a 
 knot, the soft sweep of her hair steals away all of Van 
 Zandt's well-guarded reserve, and his right arm encircles 
 her in a passionate embrace. 
 
 "I love you! I love you!" he whispers. 
 
 And Miss Hathaway, being a sensible young woman, 
 who knows what she wants, does not remark upon the 
 "suddenness" of the declaration of love, but presses her 
 red lips to his and tells Phillip that she has loved him 
 ever since she knew him. 
 
 But the lovers are brought back to earth by a chorus 
 of yells and picturesque profanity sufficient to supply the 
 captain of a whaling bark for an entire voyage. 
 
 "They have discovered our retreat," whispers Van 
 Zandt, as he lifts the scuttle and listens to the tumult be 
 low. But he drops it as a bullet crashes through a few 
 inches from his head, and moves out of such dangerous 
 range. Then, as his eyes rest upon the flag above him an 
 idea seizes him a veritable inspiration. He steps to the 
 flag-staff, detaches the halyards and the stars and stripes 
 come fluttering down to his feet.
 
 A SIGNAL FROM MACEDONIA. 317 
 
 "What are you doing with the flag?" asks Louise. 
 
 "Giving utterance to the old Macedonian cry," he calls 
 back, and up goes old glory again, this time with the 
 union jack down. "Pray that my crew may see the 
 signal/' he adds, fervently. And Providence assists his 
 effort, for a puff of wind streams the flag straight out 
 upon the breeze. 
 
 Capt. Beals is on the bridge of the Semiramis at this 
 moment, looking toward the shore, and his quriosity is 
 excited. 
 
 He sweeps the roof top with one glance through his 
 powerful glance and then issues a command that echoes 
 to the farthest corners of the Semiramis. 
 
 A few moments later Van Zandt sees two boats cut 
 shoreward through the blue waters of the bay as fast as 
 muscle can send them. 
 
 "Thank heaven!" he exclaims, as his heart bounds 
 within him, and he proceeds to hug Louise in a manner 
 that vastly entertains Capt. Beals, who is still an inter 
 ested though distant spectator. And if the bluff old sea 
 dog could have made himself heard he would have shout 
 ed a warning, for he discerns what Van Zandt cannot 
 see a ladder placed against the side wall of the consul's 
 house and three men ascending it, while back a short dis 
 tance, with carbines raised, stand the rest of the scoun 
 drelly horde. 
 
 The attack bids fair to be successful, but suddenly rings 
 out the cry of "Santiago !" and the little band of patriots 
 from the Cafe de Almendras dashes upon the scene. 
 
 The Spaniards now have all the righting they can 
 attend to. Van Zandt and Louise watch from the roof 
 top the progress of the battle royal. The fight is won. 
 No quarter is given, and those of the Spaniards who have 
 the ability to flee are in full retreat, and as they disappear 
 down the beach they shout: 
 
 "El Terredo! El Terredo!'' 
 
 Van Zandt sees a strange transformation in the ap 
 pearance of the leader of the rescuing party. During a 
 hand-to-hand struggle with one of the troopers his fierce 
 mustachios have been knocked off, and it is a handsome,
 
 318 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 beardless youth, with flashing black eyes, who looks 
 about him and remarks: "Well, my merry men, the vic 
 tory is ours, but where are the Americans?" 
 
 "Coming," sings out Van Zandt, from the upper air. 
 "We will be with you in a minute." And as he turns to 
 Louise that young lady proceeds to faint in his arms. 
 It is a logical reaction from the strain which she has 
 borne with wonderful fortitude. 
 
 By this time the boats from the Semiramis have ar 
 rived, and in them enough fighting Yankees to handle 
 twice their number of Spanish soldiery. A ladder 
 is placed against the consul's house and the besieged 
 are assisted to earth, one unconscious and the other with 
 an arm tied up. 
 
 While revivifying operations are under way Van Zandt 
 hears a startled exclamation at his elbow. It comes from 
 El Terredo, who is gazing upon the marble countenance 
 of Miss Hathaway with astonished and troubled eyes. 
 
 Without replying to Van Zandt's questioning look, El 
 Terredo picks up his mustachios from the sand and again 
 affixes them to his face. Then he turns calmly to Van 
 Zandt. 
 
 "The third of your party? I was told there was an old 
 gentleman.'' 
 
 "He is dead. Killed at the first fire," Van Zandt tells 
 him, and he leads the way into the house. 
 
 As the two men look upon the body, which has not 
 been disturbed by the troopers, El Terredo shudders, 
 and murmurs: "My God, what does all this mean?" 
 
 "It means much to me," replies Van Zandt, grave 
 ly, as he takes from the dead man's person a packet of 
 papers. 
 
 Without speaking El Terredo steps to the sofa and as 
 sists Van Zandt to bear the remains from the house. 
 
 The body is laid in the bow of one of the boats, rever 
 ently covered, and preparations are made for the return 
 to the Semiramis. When all but himself and the rescu 
 ing party from the cafe have embarked Van Zandt turns 
 to El Terredo, who, with folded arms, is gazing abstract-
 
 THE FATE OF THE SEMIRAMIS. 319 
 
 edly toward the law-and-order deserted city. "You are 
 going with us, are you not?" he asks. 
 
 "No; I shall remain here." 
 
 "Your safety lies with yonder yacht." 
 
 "Safety? Ah, senor, somewhere on this isle is one 
 dearer to me than personal security." And the young 
 man turns away to hide his emotion. 
 
 "But you can gain nothing by remaining here now. 
 The survivors of the late scrimmage have recognized 
 you and in half an hour the whole town will be at your 
 heels. Aboard my yacht you will be safe and I will gladly 
 land you at any point on the island you may designate. 
 Besides, the papers " 
 
 "Say no more, senor,'' exclaims El Terredo, extending 
 his hand. "I accept your generous offer.'' 
 
 Dismissing his faithful followers, with the assurance 
 that he will be with them again ere many days, the revo 
 lutionary leader steps into one of the waiting boats. 
 
 As they are about to push off a soldier whose horse 
 is flecked with foam comes dashing down the beach, and 
 as he leaps from his well-nigh broken steed, he calls out 
 cheerily: 
 
 "Got room for one more?" 
 
 "Ah! My friend of the cafe," cries Van Zandt. "You 
 are very welcome, senor." 
 
 "And just in time," remarks John Barker, detective, as 
 with a hearty thwack he sends his horse riderless down 
 the beach and clambers into the boat. 
 
 CHAPTER LVL 
 
 THE FATE OF THE SEMIRAMIS. 
 
 "And now, what?" 
 
 The boats have reached the Semiramis. Louise Hath 
 away has been tenderly assisted to the deck by Van 
 Zandt, followed by Navarro and Barker, and the dead
 
 320 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 form of Cyrus Felton has been reverently conveyed 
 aboard. 
 
 A sort of council of war is being held on the quarter 
 deck of the yacht, participated in by Van Zandt, Navarro 
 and Capt. Beals. The master of the Semiramis looks 
 inquiringly at the insurgent leader as he utters the words 
 quoted above. 
 
 "For me personally there is but one course," replies 
 Navarro. "I must land somewhere in the night and make 
 my way to Gen. Masso's camp. That will not be a diffi 
 cult matter. It is your own situation that I am consider 
 ing. The American man-of-war, is she still in the har 
 bor?" 
 
 Capt. Beals shakes his head. "She sailed an hour ago 
 for Key West, for supplies and instructions. She will 
 not return for at least two days.'' 
 
 Navarro's face grows grave. "Then you are not safe 
 from molestation even in this vessel and under that flag," 
 he says, pointing to the red, white and blue floating from 
 the masthead. "Without a man-of-war to protect you, 
 the Spaniards, knowing that El Terredo is aboard, will 
 search your yacht, possibly confiscate her and subject you 
 to no end of annoyance, even though they should not 
 find El Terredo. They respect no flag, no emblem, no 
 rules of civilized nations, unless they are absolutely com 
 pelled to by superior force. You saw how they treated 
 the American flag above the consul's own residence. 
 There are now three Spanish gunboats in the harbor. 
 Within the hour I fear your yacht will be surrounded.'' 
 
 "Then there is but one thing to do," promptly replies 
 Van Zandt. "Capt. Beals, have steam got up at once 
 and weigh anchor. We will follow the America to Key 
 West" 
 
 There is silence on the quarter-deck for a few mo 
 ments. Miss Hathaway has retired to her former state 
 room immediately upon setting foot upon the yacht, and 
 Barker is intently watching the shore from the bridge. 
 For the time being Van Zandt and Navarro are alone. 
 Suddenly the former breaks the silence. 
 
 "You are not a Cuban," he says. "Why are you en-
 
 THE FATE OF THE SEMIRAMIS. 321 
 
 listed with the nondescript army of the insurrectionists?" 
 
 Navarro flushes at the word nondescript, but does not 
 reply at once. Finally he says quietly: "No, I am not 
 a Cuban. I am, like yourself, an American. But my 
 ancestors were Cuban, back more than six generations. 
 Until ten months ago," continues Navarro, in a less-im 
 passioned tone, "I was a careless, happy-go-lucky Ameri 
 can youth, without any specific aim in life. But when the 
 Cuban insurrection broke out, I was consumed with an 
 overmastering desire to help free Cuba from the accursed 
 yoke of Spain. I have sacrificed everything to that end, 
 and now I am known to the Spaniards as 'El Terredo,' 
 the terror. I believe I have been of some service to the 
 struggling natives, and so I shall continue until Cuba is 
 free, or " 
 
 Navarro does not complete the sentence. While he 
 was speaking the smoke has been pouring out of the 
 chimneys of the yacht in steadily increasing volume, and 
 now the clank of the steam windlass announces that the 
 vessel is getting under way. Without replying to Navar- 
 ro's words, Van Zandt hastens below to inform Miss 
 Hathaway of the destination of the yacht. Capt. Beals 
 has taken his station on the bridge and the graceful vessel 
 steams slowly toward the narrow entrance to the harber 
 of Santiago. 
 
 Navarro watches intently the three Spanish warships 
 by which the Semiramis must pass within half a mile. 
 As the yacht draws nearer, the watcher notes with anx 
 iety a boat hastily putting out from the government 
 wharf and evidently making for the flagship of the fleet, 
 the Infanta Isabel. He communicates his discovery to 
 Van Zandt, who has returned from below, with the com 
 ment: "They are evidently notifying the cruiser to have 
 her stop this vessel. Rather than that she fire on the 
 yacht and endanger the lives of those on board, including 
 the young lady, you must surrender me. Then they may 
 permit you to go unmolested." 
 
 "No man leaves this ship for a Spanish prison or the 
 garrote," replies Van Zandt, his eyes burning with ex 
 citement, "as long as there is a timber of her afloat. It
 
 322 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 is less than six miles to the entrance to the harbor, and 
 once outside we can snap our fingers at a whole fleet of 
 Spanish cruisers. Besides, with all the various craft scat 
 tered about the harbor, they will not dare to fire on us." 
 
 Navarro shakes his head skeptically, but does not re 
 ply. The boat has reached the side of the war vessel. 
 The Semiramis is now nearly abreast of the latter and 
 distant less than half a mile. Suddenly a puff of smoke 
 rises from the forward deck of the Spaniard, followed by 
 the sharp crack of a rifle. 
 
 "There! She has signaled you to heave to," remarks 
 Navarro. "As I told you, you must surrender me." 
 
 "This is my answer," replies the owner of the Semi 
 ramis, drawing his revolver and firing two shots in the air. 
 Then to Capt. Beals on the bridge he sings out: "Full 
 speed ahead!" 
 
 Smoke is now pouring from the stacks of the warship, 
 and it is evident that she is preparing to pursue the 
 American yacht, but she does not, as Navarro predicted, 
 fire on the latter. Before the cruiser gets well under way 
 the Semiramis is within four miles of the channel that 
 marks the entrance to the harbor. 
 
 Van Zandt smiles at Navarro. "We will lead him a 
 merry race if he thinks to catch the Semiramis," he re 
 marks. "This yacht can go two miles to his one. And 
 if he hasn't improved in his marksmanship I will risk his 
 guns. Ah, there goes the first one!" 
 
 The Spaniard has succeeded in getting within range 
 of the yacht without endangering any of the other craft, 
 and the roar of his forward gun is heard as Van Zandt 
 speaks. 
 
 "An eighth of a mile to windward," observes the latter, 
 as he watches the solid shot skip over the water. "He 
 can't race and shoot, too." 
 
 Evidently the pursuer has come to the same conclusion, 
 for he fires no more guns, but doggedly plows the placid 
 waters of the harbor after the great black yacht. 
 
 And now the latter is less than half a mile from the 
 cleft in the precipitous coast line. Capt. Beals has slowed
 
 THE FATE OF THE SEMIRAMIS. 323 
 
 down the engines and the yacht is picking her way by 
 the reefs that guard the channel. 
 
 "Ship ahoy !" suddenly rings out from the lookout for 
 ward. All eyes are turned ahead. A steamer, inward 
 bound, has just come into view in the channel. 
 
 "Permit me," Navarro takes the glasses and focuses 
 them upon the stranger. "It is the Spanish dispatch boat 
 Pizarro," he says. "When the cruiser recognizes her she 
 will doubtless signal her to intercept the yacht, and in 
 the narrow channel she can make serious trouble, I 
 fear." 
 
 The report of another cannon, followed by two more 
 in quick succession, shows that the man-of-war has in 
 deed recognized her compatriot almost as soon as the 
 American. An answering gun from the dispatch boat 
 also shows that she has heard and understands. 
 
 Capt. Beals looks inquiringly at Van Zandt. "We must 
 continue straight on and take our chances in the channel 
 with that craft/' the latter says. Then to Navarro: "Do 
 you know what her armament is?" 
 
 "Oh, she is not a fighting ship. She has no arma 
 ment, merely one gun for saluting purposes, and her 
 crew cannot number over fifty." 
 
 "Then we are all right. If she gets in our way she 
 must take the consequences." 
 
 But the dispatch boat evidently does not intend that 
 the American shall pass. She has taken a position in the 
 narrowest part of the channel and lies stationary, present 
 ing her broadside to the oncoming yacht. 
 
 "Signal that we propose to pass to port," Van Zandt 
 says to Capt. Beals, "and if the Spaniard gets in our 
 course run him down." 
 
 Capt. Beals nods and a second later the hoarse whistle 
 of the Semiramis echoes over the waters. The signal is 
 answered with a rifle shot from the Spaniard's forward 
 deck and the dispatch boat moves forward two lengths, 
 so that she lies fair and square in the announced course 
 of the yacht. 
 
 But there are no signs of slackening on the part of the
 
 324 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 latter, and her black hull looks threatening indeed to the 
 officers of the dispatch boat. 
 
 Caramba! Surely she will not run down the royal 
 vessel! Yet it looks very like it! But they will not 
 dare! Still the Spanish commander hesitates no longer. 
 He signals his vessel to back at full speed. 
 
 Too late! 
 
 The Pizarro has moved less than half a length when 
 the American yacht crashes into her. There is a grind 
 ing shock that brings Louise Hathaway in terror to the 
 deck of the Semiramis, and then the yacht continues on 
 her course, apparently unharmed. Van Zandt catches a 
 glimpse of a great jagged hole in the bow of the Span 
 iard, into which the water is pouring in a cataract; of 
 a panic-stricken crew rushing frantically for the boats; 
 and then he turns to Miss Hathaway. It is nothing, he 
 assures her tenderly; a slight collision, but the yacht is 
 all right and perhaps she had better return to her state 
 room for the present. Later on and Louise smiles, a 
 little sadly, but permits Van Zandt to conduct her to the 
 saloon. 
 
 Capt. Beals is awaiting Van Zandt as the latter bounds 
 up the steps a minute later. "We are badly stove for 
 ward," he reports, "and are making water quite rapidly. 
 With the steam pumps going, we may keep afloat three 
 or four hours, but the yacht is doomed." 
 
 Van Zandt is so startled at the news that for a moment 
 he is speechless. His eyes rove back to the Spanish war 
 ship, and then at the nearly perpendicular cliffs by which 
 the Semiramis is steaming. 
 
 He looks for the dispatch boat, but it is not in sight. 
 "The Spaniard?" he inquires, mechanically. 
 
 "Gone to the bottom, 5 ' laconically replies the captain. 
 
 "Then there is no hope for us but to keep on and try 
 to land by the boats somewhere on the coast," Van Zandt 
 says. "The Spaniards will treat us all as enemies, now 
 that we have sunk one of their boats. How long can we 
 keep up this speed?" 
 
 "Perhaps an hour, perhaps more. The water will put 
 out the fires."
 
 THE FATE OP THE SEMIRAMIS. 325 
 
 "Well, have the boats quietly prepared and keep with 
 in reach of land. Do you think the Spaniards will con 
 tinue the pursuit?" 
 
 "Undoubtedly. They will stop only to pick up the 
 crew of the Pizarro, and then will keep on after us. If 
 there was some little bay near here where we could beach 
 the yacht, but there isn't." 
 
 The noble craft continues to plow the waves and her 
 injured bow still tosses the foam on either side, but her 
 speed is sensibly diminishing. All on board have recog 
 nized the fact that the yacht is doomed, but there is no 
 confusion, no manifest anxiety. The boats have been 
 prepared and each member of the crew has secured in 
 a little package his most valued possessions. On the 
 quarter-deck Van Zandt, Navarro, Barker and Louise 
 Hathaway are silently watching the Spanish warship. 
 The latter is gaining now, for the Semiramis is steadily 
 settling. 
 
 Navarro, his hat drawn over his eyes and his coat 
 wrapped about him so that his countenance is partially 
 veiled, has carefully avoided Louise. When she returns 
 to the deck he walks over to where John Barker is lean 
 ing against the rail and remarks in Spanish: 
 
 "If you do not desire to be shot as a deserter I should 
 advise you to borrow a suit of clothes from our friend, 
 the owner of the yacht." 
 
 The detective starts. "I guess you're right," he replies 
 in English, and turns to Van Zandt. Five minutes later 
 he emerges from the cabin attired in a fashionable suit 
 of gray. 
 
 "The water is within two inches of the boilers," reports 
 the engineer, and Van Zandt sighs heavily. 
 
 "Well," he says, "we may as well take to the boats. 
 Come." He leads Louise to the steamer's launch. 
 
 "And he?" Louise points to where the body of Cyrus 
 Felton lies, covered by its winding sheet of canvas. 
 
 "He will go down with the Semiramis. He could have 
 no nobler tomb." 
 
 Boom! The roar of the Spanish gun is the salute the 
 people of the Semiramis hear as the boats pull away from
 
 326 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 the doomed yacht. The cruiser is within range and 
 though her commander must be aware that the Ameri 
 can vessel is sinking he is firing on her. 
 
 "The coward!" grits Van Zandt. "But the Semiramis 
 will not strike her flag. She sinks with the stars and 
 stripes flying." 
 
 "Pull hard!" shouts Capt. Beals. "Pull hard! She's 
 going down!" 
 
 CHAPTER LVII. 
 
 AN INTERNATIONAL EPISODE. 
 
 "Ashley, we will give you something to write about," 
 remarks Capt. Meade, as the America steams out of the 
 harbor of Santiago. 
 
 "What's that, captain? A thrilling description of a 
 voyage from Santiago de Cuba to Key West?" 
 
 The commander of the cruiser smiles good-naturedly. 
 "More excitement than that, and something that will 
 cause the little senorita to cling frantically to your arm." 
 
 "Ah, then, you may open the ball at once." 
 
 "Not yet; not for an hour. In short, we are going to 
 burn some powder by and by. A little target practice, 
 and if you have never seen anything of the sort you will 
 be rather interested." 
 
 "Confound his target practice," Jack mutters disgust 
 edly, as Capt. Meade bustles away. "The only powder- 
 burning I want to see is the shelling of the dingy old city 
 of Santiago by the Spanish fleet." 
 
 But Ashley's temporary annoyance is soon forgotten 
 in the pleasure of assisting Juanita up and down the steep 
 ladders, of explaining the machinery, the guns, the great 
 searchlight and the thousand and one interesting features 
 of the cruiser. 
 
 The target practice, he also finds, is a decidedly inter 
 esting affair, after all, which conclusion may have been
 
 AN INTERNATIONAL EPISODE. 327 
 
 influenced by the manifest delight of his sweetheart over 
 the novel experience. 
 
 But the last gun is fired, the buoy mark is demolished, 
 and, within forty-eight hours, Capt. Meade tells Jack, 
 the America will be lying at anchor in the harbor of Key 
 West. 
 
 "And she will return to Santiago, when?'' the corre 
 spondent inquires. "I must be back at the finish, if the 
 insurgents capture the city and it is shelled by the Span 
 ish fleet." 
 
 Capt. Meade shakes his head. "That depends on in 
 structions received at Key West. I suppose though, that 
 the cruiser would be ordered directly back to Santiago 
 after coaling.'' 
 
 Just then the captain is summoned to the bridge, where 
 it is evident that some unusual occurrence is engrossing 
 the attention of the officers. 
 
 Jack observes that the captain has his glass turned to 
 ward the northwest, and he also looks in that direction. 
 Trails of black smoke low down on the horizon, evidently 
 from two steamers, are all that reward his gaze, but he 
 notices that the course of the America has been changed 
 and that her speed has been materially accelerated. 
 
 "What is in the wind?" he inquires, casually, of the 
 youthful ensign. 
 
 "That's just what we're going to find out," is the reply, 
 and Ashley follows Capt. Meade to the bridge. 
 
 "Nothing special that we know of," is that official's 
 response to Jack's query as to the cause of the change of 
 course. "Some stranger, probably a Spanish gunboat, 
 is in pursuit of another steamer, and as it is not much out 
 of our course I concluded to run up nearer the scene." 
 
 The white cruiser is now rushing along at a speed' that 
 reminds Jack of his first memorable trip upon her, and 
 is rapidly reducing the cloud of smoke on the horizon to 
 the outlines of a formidable man-of-war. 
 
 "The Spanish cruiser Infanta Isabel," is the conclusion 
 of Capt. Meade, after a long and careful study of the dis 
 tant steamer. "But the craft she is in pursuit of I cannot 
 quite make out. She is a large steamship of some sort
 
 328 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 and the Don is overhauling her hand over fist. We shall 
 be there just in time to see the fun." 
 
 The America's course is converging toward that of 
 pursuer and pursued. Capt. Meade's keen eyes are alter 
 nately riveted on the Spanish warship and the unknown 
 vessel. 
 
 "If that steamship did not set so low in the water," he 
 remarks, thoughtfully, "and was going about two-thirds 
 faster, I should say that she was our old friend, the big 
 black yacht Semiramis. But great heaven! The steam 
 er is sinking! That's what's the matter with her ! She is 
 steadily settling!" 
 
 All eyes on the cruiser are now directed toward the 
 crippled stranger. She is, as Capt. Meade says, slowly 
 sinking while yet the waters are dashing on either side of 
 her bow like mountain streams. 
 
 "A game struggle, but all in vain," is the comment of 
 the captain, shaking his head. "Probably the Spaniard 
 hulled him below the water line early in the struggle, 
 and he has been slowly making water ever since. He 
 can't last much .longer. The water must be near the fires 
 now. Ah ! I thought so !" 
 
 For the strange steamer has apparently lost headway. 
 The black smoke that a moment before poured from her 
 chimneys now mingles with a white cloud of steam. 
 
 "Her fires are out," Capt. Meade explains to Ashley. 
 "She will go down in twenty minutes, if she doesn't blow 
 up before." 
 
 The boom of a heavy cannon startles the watchers and 
 they turn quickly to the Spanish man-of-war. A curling 
 wreath of smoke from her forward deck tells the origin 
 of the report, and their eyes return to the sinking vessel. 
 A puff of wind lifts for a moment the flag hanging limp 
 at her masthead, as if in mute defiance of the Spanish 
 shot. Capt. Meade starts as if he had received an electric 
 shock. 
 
 "The American flag!'' he thunders, "and fired on by 
 the Spaniard!" Then to the executive officer: "Signal 
 for the forced draught and bear down on the steamer. 
 We will pick up her boats and then investigate the out 
 rage on the flag.''
 
 AN INTERNATIONAL EPISODE. 329 
 
 Another shot, and still another, comes echoing over 
 the water from the Infanta Isabel, her target the fast-fill 
 ing steamer. 
 
 Suddenly Ashley is electrified by the command in the 
 stentorian tones of Capt. Meade: 
 
 "Clear the ship for action!" 
 
 A second later the trumpet's harsh notes and the sharp 
 rattle of drum, mingling with the shrill whistles and 
 rough voices of the boatswain, mates and the noisy clang 
 ing of the electric gongs, call the sturdy crew of the 
 America to "general quarters." 
 
 Then, indeed, is the blood of the newspaper man 
 stirred by the scenes about him. The decks throb with 
 the rush of hurrying feet as the men hasten to their sta 
 tions. The gun crews are casting loose the great guns, 
 the murderous rapid-fire cannon and the secondary bat 
 teries. Some are hastily donning equipments, others fill 
 ing sponge-buckets and still others stripping themselves 
 of all superfluous clothing, laying bare their brawny 
 forms. 
 
 Hatches are covered, hose laid and pumps rigged, lad 
 ders torn away, and decks turned topsy-turvy, in the 
 twinkling of an eye. Rifles, cutlasses and revolvers come 
 out from the armory in quantities that amaze Ashley. 
 The marine guard falls in and topmen are scrambling 
 nimbly aloft to secure anything movable there. 
 
 Down come the rails, out come davits and awning 
 stanchions 'everything movable is stowed away or se 
 cured. The magazines are opened and the tackle rigged 
 over the ammunition hatches ready to hoist shot and shell 
 for the guns. 
 
 "The grim panoply of war," Jack thinks, as he hastens 
 to conduct the wondering Juanita below. Even here, he 
 observes to his great surprise, the captain's sacred cabin 
 has been invaded "on the jump" by the crews of the after 
 guns. 
 
 As Ashley returns to the quarter-deck he notes that 
 the America is bearing hard down almost at right angles 
 on the Spanish warship, now distant less than a mile. 
 
 "Evidently here is an excellent opportunity for an in-
 
 330 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 ternational episode," he thinks, as he glances at the stern 
 face of "Fighting Dave" Meade on the bridge. Then 
 his hand involuntarily goes to his ears and he catches at 
 the rail for support, as the forward gun of the American 
 cruiser thunders forth and an eight-pound solid shot 
 skims over the waves across the bow of the Spanish 
 cruiser. 
 
 Before he recovers from the shock of the concussion 
 there is a murmured/'She's going!'' from the officers on 
 the quarter-deck and Jack looks quickly in the direction 
 of the sinking steamer. But the black hull has already 
 disappeared beneath the waves and he sees only the flut 
 tering red, white and blue ere the whirling eddies reach 
 their eager arms for the beautiful emblem. 
 
 The gun from the America does not have the antici 
 pated effect on the Spaniard, for he continues full speed 
 toward the spot where the steamer sunk. But it has 
 evidently had effect in another direction. With the aid 
 of his marine glasses Ashley observes four boats, which 
 had hitherto escaped his notice, pulling toward the white 
 cruiser. The purpose of the Spanish vessel is thus ap 
 parent. She designs to cut off the fleeing boats before 
 they may reach the America. 
 
 Again the white cruiser careens to one side and a sec 
 ond deafening report, this time the gun from amidship, 
 roars out in language not to be misunderstood by the 
 on-rushing Spanish man-of-war. 
 
 It is not misunderstood. 
 
 There is a rapid gush of escaping steam, the stacks 
 cease to vomit forth their black clouds and the Infanta 
 Isabel turns her course and steams slowly toward the 
 America. 
 
 Ashley watches curiously the flashing oars of the 
 coming boats, and when the forward one is almost within 
 hail he lifts the glasses to his eyes and scans her passen 
 gers. 
 
 "Thunder and Mars !" he exclaims, "if there isn't John 
 Barker in the bow and yes, it must be Louise Hatha 
 way, Van Zandt, and who the devil is that chap with 
 the ferocious mustachios? El Terredo, or I'm a sinner!"
 
 THE END OF THE TRAIL. 331 
 
 CHAPTER LVIII. 
 
 THE END OF THE TRAIL. 
 
 When the first boat is alongside the America, Barker 
 is the first man to clamber to the deck, and the first indi 
 vidual he gets his eye on is Jack Ashley. 
 
 "Hello! Well met," remarks that young man, extend 
 ing his hand. "I was expecting you any minute." 
 
 Barker gives Jack's hand a perfunctory clasp and 
 passes on with a gruff "Hello!" 
 
 "I am not yet forgiven. I see," thinks Ashley, as he 
 turns to the rest of the party coming aboard. He greets 
 Miss Hathaway warmly and Van Zandt genially, and 
 grips Navarro's hand with a pressure of strong friend 
 ship. 
 
 There is no present opportunity for mutual explana 
 tions, as a serious interruption is apparent in the shape 
 of a boat that has put out from the Spanish man-of-war 
 and is rapidly approaching the America. 
 
 With a shade of anxiety the people of the Semiramis 
 await the arrival of the boat. They note the preparations 
 to receive with due honor the representative of the In 
 fanta Isabel, the marines drawn up in double file beside 
 the gangway, the officers of the America in position on 
 the quarter-deck. But there is no time for speculation or 
 conjecture. Eight pairs of dripping oars are simulta 
 neously raised, the boat glides softly to the side of the 
 cruiser, and a moment later the Spanish officer is bowing 
 profoundly to the commander of the America. 
 
 His excellency, Admiral Sanchez of his majesty's man- 
 of-war Infanta Isabel, presents his compliments to the 
 commander of the United States cruiser America and 
 begs to say that the passengers, officers and crew of the 
 steamer just sunk, who have sought asylum on the 
 American vessel, are rebels, in arms against his majesty 
 the king of Spain ; that their vessel, just sunk, has within 
 the last three hours destroyed the royal Spanish dispatch
 
 332 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 boat Pizarro. Wherefore his excellency respectfully asks 
 that the said officers, passengers and crew of the rebel 
 ship be delivered to the representative of her majesty's 
 ship Infanta Isabel as prisoners of war. 
 
 Captain Meade listens patiently while the Spanish offi 
 cer delivers his message, his brow knitting slightly at 
 the reference to the destruction of the dispatch boat. 
 Then he turns to Captain Beals: 
 
 "What have you to say to this statement and why were 
 you flying the American flag, if you were in command 
 of an insurgent vessel?" 
 
 "We are not insurgents and we did not destroy the 
 dispatch boat," is the reply. "The pleasure yacht Semi- 
 ramis of New York, Van Zandt owner, was in collision 
 with the Pizarro in the harbor of Santiago. The Pizarro 
 stood directly in our course, notwithstanding our signals 
 that we proposed to pass to port. We should have gone 
 aground if we had not fouled her. We did not stop, as 
 the Semiramis was badly stove and subsequently sunk, 
 as you have seen. Further, our officers and crew and the 
 passengers are without exception American citizens. As 
 such, I appeal to the commander of an American vessel 
 for protection." 
 
 "And you shall have it," murmurs Captain Meade 
 under his breath. To the Spaniard he says: "Present 
 my compliments to his excellency, Admiral Sanchez, and 
 say that the commander of the America finds upon in 
 vestigation that the officers and crew of the late steamer 
 Semiramis are American citizens, who claim' the pro 
 tection of the American flag; that her captain and offi 
 cers maintain that the destruction of the Pizarro was an 
 accident for which they are in no wise responsible. 
 Therefore I am constrained to decline to grant the cour 
 teous request of his excellency." 
 
 The Spanish officer bows respectfully and continues: 
 "His excellency also desired to convey to the commander 
 of the United States cruiser America the information 
 that among the persons lately on board the sunken 
 steamer was one Cuban rebel, denominated El Terredo, 
 whom his excellency has every reason to believe has
 
 THE END OF THE TRAIL. 333 
 
 sought refuge on board this ship. He respectfully re 
 quests that said El Terredo be delivered to the repre 
 sentative of his majesty's ship." 
 
 Captain Meade's eye strays over the little group, but 
 before he can speak Navarro steps forward and says in 
 English: "I have been designated as El Terredo, but I 
 am an American citizen." 
 
 "I can testify to that statement," supplements Ashley. 
 
 Captain Meade waves his hand. "That is sufficient. 
 Inform his excellency that all of the persons picked up 
 in the boats from the lost steamer are American citizens. 
 As such, I cannot surrender them." 
 
 Again the officer bows, and his errand performed, he 
 salutes and returns to the boat. What will be the effect 
 of his report? Will Admiral Sanchez resent with force 
 Captain Meade's decision, or will he gracefully bow to 
 the inevitable? The latter apparently, for a few moments 
 after the officer ascends the side of the man-of-war the 
 Spanish flag is dipped in salute to the America and the 
 Infanta Isabel steams slowly back in the direction of 
 Santiago. 
 
 "Again is Providence on the side of the heaviest guns," 
 murmurs Ashley, as he walks over to where Barker is 
 leaning against the rail, and claps him on the back. 
 "John, I am powerful glad to see you," he declares 
 heartily. 
 
 "I don't know whether I can say the same or not," 
 rejoins the detective, sulkily. "For a man whose infernal 
 meddling with affairs that did not concern him nearly 
 cost me my life, you appear pretty cool and uncon 
 cerned." 
 
 "My dear friend," says Ashley, "if I had not been at 
 Jibana half a dozen days ago you would never have 
 forgiven yourself for the part you played as a soldier of 
 Castile. Do you know who Don Carlos was?" 
 
 "I know he, or she, was a woman." 
 
 "Oh, you do?" 
 
 "Yes; and if you had shown yourself after the scrim 
 mage, instead of sneaking off to Santiago, I might have 
 told you of my discovery."
 
 334 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "Ungrateful wretch!" cries Ashley in mock reproach. 
 "I admit that I got you into the scrape, but I also got 
 you out of it. The fiery El Terredo would have strung 
 you to a telegraph pole had I not begged for your life 
 and liberty. Yes; Don Carlos was a woman, and she 
 was Helen Hathaway." 
 
 "Then El Terredo?" marvels the detective, who is be 
 ginning to see daylight. 
 
 "Was Derrick Ames, of course. Anyone except a de 
 tective would have discovered that long ago." 
 
 "Indeed/' retorts Barker. "When did you find it out?" 
 
 "Early this morning/' laughs Ashley. "But let us be 
 serious. Where are the Feltons, father and son?" 
 
 "One dead, and the other perhaps so," replies Barker, 
 and he tells Ashley the story of an exciting day at San 
 tiago. 
 
 "It must be done," the detective is saying, concluding 
 his narrative. "Your sympathies naturally stand in the 
 way, so I will relieve you of all active participation in 
 the affair. All you will have to do is to be a silent wit 
 ness. One thing you must do, though. You must see 
 Mrs. Ames and have her pledge that she will not let 
 her husband know that she has told you her story. I 
 must handle the affair gently, as Ames is as flashy as 
 gunpowder. You will see Helen, then?" 
 
 "Yes; I will fix it immediately. When do you occupy 
 the center of the stage?" 
 
 "To-morrow. I will let you know in due season." 
 
 "All right, old chap. I will be glad when it is all over. 
 So long." 
 
 There are many happy hearts on the America this 
 night. The meeting between the sisters, Helen and 
 Louise, was a dramatic one, and after affectionate confi 
 dences had been exchanged each sought the man she 
 loved best. 
 
 But a shadow of sadness hovers about the four as they 
 sit on the quarter-deck and watch the big white moon 
 rise out of the sea. Now that all the excitement is over 
 Van Zandt has dropped back into his old reserve, and 
 the consciousness of his odd relations to Louise Hatha-
 
 THE END OF THE TRAIL. 335 
 
 way reverts to him with unpleasant keenness. Ames is 
 moody and abstracted and only the incessant flow of 
 spirits of Jack Ashley, who joins the group with Juanita, 
 keeps the little party alive. 
 
 But bedtime comes early, for everyone is thoroughly 
 tired, and the party disperses with many a fervent "Good 
 night, and pleasant dreams." 
 
 And as Van Zandt prepares to go below he feels a 
 touch on his arm and turns to see John Barker. "Mr. 
 Van Zandt, will you grant me a few minutes before you 
 retire?'' requests the detective. 
 
 "Certainly," is the reply. "Come to my stateroom." 
 
 Ashley rises early the next morning and as he smokes 
 his after-breakfast cigar Barker joins him. 
 
 "I shall want you at ten o'clock, promptly," says the 
 detective. "Meet me in the private cabin, or whatever 
 it is called on shipboard. I have secured exclusive use 
 of it for an hour." 
 
 "Very well," replies Jack, abstractedly. 
 
 Promptly at ten, Ashley repairs below, and as he enters 
 the cabin he finds Ames and Van Zandt there. They 
 look at him questioningly, but before he has opportunity 
 to say more than "Good-morning," Barker enters, closes 
 the door and locks it. 
 
 Ames flushes angrily. "So,'' he says, "it is at your 
 request that I am here?" 
 
 "It is," replies the detective, calmly. 
 
 "What do you mean, sir, by inviting me to this place 
 and locking the door upon me?'' 
 
 "I simply do not wish to be disturbed," is Barker's 
 unruffled response. "The cruiser America is now United 
 States territory. I have business with you, Mr. Ames. 
 Gentlemen, will you not be seated?"
 
 336 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 CHAPTER LIX. 
 
 "WRITTEN BY THE HAND OF FATE." 
 
 "You are a detective," murmurs Derrick Ames, as he 
 drops back into his chair. 
 
 "I am," answers Barker. "For nearly a year I have 
 been on the track of the murderer of Roger Hathaway, 
 being ably seconded in my quest by my friend Jack 
 Ashley. The trail has been a tangled one, and has wound 
 under the flags of three countries, but for the past fort 
 night the end has been clearly in view. By a remarkable 
 combination of circumstances affairs have been so pre 
 cipitated that to-day nearly all the living characters in the 
 Raymond drama are upon this vessel, the United States 
 cruiser America. My work is done. I have only my 
 story to tell. I shall begin, Mr. Ames, by asking you a 
 few questions," resumes Barker. 
 
 "Well?" queries the object of his remarks. 
 
 "At what hour did you enter the Raymond National 
 Bank on the evening of Memorial Day of last year?" 
 
 "I cannot say exactly. I judge that it was in the vicin 
 ity of 7:45." 
 
 "Will you be good enough to state what took place 
 there between you and Roger Hathaway?" 
 
 Ames scans the detective's face keenly for a moment, 
 then replies to Barker in deliberate tones: 
 
 "I went to the bank to ask Mr. Hathaway's consent 
 that his daughter Helen might become my wife. I was 
 confident that my errand was useless, as he had twice 
 before scorned my suit. Helen and I had been idling 
 all the afternoon on the hillside below the town. As 
 evening drew on I left her at the bars and went to the 
 bank, as she stated that she had understood her father 
 to say that he should spend the evening at work upon his 
 books. It being Memorial Day the streets were deserted, 
 and, barring one acquaintance, a chap named Sam Brock- 
 way, I did not meet a person on my walk up the main
 
 "WRITTEN BY THE HAND OP FATE." 337 
 
 thoroughfare. As I crossed the bridge I saw Mr. Hath 
 away standing on the steps of the bank, delivering a note 
 to a boy, and when he re-entered the building I followed 
 him. 
 
 " 'What do you want?' he demanded, almost fiercely. 
 I told him, and he broke into a torrent of abuse. Nat 
 urally hot-tempered, I answered his railings in kind, and 
 I know not what might have happened had not Mr. 
 Hathaway suddenly ended the dispute by seizing me by 
 the shoulder and pushing me through the bank door to 
 the street, threatening, as he did so, to have the law on 
 me if I continued my attentions to his daughter. Through 
 the glass panel in the door I watched him walk rapidly 
 away in the darkness of the interior; saw him as for an 
 instant his form passed into the lighted office in the rear 
 of the bank. Then the door to that room closed. I 
 never saw Roger Hathaway again." 
 
 "That is sufficient," says Barker, as Ames pauses. 
 "Your further progress up to to-day is known to me." 
 
 "Indeed?" 
 
 "Yes. And I may say that from the outset neither 
 Mr. Ashley nor myself believed you guilty of the murder 
 of Roger Hathaway. At the most, we considered that 
 you might have been a witness to the tragedy. But your 
 testimony is the last link in the chain. I am now pre 
 pared, gentlemen, to relate what in all human probability 
 happened in Raymond on the evening of Memorial Day 
 last year." 
 
 "Pardon me, Mr. Barker,'' Van Zandt breaks in, 
 abruptly. "I regret to tell you that the trail which you 
 have so patiently followed has led you to what I should 
 judge, from your preliminary remarks, to be a false con 
 clusion." 
 
 "What!'' cries the detective, starting from his chair. 
 
 "You think Cyrus Felton killed Roger Hathaway. So 
 did I once. We were wrong. If Cyrus Felton was re 
 sponsible for Hathaway's death it was only indirectly, 
 and the Raymond tragedy was the cause of more misery 
 to him than any human being should be compelled to 
 bear."
 
 338 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 Barker is too astounded to reply for an instant, and 
 Ames and Ashley stare questioningly at Van Zandt. 
 
 "Let me relate briefly that much of my story which 
 bears directly upon the tragic events in Raymond," says 
 Van Zandt, quietly. 
 
 "On the afternoon of Memorial day of last year I was 
 released from the State prison at Windsor, Vermont, 
 after serving two of a three years' sentence for forgery, 
 which, in reality, was committed by Ralph Felton. I 
 took the afternoon train for Raymond, arriving there at 
 7:45. I went directly to Cyrus Felton's residence, and 
 reached it at 7:55. As I was about to ascend the porch 
 I heard footsteps behind me, and, thinking they might 
 be those of the man I sought, I stepped into the shadow 
 of the porch. The new arrival had apparently called to 
 see Felton on business. I heard the housemaid tell the 
 visitor that Felton was not at home; that he might be 
 at his office in the bank building. As the man walked 
 away I followed leisurely. 
 
 "When I reached the entrance of the bank building a 
 man, presumably the caller at Felton's, came down the 
 stairs and walked down the street. Then I went up the 
 stairs and proceeded down the corridor until I reached 
 a door with Felton's name upon it. But the door was 
 locked and the office was dark. As I retraced my steps 
 and stood again at the entrance of the block a man 
 passed by hurriedly, ascended the steps to the bank, 
 opened the door and went in. 
 
 "I remained where I was for five minutes, and then 
 walked to the bank door and glanced through the glass 
 panel. The interior was dark, save for a ray of light 
 that issued through the partly opened door to the cash 
 ier's private office. Perhaps Felton is within, I thought, 
 and pushing open the front door, which was ajar, I 
 walked softly toward the shaft of light that slanted across 
 the bank floor. 
 
 "What my errand to Felton was, gentlemen, it is not 
 necessary for me to now state. Enough to say that when 
 I threw open the door to the cashier's office I looked 
 upon a sight that froze the blood in my veins.
 
 "WRITTEN BY THE HAND OP FATE." 339 
 
 "Lying upon the polished floor, which was stained 
 with his life-blood, was the body of Roger Hathaway t 
 and standing over him was Cyrus Felton, a revolver 
 clenched in his right hand. 
 
 ''When I made my appearance upon the threshold of 
 the office Felton turned his head and our eyes met for 
 an instant that must to each have seemed an age. Then 
 I closed the door, and a moment later stood at the en 
 trance of the bank, gasping for air. Can you not imagine 
 the horror in my soul? My one impulse was to flee from 
 the fearful scene. I had looked, as I thought, into the 
 face of Roger Hathaway's slayer, and that was the man 
 to whom, incidentally at least, I owed the two past years 
 of misery. Falsely imprisoned for one crime, might I 
 not be accused of another and greater one? All this and 
 more flashed through my brain, and I hurried to the 
 railway station. There I learned that no train was due 
 for hours. I staggered away from the station and plunged 
 down the track into the night. 
 
 "How I made my way over mountain and through for 
 est to southeastern Vermont and rode to New York on 
 the trucks of a freight car; how I read in a New York 
 paper of the crime that startled Vermont and of my sup 
 posed connection with the affair; how in that same paper 
 I saw a personal advertising that if Phillip Van Zandt, 
 who left Montana over two years ago, would communi 
 cate with Ezra Smith, lawyer of Butte, Montana, he 
 would learn of something to his advantage; how I, being 
 the much wanted Van Zandt, proceeded to Montana and 
 discovered that I was sole heir to the immense fortune 
 of my uncle, a silver king in that State, from whom I had 
 foolishly parted in anger two years before all this and 
 more I will relate at another time, gentlemen, if you care 
 to listen. 
 
 "Not until late last night," continues Van Zandt, "did 
 I have the opportunity of examining the papers given in 
 my possession by Cyrus Felton just before he died in the 
 consul's residence at Santiago." 
 
 As he speaks Van Zandt takes from his pocket a 
 packet of papers, selects one of them and tosses it across
 
 340 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 the table to Barker. "Read that," he says. "Read it 
 aloud." 
 
 The detective unfolds the document and reads: 
 
 "Santiago de Cuba, April 15. This is written by the hand 
 of fate. I shall not live to see to-morrow's sun rise. I know 
 it. The presentiment of my end is so irresistible that no effort 
 of will can shake it off. And I am glad that it is so. I could 
 not endure another day such as this has been. I should go 
 mad. 
 
 "To-day I saw the detective. I have felt that for months 
 he has been pursuing me. And I have looked again into the 
 eyes, the glittering, pitiless eyes, that stared at me nearly a 
 year ago across the corpse of Roger Hathaway the eyes of 
 the man whom, to shield my son, I cruelly wronged. From 
 the hour, a month or more ago, that I met Phillip Van Zandt 
 I feared him. A nameless dread took possession of me. To 
 day I recognized him and I read hatred, contempt and menace 
 in his eyes. He thinks I killed Roger Hathaway, and what 
 manner of vengeance he has in store I know not. 
 
 "But Roger Hathaway killed himself. Together we wrecked 
 the Raymond National Bank. It was the old story of unfor 
 tunate investments, and the blame was chiefly mine. But when 
 the crash was imminent Hathaway proved the hero and I 
 the coward. He killed himself and saved both his name and 
 mine. And yet with that bullet he put an end to all his troubles, 
 while I I have suffered for months the tortures of the damned. 
 
 "With this I inclose his letter, which he left on his desk 
 for me the evening of Memorial Day. It has been on my person 
 since that fatal night, and it has seared my very soul. I have 
 not dared to destroy it or to leave it where it might be found, 
 for it is at once the proof of my guilt and of my innocence. 
 If it becomes necessary to clear 
 
 "Ah, he is coming. Cyrus Felton." 
 
 Barker mechanically unfolds the inclosure, three sheets 
 of letter paper crumpled and worn. The stillness within 
 the cabin is deathlike as the detective reads: 
 
 "Before your eyes rest upon these lines the hand that pens 
 them will be cold in death. I have taken the only alternative. 
 For myself I care not, but that the finger of scorn should 
 be pointed at my defenseless children; that their young lives 
 should be blighted and they shunned and avoided as lepers 
 because their father betrayed his trust and cruelly wronged 
 his friends and neighbors, I cannot bear it. The banks, both 
 of them, are irretrievably involved. The funds deposited by the 
 county to pay the bonds have been used to meet pressing 
 obligations. The crash would come to-morrow. It cannot
 
 "WRITTEN BY THE HAND OF FATE." 341 
 
 be staved off another day. I have thought it all out. For 
 the sake of my children and the name they bear I am about 
 to take my own life. But they nor any other living person 
 save you must ever know that I did not die by the hand of the 
 assassin. I have arranged that it will appear as if the bank has 
 been robbed and the cashier murdered. As I write this room 
 bears evidence of a fearful struggle. The vault is open and 
 the securities in confusion. Thus will our crime be hidden 
 from the eyes of all save God. Your personal account over 
 drawn I have fixed by the removal of pages from the ledger, so 
 that when the examination of the bank's affairs is made there 
 may be no suspicion of irregularity on your part or mine. 
 You will be the first to find my lifeless body. The weapon by 
 which I die you must secure and secrete. 
 
 "And now, farewell. That the sacrifice I am about to make 
 may not be in vain I adjure you guard well the secret of my 
 death. Care for my children. Watch over them, cherish 
 them. By our hope of heaven and forgiveness, by our life-long 
 friendship, by the bitter sacrifice to which duty points the 
 way, by all these things I charge you, Cyrus Felton, fail not 
 at the peril of your good name Roger Hathaway." 
 
 As Barker concludes the reading of the remarkable 
 epistle each of the four men is busy with his thoughts. 
 No one offers any comment on the message from the 
 dead. Finally Ames breaks the silence. 
 
 "And Ralph Felton?" he queries, turning to Barker. 
 
 "He had nothing whatever to do with the death of 
 Roger Hathaway," returns the detective. "He refused 
 to answer the coroner's question at the inquest as to 
 where he had spent his time between 7:45 o'clock and 
 8:30 on the evening of Memorial Day because he did not 
 wish his association with Isabel Winthrop, or Harding, 
 to become known when he had been a suitor for the hand 
 of Helen Hathaway. But that was not his principal 
 reason for leaving Raymond as suddenly as he did. As 
 bookkeeper of the savings bank he had embezzled a 
 portion of the funds not a sensational peculation, only 
 sufficient to keep pace with his expenditures, which were 
 in excess of his income. Fearing that his offense would 
 be made public when the bank's affairs were overhauled, 
 he fled. It was with difficulty that I extracted from him 
 yesterday afternoon a confession of his reason for leav 
 ing Raymond.
 
 342 UNDER THREE FLAGS. 
 
 "As to the locket supposed to have been removed from 
 Hathaway's watch chain the night of the tragedy, and 
 which Mr. Ashley picked up a few nights ago, I supposed 
 until yesterday that it had been dropped by Ralph Felton. 
 But it seems that it was torn from Mr. Ames' neck when 
 Felton hurled himself upon him on that memorable even 
 ing at Jibana. Mr. Hathaway had detached it from his 
 chain the morning of Memorial Day, as the spring was 
 broken, and had given it to Helen to convey to the jew 
 eler's to be repaired. It left Raymond with her, and when 
 she and her husband took up their Cuban life the minia 
 ture of the younger sister was removed, for obvious 
 reasons, and Mr. Ames wore the locket about his neck, 
 attached to a long gold chain/' 
 
 Another silence, which this time Van Zandt breaks. 
 
 "Now that the facts in the case are in your possession, 
 Mr. Barker, I presume you will feel it your duty to report 
 them to the proper authorities." 
 
 The detective does not reply. He glances curiously at 
 Ashley, and the latter passes over a cigar, which the 
 detective bites in meditative fashion. 
 
 "And you?" Van Zandt queries, turning to Ashley. 
 
 "It would make a capital story/' drawls Jack, who 
 has already told himself that the big bunch of "copy" in 
 the pigeonhole of his desk in the Hemisphere office will 
 never greet a compositor's eye. 
 
 "No doubt," says Van Zandt, gravely. "But, like many 
 capital stories, it would be a source of endless pain to 
 two estimable young ladies. It would render nil the 
 sacrifice which Roger Hathaway made to preserve his 
 family name from disgrace, and would make a hollow 
 mockery of the simple epitaph which you tell me marks 
 the marble shaft above his grave 'Faithful Unto 
 Death/ " 
 
 The detective lights his cigar. 
 
 "Is there any likelihood, Mr. Barker, of the state of 
 Vermont paying the $1,000 reward which was offered?" 
 continues Van Zandt. 
 
 "None," replies Barker. "The reward was for the 
 arrest and conviction of Roger Hathaway's murderer."
 
 "WRITTEN BY THE HAND OP FATE." 343 
 
 "And the additional $4,000 offered by the bank?" 
 
 Barker smiles sardonically. 
 
 Van Zandt takes from his pocket a folded slip of paper 
 and passes it across the table to the detective. 
 
 "There is a check for $5,000," he says. "It is not a 
 bribe. It is only your just dues for the labors that you 
 have expended on the case. Personally, I am under deep 
 obligations to you. As to whether the Raymond mystery 
 shall remain a mystery, I leave it to your own sense of 
 duty." 
 
 Barker folds the check slowly, and, as he slips it into 
 his vest pocket, he remarks, with a glance toward Ashley : 
 
 "If my partner consents, the Hathaway case may as 
 well remain as now fixed in the coroner's records in 
 Raymond, Vermont." 
 
 "Your partner came to that decision some time ago," 
 is Ashley's quiet response. 
 
 "Thank you, gentlemen," says Van Zandt, as he rises. 
 "And now, my friends, suppose we rejoin the ladies. 
 They will begin to think that we have deserted them." 
 
 THE END.
 
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