RICHARD 
 
 HARDING 
 
 DAVIS
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE LOST ROAD
 
 
 "It is an enchanted road," said the girl; "or m 
 are enchanted"
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 BY 
 
 RICHARD HARDING DAVIS 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 
 WALLACE MORGAN 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 NEW YORK :::::::::::::::::::::: 1913
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 Published October, 1913
 
 PS 
 
 TO 
 MY WIFE 
 
 1608,304
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE LOST ROAD i 
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 33 
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 67 
 
 THE MAN OF ZANZIBAR 101 
 
 THE LONG ARM 149 
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 171 
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 207
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 "It is an enchanted road," said the girl; "or maybe 
 
 we are enchanted" Frontispiece 
 
 FACING PAGE 
 
 Directly under his nose was a tarnished silver loving- 
 cup 26 
 
 He found it like being perpetually in a comic opera . 106 
 
 "I know only one thing two things, that I love you 
 and that, until you love me, I am going to make 
 your life hell!" 126 
 
 "You mustn't get her mixed up with anything I told 
 
 you about her brother" 222 
 
 "Some day I will tell you," said the young man . . 226
 
 THE LOST ROAD
 
 THE LOST ROAD 
 
 DURING the war with Spain, Colton Lee 
 .came into the service as a volunteer. For 
 a young man, he always had taken life almost 
 too seriously, and when, after the campaign in 
 Cuba, he elected to make soldiering his profes 
 sion, the seriousness with which he attacked his 
 new work surprised no one. Finding they had 
 lost him forever, his former intimates were bored, 
 but his colonel was enthusiastic, and the men of 
 his troop not only loved, but respected him. 
 
 From the start he determined in his new life 
 women should have no part a determination 
 that puzzled no one so much as the women, for 
 to Lee no woman, old or young, had found cause 
 to be unfriendly. But he had read that the army 
 is a jealous mistress who brooks no rival, that 
 "red lips tarnish the scabbard steel," that "he 
 travels the fastest who travels alone." 
 
 So, when white hands beckoned and pretty eyes 
 signalled, he did not look. For five years, until 
 just before he sailed for his three years of duty 
 
 3
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 in the Philippines, he succeeded not only in not 
 looking, but in building up for himself such a fine 
 reputation as a woman-hater that all women were 
 crazy about him. Had he not been ordered to 
 Agawamsett that fact would not have affected 
 him. But at the Officers' School he had indulged 
 in hard study rather than in hard riding, had 
 overworked, had brought back his Cuban fever, 
 and was in poor shape to face the tropics. So, 
 for two months before the transport was to sail, 
 they ordered him to Cape Cod to fill his lungs 
 with the bracing air of a New England autumn. 
 
 He selected Agawamsett, because, when at Har 
 vard, it was there he had spent his summer vaca 
 tions, and he knew he would find sailboats and 
 tennis and, through the pine woods back of the 
 little whaling village, many miles of untravelled 
 roads. He promised himself that over these he 
 would gallop an imaginary troop in route marches, 
 would manoeuvre it against possible ambush, and, 
 in combat patrols, ground scouts, and cossack 
 outposts, charge with it "as foragers." But he 
 did none of these things. For at Agawamsett he 
 met Frances Gardner, and his experience with her 
 was so disastrous that, in his determination to 
 avoid all women, he was convinced he was right. 
 
 When later he reached Manila he vowed no 
 4
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 other woman would ever again find a place in his 
 thoughts. No other woman did. Not because 
 he had the strength to keep his vow, but be 
 cause he so continually thought of Frances Gard 
 ner that no other woman had a chance. 
 
 Miss Gardner was a remarkable girl. Her charm 
 appealed to all kinds of men, and, unfortunately 
 for Lee, several kinds of men appealed to her. 
 Her fortune and her relations were bound up in 
 the person of a rich aunt with whom she lived, and 
 who, it was understood, some day would leave her 
 all the money in the world. But, in spite of her 
 charm, certainly in spite of the rich aunt, Lee, 
 true to his determination, might not have noticed 
 the girl had not she ridden so extremely well. 
 
 It was to the captain of cavalry she first ap 
 pealed. But even a cavalry captain, whose duty 
 in life is to instruct sixty men in the art of tak 
 ing the life of as many other men as possible, 
 may turn his head in the direction of a good- 
 looking girl. And when for weeks a man rides 
 at the side of one through pine forests as dim and 
 mysterious as the aisles of a great cathedral, when 
 he guides her across the wet marshes when the 
 sun is setting crimson in the pools and the wind 
 blows salt from the sea, when he loses them both 
 by moonlight in wood-roads where the hoofs of 
 
 5
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 the horses sink silently into dusty pine needles, 
 he thinks more frequently of the girl at his side 
 than of the faithful troopers waiting for him in 
 San Francisco. The girl at his side thought fre 
 quently of him. 
 
 With the "surface indications" of a young man 
 about to ask her to marry him she was painfully 
 familiar; but this time the possibility was the 
 reverse of painful. What she meant to do about 
 it she did not know, but she did know that she 
 was strangely happy. Between living on as the 
 dependant of a somewhat exacting relative and 
 becoming the full partner of this young stranger, 
 who with men had proved himself so masterful, 
 and who with her was so gentle, there seemed but 
 little choice. But she did not as yet wish to make 
 the choice. She preferred to believe she was not 
 certain. She assured him that before his leave of 
 absence was over she would tell him whether she 
 would remain on duty with the querulous aunt, 
 who had befriended her, or as his wife accompany 
 him to the Philippines. 
 
 It was not the answer he wanted; but in her 
 happiness, which was evident to every one, he 
 could not help but take hope. And in the ques 
 tions she put to him of life in the tropics, of the 
 life of the "officers' ladies," he saw that what was 
 
 6
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 in her mind was a possible life with him, and he 
 was content. 
 
 She became to him a wonderful, glorious per 
 son, and each day she grew in loveliness. It had 
 been five years of soldiering in Cuba, China, and 
 on the Mexican border since he had talked to a 
 woman with interest, and now in all she said, in 
 all her thoughts and words and delights, he found 
 fresher and stronger reasons for discarding his 
 determination to remain wedded only to the 
 United States Army. He did not need reasons. 
 He was far too much in love to see in any word 
 or act of hers anything that was not fine and 
 beautiful. 
 
 In their rides they had one day stumbled upon 
 a long-lost and long-forgotten road through the 
 woods, which she had claimed as their own by 
 right of discovery, and, no matter to what point 
 they set forth each day, they always returned by 
 it. Their way through the woods stretched for 
 miles. It was concealed in a forest of stunted 
 oaks and black pines, with no sign of human habi 
 tation, save here and there a clearing now long 
 neglected and alive only with goldenrod. Trunks 
 of trees, moss-grown and crumbling beneath the 
 touch of the ponies' hoofs, lay in their path, and 
 above it the branches of a younger generation had 
 
 7
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 clasped hands. At their approach squirrels raced 
 for shelter, woodcock and partridge shot deeper 
 into the net-work of vines and saplings, and 
 the click of the steel as the ponies tossed their 
 bits, and their own whispers, alone disturbed the 
 silence. 
 
 "It is an enchanted road," said the girl; "or 
 maybe we are enchanted." 
 
 "Not I," cried the young man loyally. "I 
 was never so sane, never so sure, never so happy 
 in knowing just what I wanted! If only you 
 could be as sure!" 
 
 One day she came to him in high excitement 
 with a book of verse. "He has written a poem," 
 she cried, "about our own woods, about our lost 
 road! Listen!" she commanded, and she read to 
 him: 
 
 "They shut the road through the woods 
 
 Seventy years ago. 
 Weather and rain have undone it again, 
 
 And now you would never know 
 There was once a road through the woods 
 
 Before they planted the trees. 
 It is underneath the coppice and heath, 
 
 And the thin anemones. 
 
 Only the keeper sees 
 That, where the ringdove broods, 
 
 And the badgers roll at ease, 
 
 There was once a road through the woods. 
 8
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 " 'Yet, if you enter the woods 
 
 Of a summer evening late, 
 When the night air cools on the trout-ringed pools 
 
 Where the otter whistles his mate 
 (They fear not men in the woods 
 
 Because they see so few), 
 You will hear the beat of a horse's feet, 
 
 And the swish of a skirt in the dew, , 
 
 Steadily cantering through 
 The misty solitudes, 
 
 As though they perfectly knew 
 The old lost road through the woods. . . . 
 But there is no road through the woods.' " 
 
 "I don't like that at all," cried the soldier-man. 
 "It's too too sad it doesn't give you any en 
 couragement. The way it ends, I mean: 'But 
 there is no road through the woods.' Of course 
 there's a road! For us there always will be. 
 I'm going to make sure. I'm going to buy those 
 woods, and keep the lost road where we can al 
 ways find it." 
 
 "I don't think," said the girl, "that he means 
 a real road." 
 
 "I know what he means," cried the lover, 
 "and he's wrong! There is a road, and you and 
 I have found it, and we are going to follow it for 
 always." 
 
 The girl shook her head, but her eyes were 
 smiling happily. 
 
 9
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 The "season" at Agawamsett closed with the 
 tennis tournament, and it was generally conceded 
 fit and proper, from every point of view, that in 
 mixed doubles Lee and Miss Gardner should 
 be partners. Young Stedman, the Boston artist, 
 was the only one who made objection. Up in 
 the sail-loft that he had turned into a studio he 
 was painting a portrait of the lovely Miss Gard 
 ner, and he protested that the three days' tour 
 nament would sadly interrupt his work. And 
 Frances, who was very much interested in the 
 portrait, was inclined to agree. 
 
 But Lee beat down her objections. He was 
 not at all interested in the portrait. He disap 
 proved of it entirely. For the sittings robbed 
 him of Frances during the better part of each 
 morning, and he urged that when he must so 
 soon leave her, between the man who wanted her 
 portrait and the man who wanted her, it would 
 be kind to give her time to the latter. 
 
 "But I had no idea," protested Frances, "he 
 would take so long. He told me he'd finish it in 
 three sittings. But he's so critical of his own work 
 that he goes over it again and again. He says that 
 I am a most difficult subject, but that I inspire 
 him. And he says, if I will only give him time, he 
 believes this will be the best thing he has done." 
 
 10
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 "That's an awful thought," said the cavalry 
 officer. 
 
 "You don't like him," reproved Miss Gardner. 
 "He is always very polite to you." 
 
 "He's polite to everybody," said Lee; "that's 
 why I don't like him. He's not a real artist. 
 He's a courtier. God gave him a talent, and he 
 makes a mean use of it. Uses it to flatter people. 
 He's like these long-haired violinists who play 
 anything you ask them to in the lobster palaces." 
 
 Miss Gardner looked away from him. Her 
 color was high and her eyes very bright. 
 
 "I think," she said steadily, "that Mr. Sted- 
 man is a great artist, and some day all the world 
 will think so, too!" 
 
 Lee made no answer. Not because he dis 
 agreed with her estimate of Mr. Stedman's gen 
 ius he made no pretence of being an art critic 
 but because her vehement admiration had filled 
 him with sudden panic. He was not jealous. 
 For that he was far too humble. Indeed, he 
 thought himself so utterly unworthy of Frances 
 Gardner that the fact that to him she might pre 
 fer some one else was in no way a surprise. He 
 only knew that if she should prefer some one else 
 not all his troop horses nor all his men could put 
 Humpty Dumpty back again. 
 
 ii
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 But if, in regard to Mr. Stedman, Miss Gard 
 ner had for a moment been at odds with the man 
 who loved her, she made up for it the day follow 
 ing on the tennis court. There she was in accord 
 with him in heart, soul, and body, and her sharp 
 "Well played, partner!" thrilled him like one of 
 his own bugle calls. For two days against visit 
 ing and local teams they fought their way through 
 the tournament, and the struggle with her at his 
 side filled Lee with a great happiness. Not that 
 the championship of Agawamsett counted greatly 
 to one exiled for three years to live among the 
 Moros. He wanted to win because she wanted 
 to win. But his happiness came in doing some 
 thing in common with her, in helping her and in 
 having her help him, in being, if only in play, if 
 only for three days, her "partner." 
 
 After they won they walked home together, 
 each swinging a fat, heavy loving-cup. On each 
 was engraved: 
 
 "Mixed doubles, Agawamsett, 1910." 
 
 Lee held his up so that the setting sun flashed 
 on the silver. 
 
 "I am going to keep that," he said, "as 
 long as I live. It means you were once my 
 * partner.' It's a sign that once we two worked 
 together for something and won" In the words 
 
 12
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 the man showed such feeling that the girl said 
 soberly: 
 
 "Mine means that to me, too. I will never 
 part with mine, either." 
 
 Lee turned to her and smiled, appealing wist 
 fully. 
 
 "It seems a pity to separate them," he said. 
 "They'd look well together over an open fire 
 place." 
 
 The girl frowned unhappily. "I don't know" 
 she protested. "I don't know." 
 
 The next day Lee received from the War De 
 partment a telegram directing him to "proceed 
 without delay" to San Francisco, and there to 
 embark for the Philippines. * 
 
 That night he put the question to her directly, 
 but again she shook her head unhappily; again 
 she said: "I don't know I" 
 
 So he sailed without her, and each evening at 
 sunset, as the great transport heaved her way 
 across the swell of the Pacific, he stood at the rail 
 and looked back. With the aid of the first officer 
 he calculated the difference in time between a 
 whaling village situated at forty-four degrees 
 north and an army transport dropping rapidly 
 toward the equator, and so, each day, kept in 
 step with the girl he loved. 
 
 13
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 "Now," he would tell himself, "she is in her 
 cart in front of the post-office, and while they sort 
 the morning mail she gossips with the fisher folks, 
 the summer folks, the grooms, and chauffeurs. 
 Now she is sitting for her portrait to Stedman" 
 (he did not dwell long on that part of her day), 
 "and now she is at tennis, or, as she promised, 
 riding alone at sunset down our lost road through 
 the woods." 
 
 But that part of her day from which Lee hur 
 ried was that part over which the girl herself lin 
 gered. As he turned his eyes from his canvas to 
 meet hers, Stedman, the charming, the deferential, 
 the adroit, who never allowed his painting to in 
 terrupt his talk, told her of what he was pleased 
 to call his dreams and ambitions, of the great and 
 beautiful ladies who had sat before his easel, and 
 of the only one of them who had given him inspi 
 ration. Especially of the only one who had given 
 him inspiration. With her always to uplift him, 
 he could become one of the world's most famous 
 artists, and she would go down into history as 
 the beautiful woman who had helped him, as the 
 wife of Rembrandt had inspired Rembrandt, as 
 "Mona Lisa" had made Leonardo. 
 
 Gilbert wrote: "It is not the lover who comes 
 to woo, but the lover's way of wooing!" His suc-
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 cessful lover was the one who threw the girl across 
 his saddle and rode away with her. But one kind 
 of woman does not like to have her lover ap 
 proach shouting: "At the gallop! Charge!" 
 
 She prefers a man not because he is masterful, 
 but because he is not. She likes to believe the 
 man needs her more than she needs him, that she, 
 and only she, can steady him, cheer him, keep 
 him true to the work he is in the world to per 
 form. It is called the "mothering" instinct. 
 
 Frances felt this mothering instinct toward the 
 sensitive, imaginative, charming Stedman. She 
 believed he had but two thoughts, his art and 
 herself. She was content to place his art first. 
 She could not guess that to one so unworldly, to 
 one so wrapped up in his art, the fortune of a 
 rich aunt might prove alluring. 
 
 When the transport finally picked up the land 
 falls of Cavite Harbor, Lee, with the instinct of a 
 soldier, did not exclaim: "This is where Dewey 
 ran the forts and sank the Spanish fleet!" On 
 the contrary, he was saying: "When she comes 
 to join me, it will be here I will first see her 
 steamer. I will be waiting with a field-glass on 
 the end of that wharf. No, I will be out here 
 in a shore-boat waving my hat. And of all those 
 along the rail, my heart will tell me which is she!" 
 
 15
 
 .The Lost Road 
 
 Then a barefooted Filipino boy handed him an 
 unsigned cablegram. It read: "If I wrote a thou 
 sand words I could not make it easier for either 
 of us. I am to marry Arthur Stedman in De 
 cember." 
 
 Lee was grateful for the fact that he was not 
 permitted to linger in Manila. Instead, he was 
 at once ordered up-country, where at a one-troop 
 post he administered the affairs of a somewhat 
 hectic province, and under the guidance of the 
 local constabulary chased will-o'-the-wisp brig 
 ands. On a shelf in his quarters he placed the 
 silver loving-cup, and at night, when the village 
 slept, he would sit facing it, filling one pipe after 
 another, and through the smoke staring at the 
 evidence to the fact that once Frances Gardner 
 and he had been partners. 
 
 In these post-mortems he saw nothing morbid. 
 With his present activities they in no way inter 
 fered, and in thinking of the days when they had 
 been together, in thinking of what he had lost, he 
 found deep content. Another man, having lost 
 the woman he loved, would have tried to forget 
 her and all she meant to him. But Lee was far 
 too honest with himself to substitute other 
 thoughts for those that were glorious, that still 
 thrilled him. The girl could take herself from 
 
 16
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 him, but she could not take his love for her from 
 him. And for that he was grateful. He never 
 had considered himself worthy, and so could not 
 believe he had been ill used. In his thoughts of 
 her there was no bitterness: for that also he was 
 grateful. And, as he knew he would not care for 
 any other woman in the way he cared for her, he 
 preferred to care in that way, even for one who 
 was lost, than in a lesser way for a possible she 
 who some day might greatly care for him. So 
 she still remained in his thoughts, and was so 
 constantly with him that he led a dual existence, 
 in which by day he directed the affairs of an alien 
 and hostile people and by night again lived 
 through the wonderful moments when she had 
 thought she loved him, when he first had learned 
 to love her. At times she seemed actually at his 
 side, and he could not tell whether he was pre 
 tending that this were so or whether the force of 
 his love had projected her image half around the 
 world. 
 
 Often, when in single file he led the men through 
 the forest, he seemed again to be back on Cape 
 Cod picking his way over their own lost road 
 through the wood, and he heard "the beat of a 
 horse's feet and the swish of a skirt in the dew." 
 And then a carbine would rattle, or a horse would
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 stumble and a trooper swear, and he was again 
 in the sweating jungle, where men, intent upon 
 his life, crouched in ambush. 
 
 She spared him the mockery of wedding-cards; 
 but the announcement of the wedding came to 
 him in a three-months-old newspaper. Hoping 
 they would speak of her in their letters, he kept 
 up a somewhat one-sided correspondence with 
 friends of Mrs. Stedman's in Boston, where she 
 now lived. But for a year in none of their letters 
 did her name appear. When a mutual friend did 
 write of her Lee understood the silence. 
 
 From the first, the mutual friend wrote, the 
 life of Mrs. Stedman and her husband was thor 
 oughly miserable. Stedman blamed her because 
 she came to him penniless. The rich aunt, who 
 had heartily disapproved of the artist, had spoken 
 of him so frankly that Frances had quarrelled with 
 her, and from her no longer would accept money. 
 In his anger at this Stedman showed himself to 
 Frances as he was. And only two months after 
 their marriage she was further enlightened. 
 
 An irate husband made him the central figure 
 in a scandal that filled the friends of Frances with 
 disgust, and that for her was an awakening cruel 
 and humiliating. Men no longer permitted their 
 womenfolk to sit to Stedman for a portrait, and 
 
 18
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 the need of money grew imperative. He the more 
 blamed Frances for having quarrelled with her 
 aunt, told her it was for her money he had mar 
 ried her, that she had ruined his career, and that 
 she was to blame for his ostracism a condition 
 that his own misconduct had brought upon him. 
 Finally, after twelve months of this, one morning 
 he left a note saying he no longer would allow her 
 to be a drag upon him, and sailed for Europe. 
 
 They learned that, in Paris, he had returned to 
 that life which before his marriage, even in that 
 easy-going city, had made him notorious. "And 
 Frances," continued Lee's correspondent, "has 
 left Boston, and now lives in New York. She 
 wouldn't let any of us help her, nor even know 
 where she is. The last we heard of her she was 
 in charge of the complaint department of a mil 
 linery shop, for which work she was receiving 
 about the same wages I give my cook." 
 
 Lee did not stop to wonder why the same 
 woman, who to one man was a "drag," was to 
 another, even though separated from her by half 
 the world, a joy and a blessing. Instead, he 
 promptly wrote his lawyers to find Mrs. Sted- 
 man, and, in such a way as to keep her ignorant 
 of their good offices, see that she obtained a posi 
 tion more congenial than her present one, and one 
 
 19
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 that would pay her as much as, without arousing 
 her suspicions, they found it possible to give. 
 
 Three months had passed, and this letter had 
 not been answered, when in Manila, where he had 
 been ordered to make a report, he heard of her 
 again. One evening, when the band played on 
 the Luneta, he met a newly married couple who 
 had known him in Agawamsett. They now were 
 on a ninety-day cruise around the world. Close 
 friends of Frances Gardner, they remembered him 
 as one of her many devotees and at once spoke of 
 her. 
 
 "That blackguard she married," the bride 
 groom told him, "was killed three months ago 
 racing with another car from Versailles back to 
 Paris after a dinner at which, it seems, all present 
 drank 'burgundy out of the finger-bowls.' Com 
 ing down that steep hill into Saint Cloud, the 
 cars collided, and Stedman and a woman, whose 
 husband thought she was somewhere else, were 
 killed. He couldn't even die without making a 
 scandal of it." 
 
 "But the worst," added the bride, "is that, in 
 spite of the way the little beast treated her, I be 
 lieve Frances still cares for him, and always will. 
 That's the worst of it, isn't it?" she demanded. 
 
 In words, Lee did not answer, but in his heart he 
 20
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 agreed that was much the worst of it. The fact 
 that Frances was free filled him with hope; but 
 that she still cared for the man she had married, 
 and would continue to think only of him, made 
 him ill with despair. 
 
 He cabled his lawyers for her address. He de 
 termined that, at once, on learning it, he would 
 tell her that with him nothing was changed. He 
 had forgotten nothing, and had learned much. 
 He had learned that his love for her was a splendid 
 and inspiring passion, that even without her it 
 had lifted him up, helped and cheered him, made 
 the whole world kind and beautiful. With her 
 he could not picture a world so complete with 
 happiness. 
 
 Since entering the army he had never taken a 
 leave of absence, and he was sure, if now he asked 
 for one, it would not be refused. He determined, 
 if the answer to his cable gave him her address, 
 he would return at once, and again offer her his 
 love, which he now knew was deeper, finer, and 
 infinitely more tender than the love he first had 
 felt for her. But the cable balked him. "Ad 
 dress unknown," it read; "believed to have gone 
 abroad in capacity of governess. Have employed 
 foreign agents. Will cable their report." 
 
 Whether to wait for and be guided by the report 
 21
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 of the detectives, or to proceed to Europe and 
 search for her himself, Lee did not know. He 
 finally determined that to seek for her with no 
 clew to her whereabouts would be but a waste of 
 precious moments, while, if in their search the 
 agents were successful, he would be able to go 
 directly to her. Meanwhile, by cable, he asked for 
 protracted leave of absence and, while waiting for 
 his answer, returned to his post. There, within 
 a week, he received his leave of absence, but in a 
 fashion that threatened to remove him forever 
 from the army. 
 
 The constabulary had located the will-o'-the- 
 wisp brigands behind a stockade built about an 
 extinct volcano, and Lee and his troop and a 
 mountain battery attempted to dislodge them. 
 In the fight that followed Lee covered his brows 
 with laurel wreaths and received two bullet 
 wounds in his body. 
 
 For a month death stood at the side of his cot; 
 and then, still weak and at times delirious with 
 fever, by slow stages he was removed to the hos 
 pital in Manila. In one of his sane moments a 
 cable was shown him. It read : "Whereabouts still 
 unknown." Lee at once rebelled against his doc 
 tors. He must rise, he declared, and proceed to 
 Europe. It was upon a matter of life and death. 
 
 22
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 The surgeons assured him his remaining exactly 
 where he was also was a matter of as great con 
 sequence. Lee's knowledge of his own lack of 
 strength told him they were right. 
 
 Then, from headquarters, he was informed that, 
 as a reward for his services and in recognition of 
 his approaching convalescence, he was ordered to 
 return to his own climate and that an easy billet 
 had been found for him as a recruiting officer in 
 New York City. Believing the woman he loved 
 to be in Europe, this plan for his comfort only 
 succeeded in bringing on a relapse. But the day 
 following there came another cablegram. It put 
 an abrupt end to his mutiny, and brought him 
 and the War Department into complete accord. 
 
 "She is in New York," it read, "acting as agent 
 for a charitable institution, which one not known, 
 but hope in a few days to cable correct address." 
 
 In all the world there was no man so happy. 
 The next morning a transport was sailing, and, 
 probably because they had read the cablegram, the 
 surgeons agreed with Lee that a sea voyage would 
 do him no harm. He was carried on board, and 
 when the propellers first churned the water and 
 he knew he was moving toward her, the hero of 
 the fight around the crater shed unmanly tears. 
 He would see her again, hear her voice; the same 
 
 23
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 great city would shelter them. It was worth a 
 dozen bullets. 
 
 He reached New York in a snow-storm, a week 
 before Christmas, and went straight to the office 
 of his lawyers. They received him with embar 
 rassment. Six weeks before, on the very day they 
 had cabled him that Mrs. Stedman was in New 
 York, she had left the charitable institution where 
 she had been employed, and had again disappeared. 
 
 Lee sent his trunks to the Army and Navy Club, 
 which was immediately around the corner from 
 the recruiting office in Sixth Avenue, and began 
 discharging telegrams at every one who had ever 
 known Frances Gardner. The net result was dis 
 couraging. In the year and a half in which he 
 had been absent every friend of the girl he sought 
 had temporarily changed his place of residence or 
 was permanently dead. 
 
 Meanwhile his arrival by the transport was an 
 nounced in the afternoon papers. At the wharf 
 an admiring trooper had told a fine tale of his con 
 duct at the battle of the crater, and reporters 
 called at the club to see him. He did not dis 
 courage them, as he hoped through them the fact 
 of his return might be made known to Frances. 
 She might send him a line of welcome, and he 
 would discover her whereabouts. But, though 
 
 24
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 many others sent him hearty greetings, from her 
 there was no word. 
 
 On the second day after his arrival one of the 
 telegrams was answered in person by a friend of 
 Mrs. Stedman. He knew only that she had been 
 in New York, that she was very poor and in ill 
 health, that she shunned all of her friends, and 
 was earning her living as the matron of some sort 
 of a club for working girls. He did not know the 
 name of it. 
 
 On the third day there still was no news. On 
 the fourth Lee decided that the next morning 
 he would advertise. He would say only: "Will 
 Mrs. Arthur Stedman communicate with Messrs. 
 Fuller & Fuller?" Fuller & Fuller were his law 
 yers. That afternoon he remained until six o'clock 
 at the recruiting office, and when he left it the elec 
 tric street lights were burning brightly. A heavy 
 damp snow was falling, and the lights and the fall 
 ing flakes and the shouts of drivers and the toots 
 of taxicabs made for the man from the tropics a 
 welcome home-coming. 
 
 Instead of returning at once to his club, he 
 slackened his steps. The shop windows of Sixth 
 Avenue hung with Christmas garlands, and col 
 ored lamps glowed like open fireplaces. Lee 
 passed slowly before them, glad that he had been 
 
 25
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 able to get back at such a season. For the 
 moment he had forgotten the woman he sought, 
 and was conscious only of his surroundings. He 
 had paused in front of the window of a pawn-shop. 
 Over the array of cheap jewelry, of banjos, shot 
 guns, and razors, his eyes moved idly. And then 
 they became transfixed and staring. In the very 
 front of the window, directly under his nose, was 
 a tarnished silver loving-cup. On it was engraved 
 "Mixed Doubles. Agawamsett, 1910." In all 
 the world there were only two such cups, and as 
 though he were dodging the slash of a bolo, Lee 
 leaped into the shop. Many precious seconds 
 were wasted in persuading Mrs. Cohen that he did 
 not believe the cup had been stolen; that he was 
 not from the Central Office; that he believed the 
 lady who had pawned the cup had come by it 
 honestly; that he meant no harm to the lady; that 
 he meant no harm to Mrs. Cohen; that, much as 
 the young lady may have needed the money Mrs. 
 Cohen had loaned her on the cup, he needed the 
 address of the young lady still more. 
 
 Mrs. Cohen retired behind a screen, and Lee was 
 conscious that from the other side of it the whole 
 family of Cohens were taking his measurements. 
 He approved of their efforts to protect the owner 
 of the cup, but not from him. 
 
 26
 
 c.
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 He offered, if one of the younger Cohens would 
 take him to the young lady, to let him first ask 
 her if she would receive Captain Lee, and for his 
 service he would give the young Cohen untold 
 gold. He exhibited the untold gold. The young 
 Cohen choked at the sight and sprang into the 
 seat beside the driver of a taxicab. 
 
 "To the Working Girls' Home, on Tenth 
 Street!" he commanded. 
 
 Through the falling snow and the flashing lights 
 they slid, skidded, and leaped. Inside the cab 
 Lee shivered with excitement, with cold, with 
 fear that it might not be true. He could not 
 realize she was near. It was easier to imagine him 
 self still in the jungle, with months of time and 
 sixteen thousand miles of land and water sepa 
 rating them; or in the hospital, on a white-enamel 
 cot, watching the shadow creep across the white 
 washed wall; or lying beneath an awning that did 
 not move, staring at a burning, brazen sea that 
 did not move, on a transport that, timed by the 
 beating of his heart, stood still. 
 
 Those days were within the radius of his experi 
 ence. Separation, absence, the immutable giants 
 of time and space, he knew. With them he had 
 fought and could withstand them. But to be 
 near her, to hear her voice, to bring his love into 
 
 27
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 her actual presence, that was an attack upon his 
 feelings which found him without weapons. That 
 for a very few dollars she had traded the cup 
 from which she had sworn never to part did not 
 concern him. Having parted from him, what she 
 did with a silver mug was of little consequence. 
 It was of significance only in that it meant she 
 was poor. And that she was either an inmate or a 
 matron of a lodging-house for working girls also 
 showed she was poor. 
 
 He had been told that was her condition, and 
 that she was in ill health, and that from all who 
 loved her she had refused to accept help. At the 
 thought his jaws locked pugnaciously. There was 
 one who loved her, who, should she refuse his aid, 
 was prepared to make her life intolerable. He 
 planned in succession at lightning speed all he 
 might do for her. Among other things he would 
 make this Christmas the happiest she or he would 
 ever know. Not for an instant did he question 
 that she who had refused help from all who loved 
 her could refuse anything he offered. For he 
 knew it was offered with a love that demanded 
 nothing in return, with a love that asked only to 
 be allowed to love, and to serve. To refuse help 
 inspired by such a feeling as his would be morbid, 
 wicked, ridiculous, as though a flower refused to 
 
 28
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 turn its face to the sun, and shut its lips to the 
 dew. 
 
 The cab stopped in front of a brick building 
 adorned with many fire-escapes. Afterward he 
 remembered a bare, brilliantly lit hall hung with 
 photographs of the Acropolis, and a stout, capable 
 woman in a cap, who looked him over and said : 
 
 "You will find Mrs. Stedman in the writing- 
 room." 
 
 And he remembered entering a room filled with 
 Mission furniture and reading-lamps under green 
 shades. It was empty, except for a young girl in 
 deep black, who was seated facing him, her head 
 bent above a writing-desk. As he came into the 
 circle of the lamps the girl raised her eyes and as 
 though lifted to her feet by what she saw, and 
 through no effort of her own, stood erect. 
 
 And the young man who had persuaded himself 
 his love demanded nothing, who asked only to 
 worship at her gate, found his arms reaching out, 
 and heard his voice as though it came from a great 
 distance, cry, "Frances!" 
 
 And the girl who had refused the help of all who 
 loved her, like a homing pigeon walked straight 
 into the outstretched arms. 
 
 After five minutes, when he was almost able to 
 believe it was true, he said in his commanding, 
 
 29
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 masterful way: "And now I'm going to take you 
 out of here. I'm going to buy you a ring, and a 
 sable coat, and a house to live in, and a dinner. 
 Which shall we buy first?" 
 
 "First," said Frances, frowning happily, "I am 
 afraid we must go to the Ritz, to tell Aunt Emily. 
 She always loved you, and it will make her so 
 happy." 
 
 "To the Ritz!" stammered the young man. 
 "To Aunt Emily! I thought they told me your 
 aunt and you " 
 
 "We quarrelled, yes," said Frances, "and she 
 has forgiven me; but she has not forgiven herself, 
 so she spoils me, and already I have a house to live 
 in, and several sable coats, and, oh! everything, 
 everything but the ring." 
 
 "I am so sorry!" cried Lee. "I thought you 
 were poor. I hoped you were poor. But you are 
 joking!" he exclaimed delightedly. "You are here 
 in a working girls' home " 
 
 "It is one of Aunt Emily's charities. She built it,'* 
 said Frances. "I come here to talk to the girls." 
 
 "But," persisted Lee triumphantly, "if you are 
 not poor, why did you pawn our silver loving-cup ? " 
 
 The face of the girl became a lovely crimson, and 
 tears rose to her eyes. As though at a confes 
 sional, she lifted her hands penitently. 
 
 30
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 "Try to understand," she begged; "I wanted 
 you to love me, not for my money " 
 
 "But you knew!" cried Lee. 
 
 "I had to be sure," begged the girl; "and I 
 wanted to believe you loved me even if I did not 
 love you. When it was too late I knew you loved 
 me as no woman ever deserved to be loved; and I 
 wanted that love. I could not live without it. 
 So when I read in the papers you had returned I 
 wouldn't let myself write you; I wouldn't let my 
 self beg you to come to see me. I set a test for 
 you. I knew from the papers you were at the 
 Army and Navy Club, and that around the corner 
 was the recruiting office. I'd often seen the ser 
 geant there, in uniform, at the door. I knew you 
 must pass from your club to the office many times 
 each day, so I thought of the loving-cup and the 
 pawn-shop. I planted it there. It was a trick, a 
 test. I thought if you saw it in a pawn-shop you 
 would believe I no longer cared for you, and that 
 I was very poor. If you passed it by, then I would 
 know you yourself had stopped caring, but if you 
 asked about it, if you inquired for me, then I would 
 know you came to me of your own wish, because 
 
 you- 
 
 Lee shook his head. 
 
 "You don't have to tell me," he said gently,
 
 The Lost Road 
 
 "why I came. I've a cab outside. You will get 
 in it," he commanded, "and we will rescue our 
 cup. I always told you they would look well to 
 gether over an open fireplace.".
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS
 
 THE MIRACLE OF LAS PALMAS 
 
 THIS is the story of a gallant officer who loved 
 his profession, his regiment, his country, but 
 above all, whiskey; of his miraculous conversion to 
 total abstinence, and of the humble instrument 
 that worked the miracle. At the time it was 
 worked, a battalion of the Thirty-third Infantry 
 had been left behind to guard the Zone, and was 
 occupying impromptu barracks on the hill above 
 Las Palmas. That was when Las Palmas was one 
 of the four thousand stations along the forty miles 
 of the Panama Railroad. When the railroad was 
 "reconstructed" the name of Las Palmas did not 
 appear on the new time-table, and when this story 
 appears Las Palmas will be eighty feet under 
 water. So if any one wishes to dispute the miracle 
 he will have to conduct his investigation in a 
 diving-bell. 
 
 On this particular evening young Major Aintree, 
 in command of the battalion, had gone up the line 
 to Panama to dine at the Hotel Tivoli, and had 
 dined well. To prevent his doing this a paternal 
 
 35
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 government had ordered that at the Tivoli no 
 alcoholic liquors may be sold; but only two hun 
 dred yards from the hotel, outside the zone of tem 
 perance, lies Panama and Angelina's, and during 
 the dinner, between the Tivoli and Angelina's, the 
 Jamaican waiter-boys ran relay races. 
 
 After the dinner, the Jamaican waiter-boys prov 
 ing too slow, the dinner-party in a body adjourned 
 to Angelina's, and when later, Major Aintree 
 moved across the street to the night train to Las 
 Palmas, he moved unsteadily. 
 
 Young Standish of the Canal Zone police, who, 
 though but twenty-six, was a full corporal, was for 
 that night on duty as "train guard," and was 
 waiting at the rear steps of the last car. As Ain 
 tree approached the steps he saw indistinctly a 
 boyish figure in khaki, and, mistaking it for one of 
 his own men, he clasped the handrail for support, 
 and halted frowning. 
 
 Observing the condition of the officer the police 
 man also frowned, but in deference to the uniform, 
 slowly and with reluctance raised his hand to his 
 sombrero. The reluctance was more apparent 
 than the salute. It was less of a salute than an 
 impertinence. 
 
 Partly out of regard for his rank, partly from 
 temper, chiefly from whiskey, Aintree saw scarlet. 
 
 36 "
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 "When you s'lute your s'perior officer," he 
 shouted, "you s'lute him quick. You unner- 
 stan', you s'lute him quick! S'lute me again," he 
 commanded, "and s'lute me damn quick." 
 
 Standish remained motionless. As is the habit 
 of policemen over all the world, his thumbs were 
 stuck in his belt. He answered without offence, 
 in tones matter-of-fact and calm. 
 
 "You are not my superior officer," he said. 
 
 It was the calmness that irritated Aintree. His 
 eyes sought for the infantryman's cap and found a 
 sombrero. 
 
 "You damned leatherneck," he began, "I'll 
 report " 
 
 "I'm not a marine, either," interrupted Stand 
 ish. "I'm a policeman. Move on," he ordered, 
 "you're keeping these people waiting." 
 
 Others of the dinner-party formed a flying wedge 
 around Aintree and crowded him up the steps and 
 into a seat and sat upon him. Ten minutes later, 
 when Standish made his rounds of the cars, Ain 
 tree saw him approaching. He had a vague recol 
 lection that he had been insulted, and by a police 
 man. 
 
 "You!" he called, and so loudly that all in the 
 car turned, "I'm going to report you, going to re 
 port you for insolence. What's your name?" 
 
 37
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 Looking neither at Aintree nor at the faces 
 turned toward him, Standish replied as though 
 Aintree had asked him what time it was. 
 
 "Standish," he said, "corporal, shield number 
 226, on train guard." He continued down the 
 aisle. 
 
 "I'll remember you" Aintree shouted. 
 
 But in the hot glaring dawn of the morning 
 after, Aintree forgot. It was Standish who re 
 membered. 
 
 The men of the Zone police are hand-picked. 
 They have been soldiers, marines, cowboys, sheriffs, 
 "Black Hussars" of the Pennsylvania State con 
 stabulary, rough riders with Roosevelt, mounted 
 police in Canada, irregular horse in South Africa; 
 they form one of the best-organized, best-disci 
 plined, most efficient, most picturesque semi-mili 
 tary bodies in the world. Standish joined them 
 from the Philippine constabulary in which he had 
 been a second lieutenant. There are several like 
 him in the Zone police, and in England they would 
 be called gentlemen rankers. On the Isthmus, be 
 cause of his youth, his fellow policemen called 
 Standish "Kid." And smart as each of them was, 
 each of them admitted the Kid wore his uniform 
 with a difference. With him it always looked as 
 though it had come freshly ironed from the Colon 
 
 38
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 laundry; his leather leggings shone like meer 
 schaum pipes; the brim of his sombrero rested im 
 pudently on the bridge of his nose. 
 
 "He's been an officer," they used to say in ex 
 tenuation. "You can tell when he salutes. He 
 shows the back of his hand." Secretly, they were 
 proud of him. Standish came of a long chain of 
 soldiers, and that the weakest link in the chain had 
 proved to be himself was a sorrow no one else but 
 himself could fathom. Since he was three years 
 old he had been trained to be a soldier, as care 
 fully, with the same singleness of purpose, as the 
 crown prince is trained to be a king. And when, 
 after three happy, glorious years at West Point, 
 he was found not clever enough to pass the exam 
 inations and was dropped, he did not curse the 
 gods and die, but began again to work his way up. 
 He was determined he still would wear shoulder- 
 straps. He owed it to his ancestors. It was the 
 tradition of his family, the one thing he wanted; 
 it was his religion. He would get into the army 
 even if by the side door, if only after many years 
 of rough and patient service. He knew that some 
 day, through his record, through the opportunity 
 of a war, he would come into his inheritance. 
 Meanwhile he officered his soul, disciplined his 
 body, and daily tried to learn the lesson that he 
 
 39
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 who hopes to control others must first control 
 himself. 
 
 He allowed himself but one dissipation, one 
 excess. That was to hate Major Aintree, com 
 manding the Thirty-third Infantry. Of all the 
 world could give, Aintree possessed everything 
 that Standish considered the most to be de 
 sired. He was a graduate of West Point, he had 
 seen service in Cuba, in the Boxer business, and in 
 the Philippines. For an act of conspicuous cour 
 age at Batangas, he had received the medal of 
 honor. He had had the luck of the devil. Wher 
 ever he held command turned out to be the place 
 where things broke loose. And Aintree always at 
 tacked and routed them, always was the man on 
 the job. It was his name that appeared in the 
 newspapers, it was his name that headed the list 
 of the junior officers mentioned for distinguished 
 conduct. Standish had followed his career with 
 an admiration and a joy that was without taint 
 of envy or detraction. He gloried in Aintree, he 
 delighted to know the army held such a man. He 
 was grateful to Aintree for upholding the tradi 
 tions of a profession to which he himself gave 
 all the devotion of a fanatic. He made a god 
 of him. This was his attitude of mind toward 
 Aintree before he came to the Isthmus. Up to 
 
 40
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 that time he had never seen his idol. Aintree 
 had been only a name signed to brilliant articles 
 in the service magazines, a man of whom those 
 who had served with him or under him, when asked 
 concerning him, spoke with loyalty and awe, the 
 man the newspapers called "the hero of Batangas." 
 And when at last he saw his hero, he believed his 
 worship was justified. For Aintree looked the 
 part. He was built like a greyhound with the 
 shoulders of a stevedore. His chin was as pro 
 jecting, and as hard, as the pointed end of a flat- 
 iron. His every movement showed physical fit 
 ness, and his every glance and tone a confidence 
 in himself that approached insolence. He was 
 thirty-eight, twelve years older than the youth 
 who had failed to make his commission, and who 
 as Aintree strode past, looked after him with wist 
 ful, hero-worshipping eyes. The revulsion, when 
 it came, was extreme. The hero-worship gave way 
 to contempt, to indignant condemnation, in which 
 there was no pity, no excuse. That one upon 
 whom so much had been lavished, who for him 
 self had accomplished such good things, should 
 bring disgrace upon his profession, should by his 
 example demoralize his men, should risk losing all 
 he had attained, all that had been given, was in 
 tolerable. When Standish learned his hero was a
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 drunkard, when day after day Aintree furnished 
 visible evidences of that fact, Standish felt Ain 
 tree had betrayed him and the army and the gov 
 ernment that had educated, trained, clothed, and 
 fed him. He regarded Aintree as worse than Ben 
 edict Arnold, because Arnold had turned traitor 
 for power and money; Aintree was a traitor through 
 mere weakness, because he could not say "no" to a 
 bottle. 
 
 Only in secret Standish railed against Aintree. 
 When his brother policemen gossiped and jested 
 about him, out of loyalty to the army he remained 
 silent. But in his heart he could not forgive. 
 The man he had so generously envied, the man 
 after whose career he had wished to model his 
 own, had voluntarily stepped from his pedestal 
 and made a swine of himself. And not only 
 could he not forgive, but as day after day Aintree 
 furnished fresh food for his indignation he felt a 
 fierce desire to punish. 
 
 Meanwhile, of the conduct of Aintree, men older 
 and wiser, if less intolerant than Standish, were 
 beginning to take notice. It was after a dinner 
 on Ancon Hill, and the women had left the men to 
 themselves. They were the men who were placing 
 the Panama Canal on the map. They were officers 
 of the army who for five years had not worn a uni- 
 
 42
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 form. But for five years they had been at war 
 with an enemy that never slept. Daily they had 
 engaged in battle with mountains, rivers, swamps, 
 two oceans, and disease. Where Aintree com 
 manded five hundred soldiers, they commanded a 
 body of men better drilled, better disciplined, and 
 in number half as many as those who formed the 
 entire army of the United States. The mind of 
 each was occupied with a world problem. They 
 thought and talked in millions of millions of cu 
 bic yards of dirt, of millions of barrels of cement, 
 of millions of tons of steel, of hundreds of millions 
 of dollars of which latter each received enough to 
 keep himself and his family just beyond the reach 
 of necessity. To these men with the world wait 
 ing upon the outcome of their endeavor, with re 
 sponsibilities that never relaxed, Aintree's be 
 havior was an incident, an annoyance of less im 
 portance than an overturned dirt train that for 
 five minutes dared to block the completion of their 
 work. But they were human and loyal to the 
 army, and in such an infrequent moment as this 
 over the coffee and cigars they could afford to re 
 member the junior officer, to feel sorry for him, for 
 the sake of the army, to save him from himself. 
 "He takes his orders direct from the War De 
 partment," said the chief. "I've no authority 
 
 43
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 over him. If he'd been one of my workmen I'd 
 have shipped him north three months ago." 
 
 "That's it," said the surgeon, "he's not a work 
 man. He has nothing to do, and idleness is the 
 curse of the army. And in this climate " 
 
 "Nothing to do!" snorted the civil administra 
 tor. "Keeping his men in hand is what he has to 
 do! "They're running amuck all over Panama, 
 getting into fights with the Spiggoty police, bring 
 ing the uniform into contempt. As for the cli 
 mate, it's the same climate for all of us. Look at 
 Butler's marines and Barber's Zone police. The 
 climate hasn't hurt them. They're as smart men 
 as ever wore khaki. It's not the climate or lack 
 of work that ails the Thirty-third, it's their com 
 manding officer. 'So the colonel, so the regiment/ 
 That's as old as the hills. Until Aintree takes a 
 brace, his men won't. Some one ought to talk to 
 him. It's a shame to see a fine fellow like that 
 going to the dogs because no one has the courage 
 to tell him the truth." 
 
 The chief smiled mockingly. 
 
 "Then why don't you?" he asked. 
 
 "I'm a civilian," protested the administrator. 
 "If I told him he was going to the dogs he'd tell 
 me to go to the devil. No, one of you army men 
 must do it. He'll listen to you." 
 
 44
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 Young Captain Haldane of the cavalry was at 
 the table; he was visiting Panama on leave as a 
 tourist. The chief turned to him. 
 
 "Haldane's the man," he said. "You're his 
 friend and you're his junior in rank, so what you 
 say won't sound official. Tell him people are 
 talking; tell him it won't be long before they'll be 
 talking in Washington. Scare him!" 
 
 The captain of cavalry smiled dubiously. 
 
 "Aintree's a hard man to scare," he said. 
 "But if it's as bad as you all seem to think, I'll 
 risk it. But, why is it," he complained, "that 
 whenever a man has to be told anything partic 
 ularly unpleasant they always pick on his best 
 friend to tell him? It makes them both miser 
 able. Why not let his bitterest enemy try it ? The 
 enemy at least would have a fine time." 
 
 "Because," said the chief, "Aintree hasn't an 
 enemy in the world except Aintree." 
 
 The next morning, as he had promised, Haldane 
 called upon his friend. When he arrived at Las 
 Palmas, although the morning was well advanced 
 toward noon, he found Aintree still under his mos 
 quito bars and awake only to command a drink. 
 The situation furnished Haldane with his text. 
 He expressed his opinion of any individual, friend 
 or no friend, officer or civilian, who, on the Zone 
 
 45
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 where all men begin work at sunrise, could be 
 found at noon still in his pajamas and preparing 
 to face the duties of the day on an absinthe cock 
 tail. He said further that since he had arrived 
 on the isthmus he had heard only of Aintree's 
 misconduct, that soon the War Department would 
 hear of it, that Aintree would lose his commission, 
 would break the backbone of a splendid career. 
 
 "It's a friend talking," concluded Haldane, 
 "and you know it! It's because I am your friend 
 that I've risked losing your friendship! And, 
 whether you like it or not, it's the truth. You're 
 going down-hill, going fast, going like a motor-bus 
 running away, and unless you put on the brakes 
 you'll smash!" 
 
 Aintree was not even annoyed. 
 
 "That's good advice for the right man," he 
 granted, "but why waste it on me? I can do 
 things other men can't. I can stop drinking this 
 minute, and it will mean so little to me that I 
 won't know I've stopped." 
 
 "Then stop," said Haldane. 
 
 "Why?" demanded Aintree. "I like it. Why 
 should I stop anything I like? Because a lot of 
 old women are gossiping? Because old men who 
 can't drink green mint without dancing turkey- 
 trots think I'm going to the devil because I 
 
 46
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 can drink whiskey? Fm not afraid of whiskey," 
 he laughed tolerantly. "It amuses me, that's all 
 it does to me; it amuses me." He pulled back the 
 coat of his pajamas and showed his giant chest 
 and shoulder. With his fist he struck his bare 
 flesh and it glowed instantly a healthy, splendid 
 pink. 
 
 "See that!" commanded Aintree. "If there's a 
 man on the isthmus in any better physical shape 
 than I am, I'll " He interrupted himself to begin 
 again eagerly. "I'll make you a sporting proposi 
 tion," he announced. "I'll fight any man on the 
 isthmus ten rounds no matter who he is, a wop 
 laborer, shovel man, Barbadian nigger, marine, 
 anybody and if he can knock me out I'll stop 
 drinking. You see," he explained patiently, "I'm 
 no mollycoddle or jelly-fish. I can afford a head 
 ache. And besides, it's my own head. If I don't 
 give anybody else a headache, I don't see that 
 it's anybody else's damned business." 
 
 "But you do," retorted Haldane steadily. 
 "You're giving your own men worse than a head 
 ache, you're setting them a rotten example, you're 
 giving the Thirty-third a bad name " 
 
 Aintree vaulted off his cot and shook his fist at 
 his friend. 
 
 "You can't say that to me," he cried. 
 47
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 "I do say it," protested Haldane. "When you 
 were in Manila your men were models; here 
 they're unshaven, sloppy, undisciplined. They 
 look like bell-hops. And it's your fault. And 
 everybody thinks so." 
 
 Slowly and carefully Aintree snapped his fin 
 gers. 
 
 "And you can tell everybody, from me," he 
 cried, "that's all I care what they think! And 
 now," he continued, smiling hospitably, "let me 
 congratulate you on your success as a missionary, 
 and, to show you there's not a trace of hard feel 
 ing, we will have a drink." 
 
 Informally Haldane reported back to the com 
 mission, and the wife of one of them must have 
 talked, for it was soon known that a brother officer 
 had appealed to Aintree to reform, and Aintree 
 had refused to listen. 
 
 When she heard this, Grace Carter, the wife of 
 Major Carter, one of the surgeons at the Ancon 
 Hospital, was greatly perturbed. Aintree was en 
 gaged to be married to Helen Scott, who was her 
 best friend and who was arriving by the next 
 steamer to spend the winter. When she had 
 Helen safely under her roof, Mrs. Carter had 
 planned to marry off the young couple out of hand 
 on the isthmus. But she had begun to wonder if 
 
 48
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 it would not be better they should delay, or best 
 that they should never marry. 
 
 "The awakening is going to be a terrible blow 
 to Helen," she said to her husband. "She is so 
 proud of him." 
 
 "On the contrary," he protested, "it will be the 
 awakening of Aintree if Helen will stand for the 
 way he's acting, she is not the girl I know. And 
 when he finds she won't, and that he may lose her, 
 he'll pull up short. He's talked Helen to me night 
 after night until he's bored me so I could strangle 
 him. He cares more for her than he does for any 
 thing, for the army, or for himself, and that's say 
 ing a great deal. One word from her will be 
 enough." 
 
 Helen spoke the word three weeks after she ar 
 rived. It had not been necessary to tell her of the 
 manner in which her lover was misconducting him 
 self. At various dinners given in their honor he 
 had made a nuisance of himself; on another occa 
 sion, while in uniform, he had created a scene in 
 the dining-room of the Tivoli under the prying 
 eyes of three hundred seeing-the-Canal tourists; 
 and one night he had so badly beaten up a cab 
 man who had laughed at his condition that the 
 man went to the hospital. Major Carter, largely 
 with money, had healed the injuries of the cab- 
 
 49
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 man, but Helen, who had witnessed the assault, 
 had suffered an injury that money could not heal. 
 
 She sent for Aintree, and at the home of her 
 friend delivered her ultimatum. 
 
 "I hit him because he was offensive to you" 
 said Aintree. " That's why I hit him. If I'd not 
 had a drink in a year, I'd have hit him just as 
 quick and just as hard." 
 
 "Can't you see," said the girl, "that in being not 
 yourself when I was in your care you were much 
 more insulting to me than any cabman could pos 
 sibly be? When you are like that you have no 
 respect for me, or for yourself. Part of my pride 
 in you is that you are so strong, that you control 
 yourself, that common pleasures never get a hold 
 on you. If you couldn't control your temper I 
 wouldn't blame you, because you've a villainous 
 temper and you were born with it. But you 
 weren't born with a taste for liquor. None of 
 your people drank. You never drank until you 
 went into the army. If I were a man," declared 
 the girl, "I'd be ashamed to admit any thing was 
 stronger than I was. You never let pain beat you. 
 I've seen you play polo with a broken arm, but in 
 this you give pain to others, you shame and hu 
 miliate the one you pretend to love, just because 
 you are weak, just because you can't say *no." : 
 
 50
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 Aintree laughed angrily. 
 
 "Drink has no hold on me," he protested. "It 
 affects me as much as the lights and the music 
 affect a girl at her first dance, and no more. But, 
 if you ask me to stop " 
 
 "I do not!" said the girl. "If you stop, you'll 
 stop not because I have any influence over you, 
 but because you don't need my influence. If it's 
 wrong, if it's hurting you, if it's taking away your 
 usefulness and your power for good, that's why 
 you'll stop. Not because a girl begs you. Or 
 you're not the man I think you." 
 
 Aintree retorted warmly. "I'm enough of a 
 man for this," he protested: "I'm enough of a 
 man not to confess I can't drink without making 
 a beast of myself. It's easy not to drink at all. 
 But to stop altogether is a confession of weakness. 
 I'd look on my doing that as cowardly. I give you 
 my word not that I'll swear off, that I'll never 
 do but I promise you you'll have no further rea 
 son to be what you call humiliated, or ashamed. 
 You have my word for it." 
 
 A week later Aintree rode his pony into a rail 
 way cutting and rolled with it to the tracks be 
 low, and, if at the time he had not been extremely 
 drunk, would have been killed. The pony, being 
 quite sober, broke a leg and was destroyed.
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 When word of this came to Helen she was too 
 sick at heart to see Aintree, and by others it was 
 made known to him that on the first steamer Miss 
 Scott would return North. Aintree knew why 
 she was going, knew she had lost faith and pa 
 tience, knew the woman he loved had broken with 
 him and put him out of her life. Appalled at this 
 calamity, he proceeded to get drunk in earnest. 
 
 The night was very hot and the humidity very 
 heavy, and at Las Palmas inside the bungalow that 
 served as a police-station the lamps on either side 
 of the lieutenant's desk burned like tiny furnaces. 
 Between them, panting in the moist heat and with 
 the sweat from his forehead and hand dripping 
 upon an otherwise immaculate report, sat Stand- 
 ish. Two weeks before, the chief had made him 
 one of his six lieutenants. With the force the 
 promotion had been most popular. 
 
 Since his promotion Standish had been in charge 
 of the police-station at Las Palmas and daily had 
 seen Aintree as, on his way down the hill from 
 the barracks to the railroad, the hero of Batangas 
 passed the door of the station-house. Also, on the 
 morning Aintree had jumped his horse over the 
 embankment, Standish had seen him carried up 
 the hill on a stretcher. At the sight the lieu-
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 tenant of police had taken from his pocket a note 
 book, and on a flyleaf made a cross. On the fly 
 leaf were many other dates and opposite each a 
 cross. It was Aintree's record and as the number 
 of black crosses grew, the greater had grown the 
 resentment of Standish, the more greatly it had 
 increased his anger against the man who had put 
 this affront upon the army, the greater became 
 his desire to punish. 
 
 In police circles the night had been quiet, the 
 cells in the yard were empty, the telephone at his 
 elbow had remained silent, and Standish alone in 
 the station-house had employed himself in cram 
 ming "Moss's Manual for Subalterns." He found 
 it a fascinating exercise. The hope that soon he 
 might himself be a subaltern always burned 
 brightly, and to be prepared seemed to make the 
 coming of that day more certain. It was ten 
 o'clock and Las Palmas lay sunk in slumber, and 
 after the down train which was now due had 
 passed, there was nothing likely to disturb her 
 slumber until at sunrise the great army of dirt- 
 diggers with shrieks of whistles, with roars of 
 dynamite, with the rumbling of dirt-trains and 
 steam-shovels, again sprang to the attack. Down 
 the hill, a hundred yards below Standish, the night 
 train halted at the station, with creakings and 
 
 S3
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 groanings continued toward Colon, and again Las 
 Palmas returned to sleep. 
 
 And, then, quickly and viciously, like the crack 
 of a mule-whip, came the reports of a pistol; and 
 once more the hot and dripping silence. 
 
 On post at the railroad station, whence the shots 
 came, was Meehan, one of the Zone police, an ex- 
 sergeant of marines. On top of the hill, outside 
 the infantry barracks, was another policeman, 
 Bullard, once a cowboy. 
 
 Standish ran to the veranda and heard the peb 
 bles scattering as Bullard leaped down the hill, and 
 when, in the light from the open door, he passed, 
 the lieutenant shouted at him to find Meehan 
 and report back. Then the desk telephone rang, 
 and Standish returned to his chair. 
 
 "This is Meehan," said a voice. "Those shots 
 just now were fired by Major Aintree. He came 
 down on the night train and jumped off after the 
 train was pulling out and stumbled into a negro, 
 and fell. He's been drinking and he swore the 
 nigger pushed him; and the man called Aintree 
 a liar. Aintree pulled his gun and the nigger 
 ran. Aintree fired twice; then I got to him and 
 knocked the gun out of his hand with my night 
 stick." 
 
 There was a pause. Until he was sure his voice 
 54
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 would be steady and official, the boy lieutenant 
 did not speak. 
 
 "Did he hit the negro?" he asked. 
 
 "I don't know," Meehan answered. "The man 
 jumped for the darkest spot he could find." The 
 voice of Meehan lost its professional calm and be 
 came personal and aggrieved. 
 
 "Aintree's on his way to see you now, lieuten 
 ant. He's going to report me." 
 
 "For what?" 
 
 The voice over the telephone rose indignantly . 
 
 "For knocking the gun out of his hand. He 
 says it's an assault. He's going to break me!" 
 
 Standish made no comment. 
 
 "Report here," he ordered. 
 
 He heard Bullard hurrying up the hill and met 
 him at the foot of the steps. 
 
 "There's a nigger," began Bullard, "lying un 
 der some bushes " 
 
 "Hush!" commanded Standish. 
 
 From the path below came the sound of foot 
 steps approaching unsteadily, and the voice of a 
 man swearing and muttering to himself. Stand 
 ish pulled the ex-cowboy into the shadow of the 
 darkness and spoke in eager whispers. 
 
 "You understand," he concluded, "you will sot 
 report until you see me pick up a cigar from the 
 
 55
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 desk and light it. You will wait out here in the 
 darkness. When you see me light the cigar, you 
 will come in and report." 
 
 The cowboy policeman nodded, but without en 
 thusiasm. "I understand, lieutenant," he said, 
 "but," he shook his head doubtfully, "it sizes up 
 to me like what those police up in New York call a 
 ' frame-up. "' 
 
 Standish exclaimed impatiently. 
 
 "It's not my frame-up!" he said. "The man's 
 framed himself up. All I'm going to do is to nail 
 him to the wall ! " 
 
 Standish had only time to return to his desk 
 when Aintree stumbled up the path and into the 
 station-house. He was "fighting drunk," ugly, 
 offensive, all but incoherent with anger. 
 
 "You in charge?" he demanded. He did not 
 wait for an answer. "I've been 'saulted!" he 
 shouted. "'Saulted by one of your damned police 
 men. He struck me struck me when I was pro 
 tecting myself. He had a nigger with him. First 
 the nigger tripped me; then, when I tried to pro 
 tect myself, this thug of yours hits me, clubs me, 
 you unnerstan', clubs me! I want him " 
 
 He was interrupted by the entrance of Meehan, 
 who moved into the light from the lamps and 
 saluted his lieutenant. 
 
 56
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 "That's the man!" roared Aintree. The sight 
 of Meehan whipped him into greater fury. 
 
 "I want that man broke. I want to see you 
 strip his shield off him now, you unnerstan', 
 now for 'saulting me, for 'saulting an officer in 
 the United States army. And, if you don't," he 
 threw himself into a position of the prize-ring, 
 "I'll beat him up and you, too." Through want 
 of breath, he stopped, and panted. Again his 
 voice broke forth hysterically. "I'm not afraid of 
 your damned night-sticks," he taunted. "I got 
 five hundred men on top this hill, all I've got to 
 do is say the word, and they'll rough-house this 
 place and throw it into the cut and you with it." 
 
 Standish rose to his feet, and across the desk 
 looked steadily at Aintree. To Aintree the steadi 
 ness of his eyes and the quietness of his voice were 
 an added aggravation. 
 
 "Suppose you did," said Standish, "that would 
 not save you." 
 
 "From what?" roared Aintree. "Think I'm 
 afraid of your night-sticks?" 
 
 "From arrest!" 
 
 "Arrest me!" yelled Aintree. "Do you know 
 who's talking to you? Do you know who I am? 
 I'm Major Aintree, damn you, commanding the 
 
 infantry. An' I'm here to charge that thug " 
 
 57
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 "You are here because you are under arrest," 
 said Standish. "You are arrested for threatening 
 the police, drunkenness, and assaulting a citizen 
 with intent to kill " The voice of the young 
 man turned shrill and rasping. "And if the man 
 should die " 
 
 Aintree burst into a bellow of mocking laughter. 
 
 Standish struck the desk with his open palm. 
 
 "Silence!" he commanded. 
 
 "Silence to me!" roared Aintree, "you imperti 
 nent pup!" He flung himself forward, shaking 
 his fist. "I'm Major Aintree. I'm your superior 
 officer. I'm an officer an' a gentleman " 
 
 "You are not!" replied Standish. "You are a 
 drunken loafer!" 
 
 Aintree could not break the silence. Amaze 
 ment, rage, stupefaction held him in incredulous 
 wonder. Even Meehan moved uneasily. Be 
 tween the officer commanding the infantry and 
 an officer of police, he feared the lieutenant would 
 not survive. 
 
 But he heard the voice of his lieutenant con 
 tinuing, evenly, coldly, like the voice of a judge 
 delivering sentence. 
 
 "You are a drunken loafer," repeated the boy. 
 "And you know it. And I mean that to-morrow 
 morning every one on the Zone shall know it. 
 
 58
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 And I mean to-morrow night every one in the 
 States shall know it. You've killed a man, or 
 tried to, and I'm going to break you." With his 
 arm he pointed to Meehan. "Break that man?" 
 he demanded. "For doing his duty, for trying to 
 stop a murder? Strip him of his shield?" The 
 boy laughed savagely. "It's you I am going to 
 strip, Aintree," he cried, "you 'hero of Batangas'; 
 Fm going to strip you naked. I'm going to 'cut 
 the buttons off your coat, and tear the stripes 
 away.' I'm going to degrade you and disgrace 
 you, and drive you out of the army!" He threw 
 his note-book on the table. "There's your dossier, 
 Aintree," he said. " For three months you've been 
 drunk, and there's your record. The police got 
 it for me; it's written there with dates and the 
 names of witnesses. I'll swear to it. I've been 
 after you to get you, and I've got you. With 
 that book, with what you did to-night, you'll leave 
 the army. You may resign, you may be court- 
 martialled, you may be hung. I don't give a 
 damn what they do to you, but you will leave the 
 army!" 
 
 He turned to Meehan, and with a jerk of the 
 hand signified Aintree. 
 
 " Put him in a cell," he said. " If he resists " 
 
 Aintree gave no sign of resisting. He stood mo- 
 59
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 tionless, his arms hanging limp, his eyes protru 
 ding. The liquor had died in him, and his anger 
 had turned chill. He tried to moisten his lips to 
 speak, but his throat was baked, and no sound 
 issued. He tried to focus his eyes upon the men 
 acing little figure behind the desk, but between the 
 two lamps it swayed, and shrank and swelled. Of 
 one thing only was he sure, that some grave dis 
 aster had overtaken him, something that when he 
 came fully to his senses still would overwhelm 
 him, something he could not conquer with his 
 fists. His brain, even befuddled as it was, told 
 him he had been caught by the heels, that he was 
 in a trap, that smashing this boy who threatened 
 him could not set him free. He recognized, and it 
 was this knowledge that stirred him with alarm, 
 that this was no ordinary officer of justice, but a 
 personal enemy, an avenging spirit who, for some 
 unknown reason, had spread a trap; who, for some 
 private purpose of revenge, would drag him down. 
 
 Frowning painfully, he waved Meehan from 
 him. 
 
 "Wait," he commanded. "I don' unnerstan'. 
 What good's it goin' to do you to lock me up 
 an' disgrace me? What harm have I done you? 
 Who asked you to run the army, anyway? Who 
 are you?" 
 
 60
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 "My name is Standish," said the lieutenant. 
 "My father was colonel of the Thirty-third when 
 you first joined it from the Academy." 
 
 Aintree exclaimed with surprise and enlighten 
 ment. He broke into hurried speech, but Stand 
 ish cut him short. 
 
 "And General Standish of the Mexican War," he 
 continued, "was my grandfather. Since Washing 
 ton all my people have been officers of the regular 
 army, and I'd been one, too, if I'd been bright 
 enough. That's why I respect the army. That's 
 why I'm going to throw you out of it. You've 
 done harm fifty men as good as you can't undo. 
 You've made drunkards of a whole battalion. 
 You've taught boys who looked up to you, as I 
 looked up to you once, to laugh at discipline, to 
 make swine of themselves. You've set them an 
 example. I'm going to make an example of you. 
 That's all there is to this. I've got no grudge 
 against you. I'm not vindictive; I'm sorry for 
 you. But," he paused and pointed his hand at 
 Aintree as though it held a gun, "you are going to 
 leave the army!" 
 
 Like a man coming out of an ugly dream, Ain 
 tree opened and shut his eyes, shivered, and 
 stretched his great muscles. They watched him 
 with an effort of the will force himself back to 
 
 61
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 consciousness. When again he spoke, his tone 
 was sane. 
 
 "See here, Standish," he began, "I'll not beg 
 of you or any man. I only ask you to think what 
 you're doing. This means my finish. If you 
 force this through to-night it means court-martial, 
 it means I lose my commission, I lose lose things 
 you know nothing about. And, if I've got a rec 
 ord for drinking, I've got a record for other things, 
 too. Don't forget that!" 
 
 Standish shook his head. "7 didn't forget it," 
 he said. 
 
 "Well, suppose 7 did," demanded Aintree. 
 "Suppose I did go on the loose, just to pass the 
 time, just because I'm sick of this damned ditch? 
 Is it fair to wipe out all that went before, for that ? 
 I'm the youngest major in the army, I served in 
 three campaigns, I'm a medal-of-honor man, I've 
 got a career ahead of me, and and I'm going to 
 be married. If you give me a chance " 
 
 Standish struck the table with his fist. 
 
 "I will give you a chance," he cried. "If you'll 
 give your word to this man and to me, that, so help 
 you God, you'll never drink again I'll let you go." 
 
 If what Standish proposed had been something 
 base, Aintree could not have accepted it with more 
 contempt. 
 
 62
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 "I'll see you in hell first," he said. 
 
 As though the interview was at an end, Standish 
 dropped into his chair and leaning forward, from 
 the table picked up a cigar. As he lit it, he mo 
 tioned Meehan toward his prisoner, but before the 
 policeman could advance the sound of footsteps 
 halted him. 
 
 Bullard, his eyes filled with concern, leaped up 
 the steps, and ran to the desk. 
 
 "Lieutenant!" he stammered, "that man the 
 nigger that officer shot he's dead!" 
 
 Aintree gave a gasp that was partly a groan, 
 partly a cry of protest, and Bullard, as though for 
 the first time aware of his presence, sprang back to 
 the open door and placed himself between it and 
 Aintree. 
 
 "It's murder!" he said. 
 
 None of the three men spoke; and when Meehan 
 crossed to where Aintree stood, staring fearfully 
 at nothing, he had only to touch his sleeve, and 
 Aintree, still staring, fell into step beside him. 
 
 From the yard outside Standish heard the iron 
 door of the cell swing shut, heard the key grate 
 in the lock, and the footsteps of Meehan return 
 ing. 
 
 Meehan laid the key upon the desk, and with 
 Bullard stood at attention, waiting. 
 
 63
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 "Give him time," whispered Standish. "Let it 
 sink in!" 
 
 At the end of half an hour Standish heard Ain- 
 tree calling, and, with Meehan carrying a lantern, 
 stepped into the yard and stopped at the cell door. 
 
 Aintree was quite sober. His face was set and 
 white, his voice was dull with suffering. He stood 
 erect, clasping the bars in his hands. 
 
 "Standish," he said, "you gave me a chance a 
 while ago, and I refused it. I was rough about it. 
 I'm sorry. It made me hot because I thought you 
 were forcing my hand, blackmailing me into doing 
 something I ought to do as a free agent. Now, I 
 am a free agent. You couldn't give me a chance 
 now, you couldn't let me go now, not if I swore on 
 a thousand Bibles. I don't know what they'll 
 give me Leavenworth for life, or hanging, or just 
 dismissal. But, you've got what you wanted 
 I'm leaving the army!" Between the bars he 
 stretched out his arms and held a hand toward 
 Meehan and Standish. In the same dull, numbed 
 voice he continued. 
 
 "So, now," he went on, "that I've nothing to 
 gain by it, I want to swear to you and to this man 
 here, that whether I hang, or go to jail, or am 
 turned loose, I will never, so help me God, take 
 another drink." 
 
 64
 
 The Miracle of Las Palmas 
 
 Standish was holding the hand of the man who 
 once had been his hero. He clutched it tight. 
 
 "Aintree," he cried, "suppose I could work a 
 miracle; suppose I've played a trick on you, to 
 show you your danger, to show you what might 
 come to you any day does that oath still stand?" 
 
 The hand that held his ground the bones to 
 gether. 
 
 " I've given my word ! " cried Aintree. " For the 
 love of God, don't torture me. Is the man alive ? " 
 
 As Standish swung open the cell door, the hero 
 of Batangas, he who could thrash any man on the 
 Isthmus, crumpled up like a child upon his 
 shoulder. 
 
 And Meehan, as he ran for water, shouted joy 
 fully. 
 
 "That nigger," he called to Bullard, "can go 
 home now. The lieutenant don't want him no 
 more."
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL 
 THINKS
 
 EVIL TO HIM WHO EVIL THINKS 
 
 A> a rule, the instant the season closed Aline 
 Proctor sailed on the first steamer for Lon 
 don, where awaited her many friends, both Eng 
 lish and American and to Paris, where she se 
 lected those gowns that on and off the stage 
 helped to make her famous. But this particular 
 summer she had spent with the Endicotts at 
 Bar Harbor, and it was at their house Herbert 
 Nelson met her. After Herbert met her very few 
 other men enjoyed that privilege. This was her 
 wish as well as his. 
 
 They behaved disgracefully. Every morning 
 after breakfast they disappeared and spent the 
 day at opposite ends of a canoe. She, knowing 
 nothing of a canoe, was happy in stabbing the 
 waters with her paddle while he told her how 
 he loved her and at the same time, with anxious 
 eyes on his own paddle, skilfully frustrated her 
 efforts to drown them both. While the affair 
 lasted it was ideal and beautiful, but unfortu 
 nately it lasted only two months. 
 
 69
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 Then Lord Albany, temporarily in America as 
 honorary attache to the British embassy, his ador 
 ing glances, his accent, and the way he brushed his 
 hair, proved too much for the susceptible heart of 
 Aline, and she chucked Herbert and asked herself 
 how a woman of her age could have seriously con 
 sidered marrying a youth just out of Harvard ! At 
 that time she was a woman of nineteen; but, as she 
 had been before the public ever since she was 
 eleven, the women declared she was not a day un 
 der twenty-six; and the men knew she could not 
 possibly be over sixteen! 
 
 Aline's own idea of herself was that without 
 some one in love with her she could not exist 
 that, unless she knew some man cared for her and 
 for her alone, she would wither and die. As a 
 matter of fact, whether any one loved her or not 
 did not in the least interest her. There were sev 
 eral dozen men who could testify to that. They 
 knew! What she really wanted was to be head 
 over ears in love to adore some one, to worship 
 him, to imagine herself starving for him and mak 
 ing sacrifice hits for him; but when the moment 
 came to make the sacrifice hit and marry the man, 
 she invariably found that a greater, truer love had 
 arisen for some one else. 
 
 This greater and truer love always made her 
 70
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 behave abominably to the youth she had just 
 jilted. She wasted no time on post-mortems. She 
 was so eager to show her absolute loyalty to the 
 new monarch that she grudged every thought she 
 ever had given the one she had cast into exile. 
 She resented him bitterly. She could not forgive 
 him for having allowed her to be desperately in 
 love with him. He should have known he was 
 not worthy of such a love as hers. He should have 
 known that the real prince was waiting only just 
 round the corner. 
 
 As a rule, the rejected ones behaved well. Each 
 decided Aline was much too wonderful a creature 
 for him, and continued to love her cautiously and 
 from a distance. None of them ever spoke or 
 thought ill of her and would gladly have punched 
 any one who did. It was only the women whose 
 young men Aline had temporarily confiscated, and 
 then returned saddened and chastened, who were 
 spiteful. And they dared say no more than that 
 Aline would probably have known her mind better 
 if she had had a mother to look after her. This, 
 coming to the ears of Aline, caused her to reply 
 that a girl who could not keep straight herself, but 
 needed a mother to help her, would not keep 
 straight had she a dozen mothers. As she put it 
 cheerfully, a girl who goes wrong and then pleads
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 "no mother to guide her" is like a jockey who 
 pulls a race and then blames the horse. 
 
 Each of the yoking men Aline rejected married 
 some one else and, except when the name of Aline 
 Proctor in the theatrical advertisements or in elec 
 tric lights on Broadway gave him a start, forgot 
 that for a month her name and his own had been 
 linked together from Portland to San Francisco. 
 But the girl he married did not forget. She never 
 understood what the public saw in Aline Proctor. 
 That Aline was the queen of musical comedy she 
 attributed to the fact that Aline knew the right 
 people and got herself written about in the right 
 way. But that she could sing, dance, act; that 
 she possessed compelling charm; that she "got 
 across" not only to the tired business man, the 
 wine agent, the college boy, but also to the 
 children and the old ladies, was to her never 
 apparent. 
 
 Just as Aline could not forgive the rejected suitor 
 for allowing her to love him, so the girl he married 
 never forgave Aline for having loved her husband. 
 Least of all could Sally Winthrop, who two years 
 after the summer at Bar Harbor married Herbert 
 Nelson, forgive her. And she let Herbert know it. 
 Herbert was properly in love with Sally Winthrop, 
 but he liked to think that his engagement to Aline, 
 
 72
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 though brief and abruptly terminated, had proved 
 him to be a man fatally attractive to all women. 
 And though he was hypnotizing himself into be 
 lieving that his feeling for Aline had been the grand 
 passion, the truth was that all that kept her in 
 his thoughts was his own vanity. He was not 
 discontented with his lot his lot being Sally Win- 
 throp, her millions, and her estate of three hun 
 dred acres near Westbury. Nor was he still long 
 ing for Aline. It was only that his vanity was 
 flattered by the recollection that one of the young 
 women most beloved by the public had once loved 
 him. 
 
 "I once was a king in Babylon," he used to 
 misquote to himself, "and she was a Christian 
 slave." 
 
 He was as young as that. 
 
 Had he been content in secret to assure himself 
 that he once had been a reigning monarch, his 
 vanity would have harmed no one; but, unfortu 
 nately, he possessed certain documentary evidence 
 to that fact. And he was sufficiently foolish not to 
 wish to destroy it. The evidence consisted of a 
 dozen photographs he had snapped of Aline during 
 the happy days at Bar Harbor, and on which she 
 had written phrases somewhat exuberant and sen 
 timental. 
 
 73
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 From these photographs Nelson was loath to 
 part especially with one that showed Aline seated 
 on a rock that ran into the waters of the harbor, 
 and on which she had written: "As long as this 
 rock lasts!" Each time she was in love Aline 
 believed it would last. That in the past it never 
 had lasted did not discourage her. 
 
 What to do with these photographs that so 
 vividly recalled the most tumultuous period of his 
 life Nelson could not decide. If he hid them 
 away and Sally found them, he knew she would 
 make his life miserable. If he died and Sally then 
 found them, when he no longer was able to explain 
 that they meant nothing to him, she would believe 
 he always had loved the other woman, and it would 
 make her miserable. He felt he could not safely 
 keep them in his own house; his vanity did not 
 permit him to burn them, and, accordingly, he de 
 cided to unload them on some one else. 
 
 The young man to whom he confided his collec 
 tion was Charles Cochran. Cochran was a charm 
 ing person from the West. He had studied in the 
 Beaux Arts and on foot had travelled over England 
 and Europe, preparing himself to try his fortune in 
 New York as an architect. He was now in the 
 office of the architects Post & Constant, and lived 
 alone in a tiny farmhouse he had made over for 
 
 74
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 himself near Herbert Nelson, at Westbury, Long 
 Island. 
 
 Post & Constant were a fashionable firm and 
 were responsible for many of the French chateaus 
 and English country houses that were rising near 
 Westbury, Hempstead, and Roslyn; and it was 
 Cochran's duty to drive over that territory in his 
 runabout, keep an eye on the contractors, and dis 
 suade clients from grafting mansard roofs on 
 Italian villas. He had built the summer home 
 of the Herbert Nelsons, and Herbert and Charles 
 were very warm friends. Charles was of the same 
 lack of years as was Herbert, of an enthusiastic 
 and sentimental nature; and, like many other 
 young men, the story of his life also was the lovely 
 and much-desired Aline Proctor. It was this coin 
 cidence that had made them friends and that had 
 led Herbert to select Charles as the custodian of 
 his treasure. As a custodian and confidant Charles 
 especially appealed to his new friend because, ex 
 cept upon the stage and in restaurants, Charles 
 had never seen Aline Proctor, did not know her 
 and considered her so far above him, so unattain 
 able, that he had no wish to seek her out. Un 
 known, he preferred to worship at a distance. In 
 this determination Herbert strongly encouraged 
 him. 
 
 75
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 When he turned over the pictures to Charles, 
 Herbert could not resist showing them to him. 
 They were in many ways charming. They pre 
 sented the queen of musical comedy in several 
 new roles. In one she was in a sailor suit, giving 
 an imitation of a girl paddling a canoe. In another 
 she was in a riding-habit mounted upon a pony 
 of which she seemed very much afraid. In some 
 she sat like a siren among the rocks with the waves 
 and seaweed snatching at her feet, and in another 
 she crouched beneath the wheel of Herbert's tour 
 ing car. All of the photographs were unprofes 
 sional and intimate, and the legends scrawled 
 across them were even more intimate. 
 
 "As long as this rock lasts!'" read Herbert. 
 At arm's length he held the picture for Cochran to 
 see, and laughed bitterly and unmirthfully as he 
 had heard leading men laugh in problem plays. 
 
 "That is what she wrote," he mocked "but 
 how long did it last? Until she saw that little red 
 headed Albany playing polo. That lasted until 
 his mother heard of it. She thought her precious 
 lamb was in the clutches of a designing actress, 
 and made the Foreign Office cable him home. 
 Then Aline took up one of those army aviators, 
 and chucked him for that fellow who painted her 
 portrait, and threw him over for the lawn-tennis 
 
 76
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 champion. Now she's engaged to Chester Gris- 
 wold, and Heaven pity her! Of course he's the 
 greatest catch in America; but he's a prig and a 
 snob, and he's so generous with his money that 
 he'll give you five pennies for a nickel any time 
 you ask him. He's got a heart like the meter of a 
 taxicab, and he's jealous as a cat. Aline will have 
 a fine time with Chester! I knew him at St. 
 Paul's and at Harvard, and he's got as much red 
 blood in him as an eel!" 
 
 Cochran sprang to the defence of the lady of his 
 dreams. 
 
 "There must be some good in the man," he pro 
 tested, "or Miss Proctor 
 
 "Oh, those solemn snobs," declared Herbert, 
 "impress women by just keeping still. Griswold 
 pretends the reason he doesn't speak to you is be 
 cause he's too superior, but the real reason is that 
 he knows whenever he opens his mouth he shows 
 he is an ass." 
 
 Reluctantly Herbert turned over to Charles the 
 precious pictures. "It would be a sin to destroy 
 them, wouldn't it?" he prompted. 
 
 Cochran agreed heartily. 
 
 "You might even," suggested Herbert, "leave 
 one or two of them about. You have so many of 
 Aline already that one more wouldn't be noticed. 
 
 77
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 Then when I drop in I could see it." He smiled 
 ingratiatingly. 
 
 "But those I have I bought," Cochran pointed 
 out. "Anybody can buy them, but yours are per 
 sonal. And they're signed." 
 
 "No one will notice that but me," protested 
 Herbert. "Just one or two," he coaxed "stuck 
 round among the others. They'd give me a heap 
 of melancholy pleasure." 
 
 Charles shook his head doubtfully. 
 
 "Your wife often comes here with you," he said. 
 "I don't believe they'd give her melancholy pleas 
 ure. The question is, are you married to Sally or 
 to Aline Proctor?" 
 
 "Oh, of course," exclaimed Herbert "if you 
 refuse!" 
 
 With suspicious haste Charles surrendered. 
 
 "I don't refuse," he explained; "I only ask if it's 
 wise. Sally knows you were once very fond of 
 Miss Proctor knows you were engaged to her." 
 
 "But," protested Herbert, "Sally sees your 
 photographs of Aline. What difference can a few 
 more make? After she's seen a dozen she gets 
 used to them." 
 
 No sooner had Herbert left him than the cus 
 todian of the treasure himself selected the photo 
 graphs he would display. In them the young 
 
 78
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 woman he had from the front row of the orches 
 tra so ardently admired appeared in a new light. 
 To Cochran they seemed at once to render her 
 more kindly, more approachable; to show her as 
 she really was, the sort of girl any youth would 
 find it extremely difficult not to love. Cochran 
 found it extremely easy. The photographs gave 
 his imagination all the room it wanted. He be 
 lieved they also gave him an insight into her real 
 character that was denied to anybody else. He 
 had always credited her with all the virtues; he 
 now endowed her with every charm of mind and 
 body. In a week to the two photographs he had 
 selected from the loan collection for purposes of 
 display and to give Herbert melancholy pleasure 
 he had added three more. In two weeks there were 
 half a dozen. In a month, nobly framed in silver, 
 in leather of red, green, and blue, the entire collec 
 tion smiled upon him from every part of his bed 
 room. For he now kept them where no one but 
 himself could see them. No longer was he of a 
 mind to share his borrowed treasure with others 
 not even with the rightful owner. 
 
 Chester Griswold, spurred on by Aline Proctor, 
 who wanted to build a summer home on Long 
 Island, was motoring with Post, of Post & Con 
 stant, in the neighborhood of Westbury. Post had 
 
 79
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 pointed out several houses designed by his firm, 
 which he hoped might assist Griswold in making 
 up his mind as to the kind of house he wanted; 
 but none they had seen had satisfied his client. 
 
 "What I want is a cheap house," explained the 
 young millionaire. "I don't really want a house 
 at all," he complained. "It's Miss Proctor's idea. 
 When we are married I intend to move into my 
 mother's town house, but Miss Proctor wants one 
 for herself in the country. I've agreed to that; 
 but it must be small and it must be cheap." 
 
 "Cheap" was a word that the clients of Post & 
 Constant never used; but Post knew the weak 
 nesses of some of the truly rich, and he knew also 
 that no house ever built cost only what the archi 
 tect said it would cost. 
 
 "I know the very house you want!" he ex 
 claimed. "One of our young men owns it. He 
 made it over from an old farmhouse. It's very 
 well arranged; we've used his ground-plan several 
 times and it works out splendidly. If he's not at 
 home, I'll show you over the place myself. And if 
 you like the house he's the man to build you one." 
 
 When they reached Cochran's home he was at 
 Garden City playing golf, but the servant knew 
 Mr. Post, and to him and his client threw open 
 every room in the house. 
 
 80
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 "Now, this," exclaimed the architect enthusi 
 astically, "is the master's bedroom. In your case 
 it would probably be your wife's room and you 
 would occupy the one adjoining, which Cochran 
 now uses as a guest-room. As you see, they are 
 entirely cut off from " 
 
 Mr. Griswold did not see. Up to that moment 
 he had given every appearance of being both bored 
 and sulky. Now his attention was entirely en 
 gaged but not upon the admirable simplicity of 
 Mr. Cochran's ground-plan, as Mr. Post had 
 hoped. Instead, the eyes of the greatest catch in 
 America were intently regarding a display of pho 
 tographs that smiled back at him from every cor 
 ner of the room. Not only did he regard these 
 photographs with a savage glare, but he ap 
 proached them and carefully studied the inscrip 
 tions scrawled across the face of each. 
 
 Post himself cast a glance at the nearest photo 
 graphs, and then hastily manoeuvred his client 
 into the hall and closed the door. 
 
 "We will now," he exclaimed, "visit the butler's 
 pantry, which opens upon the dining-room and 
 kitchen, thus saving 
 
 But Griswold did not hear him. Without giving 
 another glance at the house he stamped out of it 
 and, plumping himself down in the motor-car, 
 
 81
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 banged the door. Not until Post had driven him 
 well into New York did he make any comment. 
 
 "What did you say," he then demanded, "is the 
 name of the man who owns that last house we 
 saw?" 
 
 Post told him. 
 
 "I never heard of him!" said Griswold as 
 though he were delivering young Cochran's death 
 sentence. "Who is he?" 
 
 "He's an architect in our office," said Post. 
 "We think a lot of him. He'll leave us soon of 
 course. The best ones always do. His work is 
 very popular. So is he." 
 
 "I never heard of him," repeated Griswold. 
 Then, with sudden heat, he added savagely: "But 
 I mean to to-night." 
 
 When Griswold had first persuaded Aline Proc 
 tor to engage herself to him he had suggested that, 
 to avoid embarrassment, she should tell him the 
 names of the other men to whom she had been 
 engaged. 
 
 "What kind of embarrassment would that 
 avoid?" 
 
 "If I am talking to a man," said Griswold, 
 "and he knows the woman I'm going to marry 
 was engaged to him and I don't know that, he has 
 me at a disadvantage." 
 
 82
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 "I don't see that he has," said Aline. "If we 
 suppose, for the sake of argument, that to marry 
 me is desirable, I would say that the man who 
 was going to marry me had the advantage over 
 the one I had declined to marry." 
 
 "I want to know who those men are," ex 
 plained Griswold, "because I want to avoid them. 
 I don't want to talk to them. I don't want even 
 to know them." 
 
 "I don't see how I can help you," said Aline. 
 "I haven't the slightest objection to telling you 
 the names of the men I have cared for, if I can 
 remember them, but I certainly do not intend to 
 tell you the name of any man who cared for me 
 enough to ask me to marry him. That's his 
 secret, not mine certainly not yours." 
 
 Griswold thought he was very proud. He really 
 was very vain; and as jealousy is only vanity in its 
 nastiest development he was extremely jealous. 
 So he persisted. 
 
 "Will you do this?" he demanded. "If I ever 
 ask you, 'Is that one of the men you cared for?' 
 will you tell me ? " 
 
 "If you wish it," said Aline; "but I can't see 
 any health in it. It will only make you uncom 
 fortable. So long as you know I have given 
 you the greatest and truest love I am capable 
 
 83
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 of, why should you concern yourself with my 
 mistakes?" 
 
 "So that I can avoid meeting what you call your 
 mistakes," said Griswold "and being friendly 
 with them." 
 
 "I assure you," laughed Aline, "it wouldn't hurt 
 you a bit to be as friendly with them as they'd let 
 you. Maybe they weren't as proud of their fam 
 ilies as you are, but they made up for that by 
 being a darned sight prouder of me!" 
 
 Later, undismayed by this and' unashamed, on 
 two occasions Griswold actually did demand of 
 Aline if a genial youth she had just greeted joy 
 fully was one of those for whom she once had 
 cared. 
 
 And Aline had replied promptly and truthfully 
 that he was. But in the case of Charles Coch- 
 ran, Griswold did not ask Aline if he was one of 
 those for whom she once had cared. He consid 
 ered the affair with Cochran so serious that, in 
 regard to that man, he adopted a different 
 course. 
 
 In digging rivals out of the past his jealousy had 
 made him indefatigable, but in all his researches 
 he never had heard the name of Charles Cochran. 
 That fact and the added circumstance that Aline 
 herself never had mentioned the man was in his 
 
 84
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 eyes so suspicious as to be almost a damning evi 
 dence of deception. And he argued that if in 
 the past Aline had deceived him as to Charles 
 Cochran she would continue to do so. Accord 
 ingly, instead of asking her frankly for the truth he 
 proceeded to lay traps for it. And if there is one 
 thing Truth cannot abide, it is being hunted by 
 traps. 
 
 That evening Aline and he were invited to a 
 supper in her honor, and as he drove her from the 
 theatre to the home of their hostess he told her of 
 his search earlier in the day. 
 
 The electric light in the limousine showed Aline's 
 face as clearly as though it were held in a spotlight, 
 and as he prepared his trap Griswold regarded her 
 jealously. 
 
 "Post tells me," he said, "he has the very man 
 you want for your architect. He's sure you'll find 
 him most understanding and and sympathetic. 
 He's a young man who is just coming to the front, 
 and he's very popular, especially with women." 
 
 "What's his being popular with women," asked 
 Aline, "got to do with his carrying out my ideas 
 of a house?" 
 
 "That's just it," said Griswold "it's the 
 woman who generally has the most to say as to 
 how her house shall be built, and this man under- 
 
 85
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 stands woman. I have reasons for believing he 
 will certainly understand you!" 
 
 "If he understands me well enough to give me all 
 the linen-closets I want," said Aline, "he will be 
 perfectly satisfactory." 
 
 Before delivering his blow Griswold sank back 
 into his corner of the car, drew his hat brim over 
 his forehead, and fixed spying eyes upon the very 
 lovely face of the girl he had asked to marry him. 
 
 "His name," he said in fateful tones, "is Charles 
 Cochran!" 
 
 It was supposed to be a body blow; but, to his 
 distress, Aline neither started nor turned pale. 
 Neither, for trying to trick her, did she turn upon 
 him in reproof and anger. Instead, with alert 
 eyes, she continued to peer out of the window at 
 the electric-light advertisements and her beloved 
 Broadway. 
 
 "Well?" demanded Griswold; his tone was 
 hoarse and heavy with meaning. 
 
 "Well what?" asked Aline pleasantly. 
 
 "How," demanded Griswold, "do you like 
 Charles Cochran for an architect?" 
 
 "How should I know?" asked Aline. "I've not 
 met him yet!" 
 
 She had said it! And she had said it without 
 the waver of one of her lovely eyelashes. No won- 
 
 86
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 der the public already hailed her as a finished ac 
 tress! Griswold felt that his worst fears were jus 
 tified. She had lied to him. And, as he knew she 
 had never before lied to him, that now she did so 
 proved beyond hope of doubt that the reason for it 
 was vital, imperative, and compelling. But of his 
 suspicions Griswold gave no sign. He would not 
 at once expose her. He had trapped her, but as 
 yet she must not know that. He would wait until 
 he had still further entangled her until she could 
 not escape; and then, with complete proof of her 
 deceit, he would confront and overwhelm her. 
 
 With this amiable purpose in mind he called 
 early the next morning upon Post & Constant and 
 asked to see Mr. Cochran. He wished, he said, to 
 consult him about the new house. Post had not 
 yet reached the office, and of Griswold's visit with 
 Post to his house Cochran was still ignorant. He 
 received Griswold most courteously. He felt that 
 the man who was loved by the girl he also had long 
 and hopelessly worshipped was deserving of the 
 highest consideration. Griswold was less mag 
 nanimous. When he found his rival for as such 
 he beheld him was of charming manners and gal 
 lant appearance he considered that fact an addi 
 tional injury; but he concealed his resentment, 
 for he was going to trap Cochran, too. 
 
 87
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 He found the architect at work leaning over a 
 drawing-board, and as they talked Cochran con 
 tinued to stand. He was in his shirt-sleeves, which 
 were rolled to his shoulders; and the breadth of 
 those shoulders and the muscles of his sunburned 
 arms were much in evidence. Griswold considered 
 it a vulgar exhibition. 
 
 For over ten minutes they talked solely of the 
 proposed house, but not once did Griswold expose 
 the fact that he had seen any more of it than any 
 one might see from the public road. When he 
 rose to take his leave he said : 
 
 "How would it do if I motored out Sunday and 
 showed your house to Miss Proctor? Sunday is 
 the only day she has off, and if it would not incon 
 venience you " 
 
 The tender heart of Cochran leaped in wild tu 
 mult; he could not conceal his delight, nor did he 
 attempt to do so; and his expression made it en 
 tirely unnecessary for him to assure Griswold that 
 such a visit would be entirely welcome and that 
 they might count on finding him at home. As 
 though it were an afterthought Griswold halted at 
 the door and said: 
 
 "I believe you are already acquainted with Miss 
 Proctor." 
 
 Cochran, conscious of five years of devotion, 
 88
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 found that he was blushing, and longed to strangle 
 himself. Nor was the blush lost upon Griswold. 
 
 "I'm sorry," said Cochran, "but I've not had 
 that honor. On the stage, of course " 
 
 He shrugged the broad shoulders deprecatingly, 
 as though to suggest that not to know Miss Proc 
 tor as an artist argued oneself unknown. 
 
 Griswold pretended to be puzzled. As though 
 endeavoring to recall a past conversation he 
 frowned. 
 
 "But Aline," he said, "told me she had met you 
 met you at Bar Harbor." In the fatal photo 
 graphs the familiar landfalls of Bar Harbor had 
 been easily recognized. 
 
 The young architect shook his head. 
 
 "It must be another Cochran," he suggested. 
 "I have never been in Bar Harbor." 
 
 With the evidence of the photographs before 
 him this last statement was a verdict of guilty, 
 and Griswold, not with the idea of giving Cochran 
 a last chance to be honest, but to cause him to dig 
 the pit still deeper, continued to lead him on. 
 "Maybe she meant York Harbor?" 
 
 Again Cochran shook his head and laughed. 
 
 "Believe me," he said, "if I'd ever met Miss 
 Proctor anywhere I wouldn't forget it!" 
 
 Ten minutes later Griswold was talking to Aline 
 89
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 over the telephone. He intended to force mat 
 ters. He would show Aline she could neither trifle 
 with nor deceive Chester Griswold; but the thought 
 that he had been deceived was not what most hurt 
 him. What hurt him was to think that Aline had 
 preferred a man who looked like an advertise 
 ment for ready-made clothes and who worked in 
 his shirt-sleeves. 
 
 Griswold took it for granted that any woman 
 would be glad to marry him. So many had been 
 willing to do so that he was convinced, when one 
 of them was not, it was not because there was any 
 thing wrong with him, but because the girl herself 
 lacked taste and perception. 
 
 That the others had been in any degree moved 
 by his many millions had never suggested itself. 
 He was convinced each had loved him for himself 
 alone; and if Aline, after meeting him, would still 
 consider any one else, it was evident something 
 was very wrong with Aline. He was determined 
 that she must be chastened must be brought to 
 a proper appreciation of her good fortune and of 
 his condescension. 
 
 On being called to the telephone at ten in the 
 morning, Aline demanded to know what could 
 excuse Griswold for rousing her in the middle of 
 the night! 
 
 90
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 Griswold replied that, though the day was 
 young, it also was charming; that on Sunday there 
 might be rain; and that if she desired to see the 
 house he and Post thought would most suit her, he 
 and his car would be delighted to convey her to it. 
 They could make the run in an hour, lunch with 
 friends at Westbury, and return in plenty of time 
 for the theatre. Aline was delighted at the sud 
 den interest Griswold was showing in the new 
 house. Without a moment's hesitation she walked 
 into the trap. She would go, she declared, with 
 pleasure. In an hour he should call for her. 
 
 Exactly an hour later Post arrived at his office. 
 He went directly to Cochran. 
 
 "Charles," he said, "I'm afraid I got you into 
 trouble yesterday. I took a client to see your 
 house. You have often let us do it before; but 
 since I was there last you've made some changes. 
 In your bedroom " Post stopped. 
 
 Cochran's nai've habit of blushing told him it 
 was not necessary to proceed. In tones of rage 
 and mortification Cochran swore explosively; Post 
 was relieved to find he was swearing at himself. 
 
 "I ought to be horsewhipped!" roared Coch 
 ran. "I'll never forgive myself! Who," he de 
 manded, "saw the pictures? Was it a man or a 
 woman ? "
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 Post laughed unhappily. 
 
 "It was Chester Griswold." 
 
 A remarkable change came over Cochran. In 
 stead of sobering him, as Post supposed it would, 
 the information made him even more angry only 
 now his anger was transferred from himself to 
 Griswold. 
 
 "The blankety-blank bounder!" yelled Coch 
 ran. "That was what he wanted ! That's why he 
 came here!" 
 
 "Here!" demanded Post. 
 
 "Not an hour ago," cried Cochran. "He asked 
 me about Bar Harbor. He saw those pictures 
 were taken at Bar Harbor!" 
 
 "I think," said Post soothingly, "he'd a right to 
 ask questions. There were so many pictures, and 
 they were very well very!" 
 
 "I'd have answered his questions," roared Coch 
 ran, "if he'd asked them like a man, but he came 
 snooping down here to spy on me. He tried to 
 trick me. He insulted me! He insulted her!" 
 He emitted a howl of dismay. "And I told him 
 I'd never been to Bar Harbor that I'd never met 
 Aline Proctor!" 
 
 Cochran seized his coat and hat. He shouted to 
 one of the office boys to telephone the garage for 
 his car. 
 
 92
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 "What are you where are you going?" de 
 manded Post. 
 
 "I'm going home first," cried Cochran, "to put 
 those pictures in a safe, as I should have done 
 three months ago. And then I'm going to find 
 Chester Griswold and tell him he's an ass and a 
 puppy!" 
 
 "If you do that," protested Post, "you're likely 
 to lose us a very valuable client." 
 
 "And your client," roared Charles, "is likely to 
 lose some very valuable teeth!" 
 
 As Charles whirled into the country road in 
 which stood his house he saw drawn up in front 
 of it the long gray car in which, that morning, 
 Chester Griswold had called at the office. Coch 
 ran emitted a howl of anger. Was his home again 
 to be invaded ? And again while he was absent ? 
 To what extreme would Griswold's jealousy next 
 lead him? He fell out of his own car while it still 
 moved, and leaped up the garden walk. The front 
 rooms of the house were empty, but from his bed 
 room he heard, raised in excited tones, the voice of 
 Griswold. The audacity of the man was so sur 
 prising, and his own delight at catching him red- 
 handed so satisfying, that no longer was Cochran 
 angry. The Lord had delivered his enemy into 
 his hands! And, as he advanced toward his bed- 
 
 93
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 room, not only was he calm, but, at the thought 
 of his revenge, distinctly jubilant. In the passage 
 way a frightened maid servant, who, at his unex 
 pected arrival, was now even more frightened, en 
 deavored to give him an explanation; but he waved 
 her into silence, and, striding before her, entered 
 his bedroom. 
 
 He found confronting him a tall and beautiful 
 young woman. It was not the Aline Proctor he 
 knew. It was not the well-poised, gracious, and 
 distinguished beauty he had seen gliding among 
 the tables at Sherry's or throwing smiles over the 
 footlights. This Aline Proctor was a very indig 
 nant young person, with flashing eyes, tossing 
 head, and a stamping foot. Extended from her at 
 arm's length, she held a photograph of herself in 
 a heavy silver frame; and, as 'though it were a 
 weapon, she was brandishing it in the face of Ches 
 ter Griswold. As Cochran, in amazement, halted 
 in the doorway she was exclaiming: 
 
 "I told you I didn't know Charles Cochran! I 
 tell you so now! If you can't believe me " 
 
 Out of the corner of her flashing eyes the angry 
 lady caught sight of Cochran in the doorway. 
 She turned upon the intruder as though she meant 
 forcibly to eject him. 
 
 "Who are you?" she demanded. Her manner 
 94
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 and tone seemed to add: "And what the deuce 
 are you doing here?" 
 
 Charles answered her tone. 
 
 "I am Charles Cochran," he said. "I live here. 
 This is my house!" 
 
 These words had no other effect upon Miss 
 Proctor than to switch her indignation down an 
 other track. She now turned upon Charles. 
 
 "Then, if this is your house," cried that an 
 gry young person, "why have you filled it with 
 photographs of me that belong to some one 
 else?" 
 
 Charles saw that his hour had come. His sin 
 had found him out. He felt that to prevaricate 
 would be only stupid. 
 
 Griswold had tried devious methods and look 
 where his devious methods had dumped him! 
 Griswold certainly was in wrong. Charles quickly 
 determined to adopt a course directly opposite. 
 Griswold had shown an utter lack of confidence in 
 Aline. Charles decided that he would give her 
 his entire confidence, would throw himself upon 
 the mercy of the court. 
 
 "I have those photographs in my house, Miss 
 Proctor," he said, "because I have admired you a 
 long time. They were more like you than those I 
 could buy. Having them here has helped me a 
 
 95
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 lot, and it hasn't done you any harm. You know 
 very well you have anonymous admirers all over 
 this country. I'm only one of them. If I have 
 offended, I have offended with many, many thou 
 sands." 
 
 Already it has been related that Cochran was 
 very good to look upon. At the present mo 
 ment, as he spoke in respectful, even soulful ac 
 cents, meekly and penitently proclaiming his long- 
 concealed admiration, Miss Proctor found her 
 indignation melting like an icicle in the sun. 
 
 Still, she did not hold herself cheaply. She was 
 accustomed to such open flattery. She would not 
 at once capitulate. 
 
 "But these pictures," she protested, "I gave to 
 a man I knew. You have no right to them. They 
 are not at all the sort of picture I would give to an 
 utter stranger!" With anxiety the lovely lady 
 paused for a reply. She hoped that the reply the 
 tall young man with appealing eyes would make 
 would be such as to make it possible for her to 
 forgive him. 
 
 He was not given time to reply. With a mock 
 ing snort Griswold interrupted. Aline and Charles 
 had entirely forgotten him. 
 
 "An utter stranger!" mimicked Griswold. "Oh, 
 yes; he's an utter stranger! You're pretty good 
 
 96
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 actors, both of you; but you can't keep that up 
 long, and you'd better stop it now." 
 
 "Stop what?" asked Miss Proctor. Her tone 
 was cold and calm, but in her eyes was a strange 
 light. It should have warned Griswold that he 
 would have been safer under the bed. 
 
 "Stop pretending!" cried Griswold. "I won't 
 have it!" 
 
 "I don't understand," said Miss Proctor. She 
 spoke in the same cold voice, only now it had 
 dropped several degrees nearer freezing. "I don't 
 think you understand yourself. You won't have 
 what?" 
 
 Griswold now was frightened, and that made 
 him reckless. Instead of withdrawing he plunged 
 deeper. 
 
 "I won't have you two pretending you don't 
 know each other," he blustered. "I won't stand 
 being fooled ! If you're going to deceive me before 
 we're married, what will you do after we're mar 
 ried?" 
 
 Charles emitted a howl. It was made up of dis 
 gust, amazement, and rage. Fiercely he turned 
 upon Miss Proctor. 
 
 "Let me have him!" he begged. 
 
 "No!" almost shouted Miss Proctor. Her tone 
 was no longer cold it was volcanic. Her eyes, 
 
 97
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 flashing beautifully, were fixed upon Griswold. 
 She made a gesture as though to sweep Charles 
 out of the room. "Please go!" she demanded. 
 "This does not concern you." 
 
 Her tone was one not lightly to be disregarded. 
 Charles disregarded it. 
 
 "It does concern me," he said briskly. "No 
 body can insult a woman in my house you, least 
 of all!" He turned upon the greatest catch in 
 America. "Griswold," he said, "I never met this 
 lady until I came into this room; but I know her, 
 understand her, value her better than you'd un 
 derstand her if you knew her a thousand years!" 
 
 Griswold allowed him to go no farther. 
 
 "I know this much," he roared: "she was in 
 love with the man who took those photographs, 
 and that man was in love with her! And you're 
 that man!" 
 
 "What if I am!" roared back Charles. "Men 
 always have loved her; men always will because 
 she's a fine, big, wonderful woman! You can't see 
 that, and you never will. You insulted her! Now 
 I'll give you time to apologize for that, and then 
 I'll order you out of this house! And if Miss 
 Proctor is the sort of girl I think she is, she'll order 
 you out of it, too!" 
 
 Both men swung toward Miss Proctor. Her 
 98
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 eyes were now smiling excitedly. She first turned 
 them upon Charles, blushing most becomingly. 
 
 "Miss Proctor," she said, "hopes she is the sort 
 of girl Mr. Cochran thinks she is." She then 
 turned upon the greatest catch in America. "You 
 needn't wait, Chester," she said, "not even to 
 apologize." 
 
 Chester Griswold, alone in his car, was driven 
 back to New York. On the way he invented a 
 story to explain why, at the eleventh hour, he 
 had jilted Aline Proctor; but when his thoughts 
 reverted to the young man he had seen working 
 with his sleeves rolled up he decided it would be 
 safer to let Miss Proctor tell of the broken engage 
 ment in her own way. 
 
 Charles would not consent to drive his fair guest 
 back to New York until she had first honored him 
 with her presence at luncheon. It was served for 
 two, on his veranda, under the climbing honey 
 suckles. During the luncheon he told her all. 
 
 Miss Proctor, in the light of his five years of 
 devotion, magnanimously forgave him. 
 
 "Such a pretty house!" she exclaimed as they 
 drove away from it. "When Griswold selected it 
 for our honeymoon he showed his first appreciation 
 of what I really like." 
 
 "It is still at your service!" said Charles. 
 99
 
 Evil to Him Who Evil Thinks 
 
 Miss Proctor's eyes smiled with a strange light, 
 but she did not speak. It was a happy ride; but 
 when Charles left her at the door of her apartment- 
 house he regarded sadly and with regret the bundle 
 of retrieved photographs that she carried away. 
 
 "What is it?" she asked kindly. 
 
 "I'm thinking of going back to those empty 
 frames?" said Charles, and blushed deeply. Miss 
 Proctor blushed also. With delighted and guilty 
 eyes she hastily scanned the photographs. Snatch 
 ing one from the collection, she gave it to him and 
 then ran up the steps. 
 
 In the light of the spring sunset the eyes of 
 Charles devoured the photograph of which, at 
 last, he was the rightful owner. On it was writ 
 ten: "As long as this rock lasts!" 
 
 As Charles walked to his car his expression was 
 distinctly thoughtful. 
 
 100
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR
 
 THE MEN OF ZANZIBAR 
 
 WHEN his hunting trip in Uganda was over, 
 Hemingway shipped his specimens and 
 weapons direct from Mombasa to New York, but 
 he himself journeyed south over the few miles that 
 stretched to Zanzibar. 
 
 On the outward trip the steamer had touched 
 there, and the little he saw of the place had so 
 charmed him that all the time he was on safari 
 he promised himself he would not return home 
 without revisiting it. On the morning he arrived 
 he had called upon Harris, his consul, to inquire 
 about the hotel; and that evening Harris had re 
 turned his call and introduced him at the club. 
 
 One of the men there asked Hemingway what 
 brought him to Africa, and when he answered sim 
 ply and truthfully that he had come to shoot big 
 game, it was as though he had said something 
 clever, and every one smiled. On the way back to 
 the hotel, as they felt their way through the nar 
 row slits in the wall that served as streets, he 
 asked the consul why every one had smiled. 
 
 The consul laughed evasively. 
 103
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 "It's a local joke," he explained. "A lot of 
 men come here for reasons best kept to themselves, 
 and they all say what you said, that they've come 
 to shoot big game. It's grown to be a polite way 
 of telling a man it is none of his business." 
 
 "But I didn't mean it that way," protested 
 Hemingway. "I really have been after big game 
 for the last eight months." 
 
 In the tone one uses to quiet a drunken man or 
 a child, the consul answered soothingly. 
 
 "Of course," he assented "of course you 
 have." But to show he was not hopelessly cred 
 ulous, and to keep Hemingway from involving 
 himself deeper he hinted tactfully: "Maybe they 
 noticed you came ashore with only one steamer 
 trunk and no gun-cases." 
 
 "Oh, that's easily explained," laughed Hem 
 ingway. "My heavy luggage " 
 
 The consul had reached his house and his "boy" 
 was pounding upon it with his heavy staff. 
 
 "Please don't explain to me," he begged. "It's 
 quite unnecessary. Down here we're so darned 
 glad to see any white man that we don't ask any 
 thing of him except that he won't hurry away. 
 We judge them as they behave themselves here; 
 we don't care what they are at home or why they 
 left it." 
 
 104
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 Hemingway was highly amused. To find that 
 he, a respectable, sport-loving Hemingway of 
 Massachusetts, should be mistaken for a gun 
 runner, slave-dealer, or escaping cashier greatly 
 delighted him. 
 
 "All right!" he exclaimed. "I'll promise not to 
 bore you with my past, and I agree to be judged 
 by Zanzibar standards. I only hope I can live 
 up to them, for I see I am going to like the place 
 very much." 
 
 Hemingway kept his promise. He bored no 
 one with confidences as to his ancestors. Of his 
 past he made a point never to speak. He preferred 
 that the little community into which he had 
 dropped should remain unenlightened, should take 
 him as they found him. Of the fact that a college 
 was named after his grandfather and that on his 
 father's railroad he could travel through many 
 States, he was discreetly silent. 
 
 The men of Zanzibar asked no questions. That 
 Hemingway could play a stiff game of tennis, a 
 stiffer game of poker, and, on the piano, songs from 
 home was to them sufficient recommendation. In 
 a week he had become one of the most popular 
 members of Zanzibar society. It was as though he 
 had lived there always. Hemingway found him 
 self reaching out to grasp the warmth of the place 
 
 105
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 as a flower turns to the sun. He discovered that 
 for thirty years something in him had been 
 cheated. For thirty years he had believed that 
 completely to satisfy his soul all he needed was 
 the gray stone walls and the gray-shingled cabins 
 under the gray skies of New England, that what 
 in nature he most loved was the pine forests and 
 the fields of goldenrod on the rock-bound coast of 
 the North Shore. But now, like a man escaped 
 from prison, he leaped and danced in the glaring 
 sunlight of the equator, he revelled in the reck 
 less generosity of nature, in the glorious confusion 
 of colors, in the "blooming blue" of the Indian 
 Ocean, in the Arabian nights spent upon the 
 housetops under the purple sky, and beneath silver 
 stars so near that he could touch them with his 
 hand. 
 
 He found it like being perpetually in a comic 
 opera and playing a part in one. For only the 
 scenic artist would dare to paint houses in such 
 yellow, pink, and cobalt-blue; only a "producer" 
 who had never ventured farther from Broadway 
 than the Atlantic City boardwalk would have 
 conceived costumes so mad and so magnificent. 
 Instinctively he cast the people of Zanzibar in the 
 conventional roles of musical comedy. 
 
 His choruses were already in waiting. There 
 106
 
 He found it like being perpetually in a comic opera
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 was the Sultan's body-guard in gold-laced turbans, 
 the merchants of the bazaars in red fezzes and 
 gowns of flowing silk, the Malay sailors in blue, 
 the black native police in scarlet, the ladies of the 
 harems closely veiled and cloaked, the market 
 women in a single garment of orange, or scarlet, 
 or purple, or of all three, and the happy, hilarious 
 Zanzibari boys in the color God gave them. 
 
 For hours he would sit under the yellow-and- 
 green awning of the Greek hotel and watch the 
 procession pass, or he would lie under an umbrella 
 on the beach and laugh as the boatmen lifted their 
 passengers to their shoulders and with them 
 splash through the breakers, or in the bazaars 
 for hours he would bargain with the Indian mer 
 chants, or in the great mahogany hall of the Ivory 
 House, to the whisper of a punka and the tinkle 
 of ice in a tall glass, listen to tales of Arab raids, 
 of elephant poachers, of the trade in white and 
 black ivory, of the great explorers who had sat in 
 that same room of Emin Pasha, of Livingstone, 
 of Stanley. His comic opera lacked only a hero 
 ine and the love interest. 
 
 When he met Mrs. Adair he found both. Polly 
 Adair, as every one who dared to do so preferred 
 to call her, was, like himself, an American and, 
 though absurdly young, a widow. In the States 
 
 107
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 she would have been called an extremely pretty 
 girl. In a community where the few dozen white 
 women had wilted and faded in the fierce sun of 
 the equator, and where the rest of the women were 
 jet black except their teeth, which were dyed an 
 alluring purple, Polly Adair was as beautiful as a 
 June morning. At least, so Hemingway thought 
 the first time he saw her, and each succeeding time 
 he thought her more beautiful, more lovely, more 
 to be loved. 
 
 He met her, three days after his arrival, at the 
 residence of the British agent and consul-general, 
 where Lady Firth was giving tea to the six nurses 
 from the English hospital and to all the other 
 respectable members of Zanzibar society. 
 
 "My husband's typist," said her ladyship as 
 she helped Hemingway to tea, "is a copatriot of 
 yours. She's such a nice gell; not a bit like an 
 American. I don't know what I'd do in this aw 
 ful place without her. Promise me," she begged 
 tragically, "you will not ask her to marry you?" 
 
 Unconscious of his fate, Hemingway promised. 
 
 "Because all the men do," sighed Lady Firth, 
 "and I never know what morning one of the 
 wretches won't carry her off to a home of her own. 
 And then what would become of me ? Men are so 
 selfish! If you must fall in love," suggested her 
 
 1 08
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 ladyship, "promise me you will fall in love with" 
 she paused innocently and raised baby-blue eyes, 
 in a babylike stare "with some one else." 
 
 Again Hemingway promised. He bowed gal 
 lantly. "That will be quite easy," he said. 
 
 Her ladyship smiled, but Hemingway did not 
 see the smile. He was looking past her at a 
 girl from home, who came across the terrace car 
 rying in her hand a stenographer's note-book. 
 
 Lady Firth followed the direction of his eyes 
 and saw the look in them. She exclaimed with 
 dismay: 
 
 "Already! Already he deserts me, even before 
 the ink is dry on the paper." 
 
 She drew the note-book from Mrs. Adair's fin 
 gers and dropped it under the tea-table. 
 
 "Letters must wait, my child," she declared. 
 
 "But Sir George " protested the girl. 
 
 "Sir George must wait, too," continued his wife; 
 "the Foreign Office must wait, the British Empire 
 must wait until you have had your tea." 
 
 The girl laughed helplessly. As though assured 
 her fellow countryman would comprehend, she 
 turned to him. 
 
 "They're so exactly like what you want them 
 to be," she said "I mean about their tea!" 
 
 Hemingway smiled back with such intimate un- 
 109
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 derstanding that Lady Firth glanced up inquir 
 ingly. 
 
 "Have you met Mrs. Adair already?" she asked. 
 
 "No," said Hemingway, "but I have been try 
 ing to meet her for thirty years." 
 
 Perplexed, the Englishwoman frowned, and then, 
 with delight at her own perspicuity, laughed aloud. 
 
 "I know," she cried, "in your country you are 
 what they call a 'hustler'! Is that right?" She 
 waved them away. "Take Mrs. Adair over 
 there," she commanded, "and tell her all the news 
 from home. Tell her about the railroad accidents 
 and 'washouts' and the latest thing in lynching." 
 
 The young people stretched out in long wicker 
 chairs in the shade of a tree covered with purple 
 flowers. On a perch at one side of them an orang 
 outang in a steel belt was combing the whiskers of 
 her infant daughter; at their feet what looked like 
 two chow puppies, but which happened to be Lady 
 Firth's pet lions, were chewing each other's tooth 
 less gums; and in the immediate foreground the 
 hospital nurses were defying the sun at tennis while 
 the Sultan's band played selections from a Gaiety 
 success of many years in the past. With these 
 surroundings it was difficult to talk of home. Nor 
 on any later occasions, except through inadvert 
 ence, did they talk of home. 
 
 no
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 For the reasons already stated, it amused Hem 
 ingway to volunteer no confidences. On account 
 of what that same evening Harris told him of 
 Mrs. Adair, he asked none. 
 
 Harris himself was a young man in no way in 
 clined to withhold confidences. He enjoyed giv 
 ing out information. He enjoyed talking about 
 himself, his duties, the other consuls, the Zanzi- 
 baris, and his native State of Iowa. So long as 
 he was permitted to talk, the listener could select 
 the subject. But, combined with his loquacity, 
 Hemingway had found him kind-hearted, intelli 
 gent, observing, and the call of a common country 
 had got them quickly together. 
 
 Hemingway was quite conscious that the girl he 
 had seen but once had impressed him out of all 
 proportion to what he knew of her. She seemed 
 too good to be true. And he tried to persuade 
 himself that after eight months in the hinterland 
 among hippos and zebras any reasonably attract 
 ive girl would have proved equally disturbing. 
 
 But he was not convinced. He did not wish to 
 be convinced. He assured himself that had he 
 met Mrs. Adair at home among hundreds of others 
 he would have recognized her as a woman of ex 
 ceptional character, as one especially charming. 
 He wanted to justify this idea of her; he wanted 
 
 in
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 to talk of Mrs. Adair to Harris, not to learn more 
 concerning her, but just for the pleasure of speak 
 ing her name. 
 
 He was much upset at that, and the discovery 
 that on meeting a woman for the first time he 
 still could be so boyishly and ingenuously moved 
 greatly pleased him. It was a most delightful 
 secret. So he acted on the principle that when a 
 man immensely admires a woman and wishes to 
 conceal that fact from every one else he can best 
 do so by declaring his admiration in the frankest 
 and most open manner. After the tea-party, as 
 Harris and himself sat in the consulate, he so ex 
 pressed himself. 
 
 "What an extraordinary nice girl,'* he exclaimed, 
 "is that Mrs. Adair! I had a long talk with her. 
 She is most charming. However did a woman like 
 that come to be in a place like this?" 
 
 Judging from his manner, it seemed to Heming 
 way that at the mention of Mrs. Adair's name he 
 had found Harris mentally on guard, as though 
 the consul had guessed the question would come 
 and had prepared for it. 
 
 "She just dropped in here one day," said Har 
 ris, "from no place in particular. Personally, I 
 always have thought from heaven." 
 
 "It's a good address," said Hemingway. 
 112
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 " It seems to suit her," the consul agreed. "Any 
 way, if she doesn't come from there, that's where 
 she's going just on account of the good she's 
 done us while she's been here. She arrived four 
 months ago with a typewriting-machine and let 
 ters to me from our consuls in Cape Town and 
 Durban. She had done some typewriting for 
 them. It seems that after her husband died, 
 which was a few months after they were married, 
 she learned to make her living by typewriting. 
 She worked too hard and broke down, and the 
 doctor said she must go to hot countries, the 
 'hotter the better.' So she's worked her way half 
 around the world typewriting. She worked chiefly 
 for her own consuls or for the American com 
 mission houses. Sometimes she stayed a month, 
 sometimes only over one steamer day. But when 
 she got here Lady Firth took such a fancy to her 
 that she made Sir George engage her as his private 
 secretary, and she's been here ever since." 
 
 In a community so small as was that of Zanzibar 
 the white residents saw one another every day, 
 and within a week Hemingway had met Mrs. Adair 
 many times. He met her at dinner, at the British 
 agency; he met her in the country club, where the 
 white exiles gathered for tea and tennis. He hired 
 a launch and in her honor gave a picnic on the
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 north coast of the island, and on three glorious and 
 memorable nights, after different dinner-parties 
 had ascended to the roof, he sat at her side and 
 across the white level of the housetops looked down 
 into the moonlit harbor. 
 
 Whatever interest the two young people felt in 
 each other was in no way discouraged by their sur 
 roundings. In the tropics the tender emotions are 
 not winter killed. Had they met at home, the 
 conventions, his own work, her social duties would 
 have kept the progress of their interest within a 
 certain speed limit. But they were in a place free 
 of conventions, and the preceding eight months 
 which Hemingway had spent in the jungle and on 
 the plain had made the society of his fellow man, 
 and of Mrs. Adair in particular, especially at 
 tractive. 
 
 Hemingway had no work to occupy his time, and 
 he placed it unreservedly at the disposition of his 
 countrywoman. In doing so it could not be said 
 that Mrs. Adair encouraged him. Hemingway 
 himself would have been the first to acknowledge 
 this. From the day he met her he was conscious 
 that always there was an intangible barrier be 
 tween them. Even before she possibly could have 
 guessed that his interest in her was more than even 
 she, attractive as she was, had the right to expect, 
 
 114
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 she had wrapped around herself an invisible man 
 tle of defence. 
 
 There were certain speeches of his which she 
 never heard, certain tones to which she never re 
 sponded. At moments when he was compliment 
 ing himself that at last she was content to be in 
 his company, she would suddenly rise and join the 
 others, and he would be left wondering in what 
 way he could possibly have offended. 
 
 He assured himself that a woman, young and 
 attractive, in a strange land in her dependent po 
 sition must of necessity be discreet, but in his 
 conduct there certainly had been nothing that 
 was not considerate, courteous, and straightfor 
 ward. 
 
 When he appreciated that he cared for her seri 
 ously, that he was gloriously happy in caring, and 
 proud of the way in which he cared, the fact that 
 she persistently held him at arm's length puzzled 
 and hurt. At first when he had deliberately set to 
 work to make her like him he was glad to think 
 that owing to his reticence about himself, if she 
 did like him it would be for himself alone and not 
 for his worldly goods. But when he knew her bet 
 ter he understood that if once Mrs. Adair made up 
 her mind to take a second husband, the fact that 
 he was a social and financial somebody, and not, as
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 many in Zanzibar supposed Hemingway to be, a 
 social outcast, would make but little difference. 
 
 Nor was her manner to be explained by the fact 
 that the majority of women found him unattract 
 ive. As to that, the pleasant burden of his ex 
 perience was to the contrary. He at last wondered 
 if there was some one else, if he had come into her 
 life too late. He set about looking for the man, 
 and so he believed he soon found him. 
 
 Of the little colony, Arthur Fearing was the 
 man of whom Hemingway had seen the least. 
 That was so because Fearing wished it. Like 
 himself, Fearing was an American, young, and a 
 bachelor, but, very much unlike Hemingway, a 
 hermit and a recluse. 
 
 Two years before he had come to Zanzibar look 
 ing for an investment for his money. In Zanzibar 
 there were gentlemen adventurers of every coun 
 try, who were welcome to live in any country save 
 their own. 
 
 To them Mr. Fearing seemed a Heaven-sent 
 victim. But to him their alluring tales of the 
 fortunes that were to rise from buried treasures, 
 lost mines, and pearl beds did not appeal. In 
 stead he conferred with the consuls, the responsi 
 ble merchants, the partners in the prosperous trad 
 ing houses. After a month of "looking around" 
 
 116
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 he had purchased outright the good-will and stock 
 of one of the oldest of the commission houses, and 
 soon showed himself to be a most capable man of 
 business. But, except as a man of business, no 
 one knew him. From the dim recesses of his ware 
 house he passed each day to the seclusion of his 
 bungalow in the country. And, although every 
 one was friendly to him, he made no friends. 
 
 It was only after the arrival of Mrs. Adair that 
 he consented to show himself, and it was soon 
 noted that it was only when she was invited that 
 he would appear, and that on these occasions he 
 devoted himself entirely to her. In the presence 
 of others, he still was shy, gravely polite, and 
 speaking but little, and never of himself; but with 
 Mrs. Adair his shyness seemed to leave him, and 
 when with her he was seen to talk easily and 
 eagerly. And, on her part, to what he said, Polly 
 Adair listened with serious interest. 
 
 Lady Firth, who, at home, was a trained and 
 successful match-maker, and who, in Zanzibar, 
 had found but a limited field for her activities, 
 decided that if her companion and protegee must 
 marry, she should marry Fearing. 
 
 Fearing was no gentleman adventurer, remit 
 tance-man, or humble clerk serving his apprentice 
 ship to a steamship line or an ivory house. He 
 
 117
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 was one of the pillars of Zanzibar society. The 
 trading house he had purchased had had its be 
 ginnings in the slave-trade, and now under his 
 alert direction was making a turnover equal to that 
 of any of its ancient rivals. Personally, Fearing 
 was a most desirable catch. He was well man 
 nered, well read, of good appearance, steady and, 
 in a latitude only six degrees removed from the 
 equator, of impeccable morals. 
 
 It is said that it is the person who is in love 
 who always is the first to discover his successful 
 rival. It is either an instinct or because his con 
 cern is deeper than that of others. 
 
 And so, when Hemingway sought for the influ 
 ence that separated him from Polly Adair, the trail 
 led to Fearing. To find that the obstacle in the 
 path of his true love was a man greatly relieved 
 him. He had feared thatwhat was in the thoughts 
 of Mrs. Adair was the memory of her dead hus 
 band. He had no desire to cross swords with a 
 ghost. But to a living rival he could afford to 
 be generous. 
 
 For he was sure no one could care for Polly 
 Adair as he cared, and, like every other man in 
 love, he believed that he alone had discovered in 
 her beauties of soul and character that to the rest 
 of mankind were hidden. This knowledge, he as- 
 
 118
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 sured himself, had aroused in him a depth of de 
 votion no one else could hope to imitate, and this 
 depth of devotion would in time so impress her, 
 would become so necessary to her existence, that 
 it would force her at last into the arms of the only 
 man who could offer it. 
 
 Having satisfied himself in this fashion, he con 
 tinued cheerfully on his way, and the presence of 
 a rival in no way discouraged him. It only was 
 Polly Adair who discouraged him. And this, in 
 spite of the fact that every hour of the day he 
 tried to bring himself pleasantly to her notice. 
 All that an idle young man in love, aided and 
 abetted by imagination and an unlimited letter of 
 credit, could do, Hemingway did. But to no end. 
 
 The treasures he dug out of the bazaars and pre 
 sented to her, under false pretences as trinkets he 
 happened at that moment to find in his pockets, 
 were admired by her at their own great value, and 
 returned also under false pretences, as having been 
 offered her only to examine. 
 
 "It is for your sister at home, I suppose," she 
 prompted. "It's quite lovely. Thank you for 
 letting me see it." 
 
 After having been several times severely 
 snubbed in this fashion, Hemingway remarked 
 grimly as he put a black pearl back into his pocket: 
 
 119
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 "At this rate sister will be mighty glad to see 
 me when I get home. It seems almost a pity I 
 haven't got a sister." 
 
 The girl answered this only with a grave smile. 
 
 On another occasion she admired a polo pony 
 that had been imported for the stable of the 
 boy sultan. But next morning Hemingway, after 
 much diplomacy, became the owner of it and 
 proudly rode it to the agency. Lady Firth and 
 Polly Adair walked out to meet him arm in arm, 
 but at sight of the pony there came into the eyes 
 of the secretary a look that caused Hemingway to 
 wish himself and his mount many miles in the 
 jungle. He saw that before it had been prof 
 fered, his gift-horse had been rejected. He acted 
 promptly. 
 
 "Lady Firth," he said, "you've been so awfully 
 kind to me, made this place so like a home to me, 
 that I want you to put this mare in your stable. 
 The Sultan wanted her, but when he learned I 
 meant to turn her over to you, he let her go. We 
 both hope you'll accept." 
 
 Lady Firth had no scruples. In five minutes she 
 had accepted, had clapped a side-saddle on her 
 rich gift, and was cantering joyously down the 
 Pearl Road. 
 
 Polly Adair looked after her with an expres- 
 120
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 sion that was distinctly wistful. Thus encouraged, 
 Hemingway said: 
 
 "I'm glad you are sorry. I hope every time you 
 see that pony you'll be sorry." 
 
 "Why should I be sorry?" asked the girl. 
 
 "Because you have been unkind," said Hem 
 ingway, "and it is not your character to be unkind. 
 And that you have shown lack of character ought 
 to make you sorry." 
 
 "But you know perfectly well," said Mrs. 
 Adair, "that if I were to take any one of these 
 wonderful things you bring me, I wouldn't have 
 any character left." 
 
 She smiled at him reassuringly. "And you 
 know," she added, "that that is not why I do not 
 take them. It isn't because I can't afford to, or 
 because I don't want them, because I do; but it's 
 because I don't deserve them, because I can give 
 you nothing in return." 
 
 "As the copy-book says," returned Hemingway, 
 "the pleasure is in the giving.' If the copy-book 
 don't say that, I do. And to pretend that you 
 give me nothing, that is ridiculous!" 
 
 It was so ridiculous that he rushed on vehe 
 mently. "Why, every minute you give me some 
 thing," he exclaimed. "Just to see you, just to 
 know you are alive, just to be certain when I turn 
 
 121
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 in at night that when the world wakes up again 
 you will still be a part of it; that is what you give 
 me. And its name is Happiness!" 
 
 He had begun quite innocently; he had had no 
 idea that it would come. But he had said it. As 
 clearly as though he had dropped upon one knee, 
 laid his hand over his heart and exclaimed: "Most 
 beautiful of your sex, I love you ! Will you marry 
 me?" His eyes and the tone of his voice had said 
 it. And he knew that he had said it, and that she 
 knew. 
 
 Her eyes were filled with sudden tears, and so 
 wonderful was the light in them that for one mad 
 moment Hemingway thought they were tears of 
 happiness. But the light died, and what had 
 been tears became only wet drops of water, and 
 he saw to his dismay that she was most miser 
 able. 
 
 The girl moved ahead of him to the clifFon which 
 the agency stood, and which overhung the harbor 
 and the Indian Ocean. Her eyes were filled with 
 trouble. As she raised them to his they begged of 
 him to be kind. 
 
 "I am glad you told me," she said. "I have 
 been afraid it was coming. But until you told me 
 I could not say anything. I tried to stop you. I 
 
 was rude and unkind " 
 
 122
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 "You certainly were," Hemingway agreed cheer 
 fully. "And the more you would have nothing to 
 do with me, the more I admired you. And then I 
 learned to admire you more, and then to love you. 
 It seems now as though I had always known and 
 always loved you. And now this is what we are 
 going to do." 
 
 He wouldn't let her speak; he rushed on precip 
 itately. 
 
 "We are first going up to the house to get your 
 typewriting-machine, and we will bring it back 
 here and hurl it as far as we can off this clifF. I 
 want to see the splash ! I want to hear it smash 
 when it hits that rock. It has been my worst 
 enemy, because it helped you to be independent 
 of me, because it kept you from me. Time after 
 time, on the veranda, when I was pretending to 
 listen to Lady Firth, I was listening to that 
 damned machine banging and complaining and 
 tiring your pretty fingers and your dear eyes. So 
 first it has got to go. You have been its slave, 
 now I am going to be your slave. You have only 
 to rub the lamp and things will happen. And 
 because I've told you nothing about myself, you 
 mustn't think that the money that helps to make 
 them happen is 'tainted.' It isn't. Nor am I, 
 nor my father, nor my father's father. I am ask- 
 
 123
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 ing you to marry a perfectly respectable young 
 man. And, when you do " 
 
 Again he gave her no opportunity to interrupt, 
 but rushed on impetuously: "We will sail away 
 across that ocean to wherever you will take me. 
 To Ceylon and Tokio and San Francisco, to 
 Naples and New York, to Greece and Athens. 
 They are all near. They are all yours. Will you 
 accept them and me?" He smiled appealingly, 
 but most miserably. For though he had spoken 
 lightly and with confidence, it was to conceal the 
 fact that he was not at all confident. As he 
 had read in her eyes her refusal of his pony, 
 he had read, even as he spoke, her refusal of 
 himself. When he ceased speaking the girl an 
 swered : 
 
 "If I say that what you tell me makes me 
 proud, I am saying too little." She shook her head 
 firmly, with an air of finality that frightened Hem 
 ingway. "But what you ask what you suggest 
 is impossible." 
 
 "You don't like me?" said Hemingway. 
 
 "I like you very much," returned the girl, "and, 
 if I don't seem unhappy that it can't be, it is be 
 cause I always have known it can't be " 
 
 " Why can't it be?" rebelled Hemingway. "I 
 don't mean that I can't understand your not want- 
 
 124
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 ing to marry me, but if I knew your objection, 
 maybe, I could beat it down." 
 
 Again, with the same air of finality, the girl 
 moved her head slowly, as though considering each 
 word; she began cautiously. 
 
 "I cannot tell you the reason/' she said, "be 
 cause it does not concern only myself." 
 
 "If you mean you care for some one else," 
 pleaded Hemingway, "that does not frighten me 
 at all." It did frighten him extremely, but, be 
 lieving that a faint heart never won anything, he 
 pretended to be brave. 
 
 "For you," he boasted, "I would go down into 
 the grave as deep as any man. He that hath 
 more let him give. I know what I offer. I know 
 I love you as no other man " 
 
 The girl backed away from him as though he 
 had struck her. "You must not say that/' she 
 commanded. 
 
 For the first time he saw that she was moved, 
 that the fingers she laced and unlaced were trem 
 bling. "It is final!" exclaimed the girl. "I can 
 not marry you, or any one. I I have prom 
 ised. I am not free." 
 
 "Nothing in the world is final," returned Hem 
 ingway sharply, "except death." He raised his 
 hat and, as though to leave her, moved away. 
 
 125
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 Not because he admitted defeat, but because he 
 felt that for the present to continue might lose 
 him the chance to fight again. But, to deliver an 
 ultimatum, he turned back. 
 
 "As long as you are alive, and I am alive," he 
 told her, "all things are possible. I don't give up 
 hope. I don't give up you." 
 
 The girl exclaimed with a gesture of despair. 
 "He won't understand!" she cried. 
 
 Hemingway advanced eagerly. 
 
 "Help me to understand," he begged. 
 
 "You won't understand," explained the girl, 
 "that I am speaking the truth. You are right 
 that things can change in the future, but noth 
 ing can change the past. Can't you understand 
 that?" 
 
 "What do I care for the past?" cried the young 
 man scornfully. "I know you as well as though I 
 had known you for a thousand years and I love 
 you." 
 
 The girl flushed crimson. 
 
 "Not my past," she gasped. "I meant " 
 
 "I don't care what you meant," said Heming 
 way. "I'm not prying into your little secrets. I 
 know only one thing two things, that I love you 
 and that, until you love me, I am going to make 
 your life hell!" 
 
 126
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 He caught at her hands, and for an instant she 
 let him clasp them in both of his, while she looked 
 at him. 
 
 Something in her face, other than distress and 
 pity, caused his heart to leap. But he was too 
 wise to speak, and, that she might not read the 
 hope in his eyes, turned quickly and left her. 
 He had not crossed the grounds of the agency be 
 fore he had made up his mind as to the reason for 
 her repelling him. 
 
 "She is engaged to Fearing!" he told himself. 
 "She has promised to marry Fearing! She thinks 
 that it is too late to consider another man!" The 
 prospect of a fight for the woman he loved thrilled 
 him greatly. His lower jaw set pugnaciously. 
 
 "I'll show her it's not too late," he promised 
 himself. "I'll show her which of us is the man to 
 make her happy. And, if I am not the man, I'll 
 take the first outbound steamer and trouble them 
 no more. But before that happens," he also 
 promised himself, "Fearing must show he is the 
 better man." 
 
 In spite of his brave words, in spite of his deter 
 mination, within the day Hemingway had with 
 drawn in favor of his rival, and, on the Crown 
 Prince Eitel, bound for Genoa and New York, had 
 booked his passage home. 
 
 127
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 On the afternoon of the same day he had spoken 
 to Polly Adair, Hemingway at the sunset hour be 
 took himself to the consulate. At that hour it had 
 become his custom to visit his fellow countryman 
 and with him share the gossip of the day and such 
 a cocktail as only a fellow countryman could com 
 pose. Later he was to dine at the house of the 
 Ivory Company and, as his heart never ceased tell 
 ing him, Mrs. Adair also was to be present. 
 
 "It will be a very pleasant party," said Harris. 
 "They gave me a bid, too, but it's steamer day 
 to-morrow, and I've got to get my mail ready 
 for the Crown Prince Eitel. Mrs. Adair is to be 
 there." 
 
 Hemingway nodded, and with pleasant anticipa 
 tion waited. Of Mrs. Adair, Harris always spoke 
 with reverent enthusiasm, and the man who loved 
 her delighted to listen. But this time Harris dis 
 appointed him. 
 
 "And Fearing, too," he added. 
 
 Again Hemingway nodded. The conjunction of 
 the two names surprised him, but he made no sign. 
 Loquacious as he knew Harris to be, he never be 
 fore had heard his friend even suggest the subject 
 that to Zanzibar had become of acute interest. 
 
 Harris filled the two glasses, and began to pace 
 the room. When he spoke it was in the aggrieved 
 
 128
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 tone of one who feels himself placed in a false posi 
 tion. 
 
 "There's no one," he complained suddenly, "so 
 popularly unpopular as the man who butts in. I 
 know that, but still I've always taken his side. 
 I've always been for him." He halted, straddling 
 with legs apart and hands deep in his trousers 
 pockets, and frowned down upon his guest. 
 
 "Suppose," he began aggressively, "I see a man 
 driving his car over a cliff. If I tell him that road 
 will take him over a cliff, the worst that can hap 
 pen to me is to be told to mind my own business, 
 and I can always answer back: 'I was only trying 
 to help you.' If I dont speak, the man breaks his 
 neck. Between the two, it seems to me, sooner 
 than have any one's life on my hands, I'd rather 
 be told to mind my own business." 
 
 Hemingway stared into his glass. His expres 
 sion was distinctly disapproving, but, undismayed, 
 the consul continued. 
 
 "Now, we all know that this morning you gave 
 that polo pony to Lady Firth, and one of us guesses 
 that you first offered it to some one else, who re 
 fused it. One of us thinks that very soon, to 
 morrow, or even to-night, at this party you may 
 offer that same person something else, something 
 worth more than a polo pony, and that if she re- 
 
 129
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 fuses that, it is going to break you all up, is going 
 to hurt you for the rest of your life." 
 
 Lifting his eyes from his glass, Hemingway shot 
 at his friend a glance of warning. In haste, Harris 
 continued : 
 
 "I know," he protested, answering the look, "I 
 know that this is where Mr. Buttinsky is told to 
 mind his business. But I'm going right on. I'm 
 going to state a hypothetical case with no names 
 mentioned and no questions asked, or answered. 
 I'm going to state a theory, and let you draw your 
 own deductions." 
 
 He slid into a chair, and across the table fast 
 ened his eyes on those of his friend. Confidently 
 and undisturbed, but with a wry smile of dislike, 
 Hemingway stared fixedly back at him. 
 
 "What," demanded Harris, "is the first rule in 
 detective work?" 
 
 Hemingway started. He was prepared for 
 something unpleasant, but not for that particular 
 form of unpleasantness. But his faith was un 
 shaken, and he smiled confidently. He let the 
 consul answer his own question. 
 
 "It is to follow the woman," declared Harris. 
 "And, accordingly, what should be the first pre 
 caution of a man making his get-away? To see 
 that the woman does not follow. But suppose we 
 
 130
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 are dealing with a fugitive of especial intelligence, 
 with a criminal who has imagination and brains? 
 He might fix it so that the woman could follow him 
 without giving him away, he might plan it so that 
 no one would suspect. She might arrive at his 
 hiding-place only after many months, only after 
 each had made separately a long circuit of the 
 globe, only after a journey with a plausible and 
 legitimate object. She would arrive disguised 
 in every way, and they would meet as total 
 strangers. And, as strangers under the eyes of 
 others, they would become acquainted, would 
 gradually grow more friendly, would be seen more 
 frequently together, until at last people would say: 
 'Those two mean to make a match of it.' And 
 then, one day, openly, in the sight of all men, with 
 the aid of the law and the church, they would 
 resume those relations that existed before the 
 man ran away and the woman followed." 
 
 There was a short silence. 
 
 Hemingway broke it in a tone that would accept 
 no denial. 
 
 "You can't talk like that to me" he cried. 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 Without resentment, the consul regarded him 
 with grave solicitude. His look was one of real 
 affection, and, although his tone held the absolute
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 finality of the family physician who delivers a sen 
 tence of death, he spoke with gentleness and regret. 
 
 "I mean," he said, "that Mrs. Adair is not a 
 widow, that the man she speaks of as her late hus 
 band is not dead; that that man is Fearing!" 
 
 Hemingway felt afraid. A month before a rhi 
 noceros had charged him and had dropped at his 
 feet. At another time a wounded lioness had 
 leaped into his path and crouched to spring. 
 Then he had not been afraid. Then he had aimed 
 as confidently as though he were firing at a 
 straw target. But now he felt real fear: fear of 
 something he did not comprehend, of a situation 
 he could not master, of an adversary as strong as 
 Fate. By a word something had been snatched 
 from him that he now knew was as dear to him 
 as life, that was life, that was what made it worth 
 continuing. And he could do nothing to prevent 
 it; he could not help himself. He was as impotent 
 as the prisoner who hears the judge banish him 
 into exile. He tried to adjust his mind to the 
 calamity. But his mind refused. As easily as 
 with his finger a man can block the swing of a 
 pendulum and halt the progress of the clock, Har 
 ris with a word had brought the entire world to a 
 full stop. 
 
 And then, above his head, Hemingway heard 
 132
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 the lazy whisper of the punka, and from the har 
 bor the raucous whistle of the Crown Prince JEitel, 
 signalling her entrance. The world had not 
 stopped; for the punka-boy, for the captain of the 
 German steamer, for Harris seated with face 
 averted, the world was still going gayly and busily 
 forward. Only for him had it stopped. 
 
 In spite of the confident tone in which Harris had 
 spoken, in spite of the fact that unless he knew it 
 was the truth, he would not have spoken, Hem 
 ingway tried to urge himself to believe there had 
 been some hideous, absurd error. But in answer 
 came back to him snatches of talk or phrases the 
 girl had last addressed to him: "You can com 
 mand the future, but you cannot change the past. 
 I cannot marry you, or any one! I am not free!" 
 
 And then to comfort himself, he called up the 
 look he had surprised in her eyes when he stood 
 holding her hands in his. He clung to it, as a 
 drowning man will clutch even at a piece of float 
 ing seaweed. 
 
 When he tried to speak he found his voice 
 choked and stifled, and that his distress was evi 
 dent, he knew from the pity he read in the eyes of 
 Harris. 
 
 In a voice strange to him, he heard himself say 
 ing: "Why do you think that? You've got to tell 
 
 133
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 me. I have a right to know. This morning I 
 asked Mrs. Adair to marry me." 
 
 The consul exclaimed with dismay and squirmed 
 unhappily. "I didn't know," he protested. "I 
 thought I was in time. I ought to have told you 
 days ago, but " 
 
 "Tell me now," commanded Hemingway. 
 
 "I know it in a thousand ways," began Harris. 
 
 Hemingway raised his eyes hopefully. 
 
 But the consul shook his head. "But to con 
 vince you," he went on, "I need tell you only one. 
 The thousand other proofs are looks they have 
 exchanged, sentences I have chanced to overhear, 
 and that each of them unknown to the other has 
 told me of little happenings and incidents which I 
 found were common to both. Each has described 
 the house in which he or she lived, and it was the 
 same house. They claim to come from different 
 cities in New England, they came from the same 
 city. They claim " 
 
 "That is no proof," cried Hemingway, "either 
 that they are married, or that the man is a crim 
 inal." 
 
 For a moment Harris regarded the other in si 
 lence. Then he said: "You're making it very hard 
 for me. I see I've got to show you. It's kindest, 
 after all, to cut quick." He leaned farther for- 
 
 134
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 ward, and his voice dropped. Speaking quickly, 
 he said: 
 
 "Last summer I lived outside the town in a 
 bungalow on the Pearl Road. Fearing's house was 
 next to mine. This was before Mrs. Adair went 
 to live at the agency, and while she was alone in 
 another bungalow farther down the road. I was 
 ill that summer; my nerves went back on me. I 
 couldn't sleep. I used to sit all night on my ve 
 randa and pray for the sun to rise. From where I 
 sat it was dark and no one could see me, but I 
 could see the veranda of Fearing's house and into 
 his garden. And night after night I saw Mrs. 
 Adair creep out of Fearing's house, saw him walk 
 with her to the gate, saw him in the shadow of the 
 bushes take her in his arms, and saw them kiss." 
 The voice of the consul rose sharply. "No one 
 knows that but you and I, and," he cried defiantly, 
 "it is impossible for us to believe ill of Polly Adair. 
 The easy explanation we refuse. It is intolerable. 
 And so you must believe as I believe; that when 
 she visited Fearing by night she went to him be 
 cause she had the right to go to him, because al 
 ready she was his wife. And now when every one 
 here believes they met for the first time in Zanzi 
 bar, when no one will be surprised if they should 
 marry, they will go through the ceremony again, 
 
 I3S
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 and live as man and wife, as they are, as they were 
 before he fled from America!" 
 
 Hemingway was seated with his elbows on the 
 table and his face in his hands. He was so long 
 silent that Harris struck the table roughly with 
 his palm. 
 
 "Well," he demanded, "why don't you speak? 
 Do you doubt her? Don't you believe she is his 
 wife?" 
 
 "I refuse to believe anything else!" said Hem 
 ingway. He rose, and slowly and heavily moved 
 toward the door. "And I will not trouble them 
 any more," he added. "I'll leave at sunrise on the 
 
 Harris exclaimed in dismay, but Hemingway 
 did not hear him. In the doorway he halted and 
 turned back. From his voice all trace of emotion 
 had departed. "Why," he asked dully, "do you 
 think Fearing is a fugitive? Not that it matters 
 to her, since she loves him, or that it matters to me. 
 Only I would like to think you were wrong. I 
 want her to have only the best." 
 
 Again the consul moved unhappily. 
 
 "I oughtn't to tell you," he protested, "and if I 
 do I ought to tell the state department, and a de 
 tective agency first. They have the call. They 
 want him, or a man damned like him." His voice 
 
 136
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 dropped to a whisper. "The man wanted is Henry 
 Brownell, a cashier of a bank in Waltham, Mass., 
 thirty-five years of age, smooth-shaven, college- 
 bred, speaking with a marked New England ac 
 cent, and and with other marks that fit Fearing 
 like the cover on a book. The department and 
 the Pinkertons have been devilling the life out of 
 me about it for nine months. They are positive 
 he is on the coast of Africa. I put them off. I 
 wasn't sure." 
 
 "You've been protecting them," said Heming 
 way. 
 
 "I wasn't sure," reiterated Harris. "And if I 
 were, the Pinkertons can do their own sleuthing. 
 The man's living honestly now, anyway, isn't he?" 
 he demanded; "and she loves him. At least she's 
 stuck by him. Why should I punish her?" 
 
 His tone seemed to challenge and upbraid. 
 
 "Good God!" cried the other, "I'm not bla 
 ming you! I'd be proud of the chance to do as 
 much. I asked because I'd like to go away think 
 ing she's content, thinking she's happy with him." 
 
 "Doesn't it look as though she were?" Harris 
 protested. "She's followed him followed him 
 half around the globe. If she'd been happier 
 away from him, she'd have stayed away from 
 him.". 
 
 137
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 So intent had been the men upon their talk that 
 neither had noted the passing of the minutes or, 
 what at other times was an event of moment, that 
 the mail steamer had distributed her mail and 
 passengers; and when a servant entered bearing 
 lamps, and from the office the consul's clerk ap 
 peared with a bundle of letters from the Eitel, 
 both were taken by surprise. 
 
 "So late?" exclaimed Hemingway. "I must go. 
 If I'm to sail with the Eitfl at daybreak, I've lit 
 tle time!" 
 
 But he did not go. 
 
 As he advanced toward Harris with his hand 
 outstretched in adieu, the face of the consul halted 
 him. With the letters, the clerk had placed upon 
 the table a visiting-card, and as it lay in the circle 
 of light from the lamp the consul, as though it 
 were alive and menacing, stared at it in fas 
 cination. Moving stiffly, he turned it so that 
 Hemingway could see. On it Hemingway read, 
 "George S. Sheyer," and, on a lower line, "Rep 
 resenting William L. Pinkerton." 
 
 To the woman he loved the calamity they 
 dreaded had come, and Hemingway, with a groan 
 of dismay, exclaimed aloud: 
 
 "It is the end!" 
 
 From the darkness of the outer office a man 
 138
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 stepped softly into the circle of the lamp. They 
 could see his figure only from the waist down; the 
 rest of him was blurred in shadows. 
 
 "'It is the end'?" he repeated inquiringly. He 
 spoke the phrase with peculiar emphasis, as though 
 to impress it upon the memory of the two others. 
 His voice was cool, alert, authoritative. "The 
 end of what?" he demanded sharply. 
 
 The question was most difficult. In the silence 
 the detective moved into the light. He was tall 
 and strongly built, his face was shrewd and intelli 
 gent. He might have been a prosperous man of 
 business. 
 
 "Which of you is the consul?" he asked. But 
 he did not take his eyes from Hemingway. 
 
 "I am the consul," said Harris. But still the 
 detective did not turn from Hemingway. 
 
 "Why," he asked, "did this gentleman, when he 
 read my card, say, 'It is the end'? The end of 
 what? Has anything been going on here that 
 came to an end when he saw my card ? " 
 
 Disconcerted, in deep embarrassment, Harris 
 struggled for a word. But his distress was not 
 observed by the detective. His eyes, suspicious 
 and accusing, still were fixed upon Hemingway, and 
 under their scrutiny Harris saw his friend slowly 
 retreat, slowly crumple up into a chair, slowly 
 
 139
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 raise his hands to cover his face. As though in a 
 nightmare, he heard him saying savagely: 
 
 "It is the end of two years of hell, it is the end 
 of two years of fear and agony! Now I shall have 
 peace. Now I shall sleep! I thank God you've 
 come! I thank God I can go back!" 
 
 Harris broke the spell by leaping to his feet. He 
 sprang between the two men. 
 
 "What does this mean?" he commanded. 
 
 Hemingway raised his eyes and surveyed him 
 steadily. 
 
 "It means," he said, "that I have deceived 
 you, Harris that I am the man you told me 
 of, I am the man they want." He turned to the 
 officer. 
 
 "I fooled him for four months," he said. "I 
 couldn't fool you for five minutes." 
 
 The eyes of the detective danced with sudden 
 excitement, joy, and triumph. He shot an eager 
 glance from Hemingway to the consul. 
 
 "This man," he demanded; "who is he?" 
 
 With an impatient gesture Hemingway signified 
 Harris. 
 
 "He doesn't know who I am," he said. "He 
 knows me as Hemingway. I am Henry Brownell, 
 of Waltham, Mass." Again his face sank into the 
 palms of his hands. "And I'm tired tired," he 
 
 140
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 moaned. "I am sick of not knowing, sick of run 
 ning away. I give myself up." 
 
 The detective breathed a sigh of relief that 
 seemed to issue from his soul. 
 
 "My God," he sighed, "you've given me a long 
 chase! I've had eleven months of you, and I'm 
 as sick of this as you are." He recovered him 
 self sharply. As though reciting an incantation, 
 he addressed Hemingway in crisp, emotionless 
 notes. 
 
 "Henry Brownell," he chanted, "I arrest you in 
 the name of the commonwealth of Massachusetts 
 for the robbery, on October the eleventh, nineteen 
 hundred and nine, of the Waltham Title and Trust 
 Company. I understand," he added, "you waive 
 extradition and return with me of your own free 
 will?" 
 
 With his face still in his hands, Hemingway mur 
 mured assent. The detective stepped briskly and 
 uninvited to the table and seated himself. He 
 was beaming with triumph, with pleasurable ex 
 citement. 
 
 "I want to send a message home, Mr. Consul," 
 he said. "May I use your cable blanks?" 
 
 Harris was still standing in the centre of the 
 room looking down upon the bowed head and 
 shoulders of Hemingway. Since, in amazement, 
 
 141
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 he had sprung toward him, he had not spoken. 
 And he was still silent. 
 
 Inside the skull of Wilbur Harris, of Iowa, 
 U. S. A., American consul to Zanzibar, East 
 Africa, there was going forward a mighty struggle 
 that was not fit to put into words. For Harris 
 and his conscience had met and were at odds. 
 One way or the other the fight must be settled at 
 once, and whatever he decided must be for all 
 time. This he understood, and as his sympathies 
 and conscience struggled for the mastery the pen 
 of the detective, scratching at racing speed across 
 the paper, warned him that only a few seconds 
 were left him in which to protest or else to for 
 ever after hold his peace. 
 
 So realistic had been the acting of Hemingway 
 that for an instant Harris himself had been de 
 ceived. But only for an instant. With his knowl 
 edge of the circumstances he saw that Heming 
 way was not confessing to a crime of his own, 
 but drawing across the trail of the real criminal 
 the convenient and useful red herring. He knew 
 that already Hemingway had determined to sail 
 the next morning. In leaving Zanzibar he was 
 making no sacrifice. He merely was carrying 
 out his original plan, and by taking away with 
 him the detective was giving Brownell and his 
 
 142
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 wife at least a month in which to again lose them 
 selves. 
 
 What was his own duty he could not determine. 
 That of Hemingway he knew nothing, he could 
 truthfully testify. And if now Hemingway claimed 
 to be Henry Brownell, he had no certain knowledge 
 to the contrary. That through his adventure 
 Hemingway would come to harm did not greatly 
 disturb him. He foresaw that his friend need only 
 send a wireless from Nantucket and at the wharf 
 witnesses would swarm to establish his identity 
 and make it evident the detective had blundered. 
 And in the meanwhile Brownell and his wife, in 
 some settlement still further removed from obser 
 vation, would for the second time have fortified 
 themselves against pursuit and capture. He saw 
 the eyes of Hemingway fixed upon him in appeal 
 and warning. 
 
 The brisk voice of the detective broke the 
 silence. 
 
 "You will testify, if need be, Mr. Consul," he 
 said, "that you heard the prisoner admit he was 
 Henry Brownell and that he surrendered himself 
 of his own free will?" 
 
 For an instant the consul hesitated, then he 
 nodded stiffly. 
 
 "I heard him," he said.
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 Three hours later, at ten o'clock of the same 
 evening, the detective and Hemingway leaned to 
 gether on the rail of the Crown Prince Eitel. 
 Forward, in the glare of her cargo lights, to the 
 puffing and creaking of derricks and donkey en 
 gines, bundles of beeswax, of rawhides, and pre 
 cious tusks of ivory were being hurled into the 
 hold; from the shore-boats clinging to the ship's 
 sides came the shrieks of the Zanzibar boys, from 
 the smoking-room the blare of the steward's band 
 and the clink of glasses. Those of the youth of 
 Zanzibar who were on board, the German and 
 English clerks and agents, saw in the presence 
 of Hemingway only a purpose similar to their own; 
 the desire of a homesick exile to gaze upon the 
 mirrored glories of the Eitel's saloon, at the faces 
 of white men and women, to listen to home-made 
 music, to drink home-brewed beer. As he passed 
 the smoking-room they called to him, and to the 
 stranger at his elbow, but he only nodded smiling 
 and, avoiding them, ascended to the shadow of the 
 deserted boat-deck. 
 
 "You are sure," he said, "you told no one?" 
 "No one," the detective answered. "Of course 
 your hotel proprietor knows you're sailing, but he 
 doesn't know why. And, by sunrise, we'll be well 
 out at sea." 
 
 144
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 The words caught Hemingway by the throat. 
 He turned his eyes to the town lying like a field of 
 snow in the moonlight. Somewhere on one of 
 its flat roofs a merry dinner party was laughing, 
 drinking, perhaps regretting his absence, wonder 
 ing at his excuse of sudden illness. She was there, 
 and he with the detective like a shadow at his el 
 bow, was sailing out of her life forever. He had 
 seen her for the last time: that morning for the 
 last time had looked into her eyes, had held her 
 hands in his. He saw the white beach, the white 
 fortress-like walls, the hanging gardens, the curt 
 seying palms, dimly. It was among those that 
 he who had thought himself content, had found 
 happiness, and had then seen it desert him and 
 take out of his life pleasure in all other things. 
 With a pain that seemed impossible to support, 
 he turned his back upon Zanzibar and all it meant 
 to him. And, as he turned, he faced, coming to 
 ward him, across the moonlit deck, Fearing. 
 
 His instinct was to cry out to the man in warn 
 ing, but his second thought showed him that 
 through his very effort to protect the other, he 
 might bring about his undoing. So, helpless to 
 prevent, in agitation and alarm, he waited in 
 silence. Of the two men, Fearing appeared the 
 least disturbed. With a polite but authoritative 
 
 H5
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 gesture he turned to the detective. " I have some 
 thing to say to this gentleman before he sails," he 
 said; "would you kindly stand over there?" 
 
 He pointed across the empty deck at the other 
 rail. 
 
 In the alert, confident young man in the English 
 mess-jacket, clean shaven and bronzed by the suns 
 of the equator, the detective saw no likeness to 
 the pale, bearded bank clerk of the New England 
 city. This, he guessed, must be some English 
 official, some friend of Brownell's who generously 
 had come to bid the unfortunate fugitive God 
 speed. 
 
 Assured of this, the detective also bowed po 
 litely, and, out of hearing, but with his prisoner in 
 full view, took up a position against the rail oppo 
 site. 
 
 Turning his back upon the detective, and facing 
 Hemingway with his eyes close to his, Fearing 
 began abruptly. His voice was sunk to a whisper, 
 but he spoke without the slightest sign of trepi 
 dation, without the hesitation of an instant. 
 
 "Two years ago, when I was indicted," he whis 
 pered, "and ran away, Polly paid back half of the 
 sum I stole. That left her without a penny; that's 
 why she took to this typewriting. Since then, I 
 have paid back nearly all the rest. But Polly 
 
 146
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 was not satisfied. She wanted me to take my 
 punishment and start fresh. She knew they 
 were watching her so she couldn't write this to 
 me, but she came to me by a roundabout way, 
 taking a year to get here. And all the time she's 
 been here, she's been begging me to go back and 
 give myself up. I couldn't see it. I knew in a 
 few months I'd have paid back all I took, and I 
 thought that was enough. I wanted to keep out 
 of jail. But she said I must take my medicine in 
 our own country, and start square with a clean 
 slate. She's done a lot for me, and whether I'd 
 have done that for her or not, I don't know. But 
 now, I must! What you did to-night to save me, 
 leaves me no choice. So, I'll sail " 
 
 With an exclamation of anger, Hemingway 
 caught the other by the shoulder and dragged 
 him closer. 
 
 "To save you!" he whispered. "No one's 
 thinking of you. I didn't do it for you. I did it, 
 that you both could escape together, to give you 
 time " 
 
 " But I tell you," protested Fearing, "she doesn't 
 want me to escape. And maybe she's right. 
 Anyway, we're sailing with you at " 
 
 "We?" echoed Hemingway. 
 
 That again he was to see the woman he loved, 
 147
 
 The Men of Zanzibar 
 
 that for six weeks through summer seas he would 
 travel in her company, filled him with alarm, with 
 distress, with a wonderful happiness. 
 
 "We?" he whispered, steadying his voice. 
 "Then then your wife is going with you?" 
 
 Fearing gazed at him as though the other had 
 suddenly gone mad. 
 
 "My wife!" he exclaimed. "I haven't got a 
 wife! If you mean Polly Mrs. Adair, she is my 
 sister! And she wants to thank you. She's be 
 low " 
 
 He was not allowed to finish. Hemingway had 
 flung him to one side, and was racing down the 
 deck. 
 
 The detective sprang in pursuit. 
 
 "One moment, there!" he shouted. 
 
 But the man in the white mess-jacket barred his 
 way. 
 
 In the moonlight the detective saw that the 
 alert, bronzed young man was smiling. 
 
 "That's all right," said Fearing. "He'll be 
 back in a minute. Besides, you don't want him. 
 I'm the man you want." 
 
 148
 
 THE LONG ARM
 
 THE LONG ARM 
 
 THE safe was an old one that opened with a 
 key. As adjutant, Captain Swanson had 
 charge of certain funds of the regiment and kept 
 in the safe about five thousand dollars. No one 
 but himself and RuefF, his first sergeant, had access 
 to it. And as Rueff proved an alibi, the money 
 might have been removed by an outsider. The 
 court martial gave Swanson the benefit of the 
 doubt, and a reprimand for not taking greater care 
 of the keys, and Swanson made good the five 
 thousand. 
 
 Swanson did not think it was a burglar who had 
 robbed the safe. He thought RuefF had robbed 
 it, but he could not possibly prove that. At the 
 time of the robbery RuefF was outside the Presi 
 dio, in uniform, at a moving-picture show in San 
 Francisco. A dozen people saw him there. Be 
 sides, RuefF held an excellent record. He was a 
 silent, clerk-like young man, better at "paper 
 work" than campaigning, but even as a soldier 
 he had never come upon the books. And he had 
 seen service in two campaigns, and was supposed
 
 The Long Arm 
 
 to cherish ambitions toward a commission. But, 
 as he kept much to himself, his fellow non-coms 
 could only guess that. 
 
 On his captain's account he was loyally dis 
 tressed over the court-martial, and in his testimony 
 tried to shield Swanson, by agreeing heartily that 
 through his own carelessness the keys might have 
 fallen into the hands of some one outside the post. 
 But his loyalty could not save his superior officer 
 from what was a verdict virtually of "not proven." 
 
 It was a most distressing affair, and, on account 
 of the social prominence of Swanson's people, his 
 own popularity, and the name he had made at 
 Batangas and in the Boxer business, was much 
 commented upon, not only in the services, but by 
 the newspapers all over the United States. 
 
 Every one who knew Swanson knew the court- 
 martial was only a matter of form. Even his ene 
 mies ventured only to suggest that overnight he 
 might have borrowed the money, meaning to re 
 place it the next morning. And the only reason 
 for considering this explanation was that Swanson 
 was known to be in debt. For he was a persist 
 ent gambler. Just as at Pekin he had gambled 
 with death for his number, in times of peace he 
 gambled for money. It was always his own 
 money. 
 
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 From the start Swanson's own attitude toward 
 the affair was one of blind, unreasoning rage. In 
 it he saw no necessary routine of discipline, only 
 crass, ignorant stupidity. That any one should 
 suspect him was so preposterous, so unintelligent, 
 as to be nearly comic. And when, instantly, he 
 demanded a court of inquiry, he could not believe 
 it when he was summoned before a court martial. 
 It sickened, wounded, deeply affronted him; 
 turned him quite savage. 
 
 On the stand his attitude and answers were so 
 insolent that his old friend and classmate, Captain 
 Copley, who was acting as his counsel, would 
 gladly have kicked him. The findings of the 
 court martial, that neither cleared nor condemned, 
 and the reprimand, were an intolerable insult to 
 his feelings, and, in a fit of bitter disgust with 
 the service and every one in it, Swanson resigned. 
 Of course, the moment he had done so he was 
 sorry. Swanson's thought was that he could no 
 longer associate with any one who could believe 
 him capable of theft. It was his idea of showing 
 his own opinion of himself and the army. 
 
 But no one saw it in that light. On the con 
 trary, people said: "Swanson has been allowed to 
 resign." In the army, voluntarily resigning and 
 being "allowed to resign" lest greater evils befall, 
 
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 are two vastly different things. And when it was 
 too late no one than Swanson saw that more 
 clearly. His anger gave way to extreme morbid 
 ness. He believed that in resigning he had assured 
 every one of his guilt. In every friend and stran 
 ger he saw a man who doubted him. He imagined 
 snubs, rebuffs, and coldnesses. His morbidness 
 fastened upon his mind like a parasite upon a tree, 
 and the brain sickened. When men and women 
 glanced at his alert, well-set-up figure and shoul 
 ders, that even when he wore "cits" seemed to 
 support epaulets, and smiled approvingly, Swanson 
 thought they sneered. In a week he longed to be 
 back in the army with a homesickness that made 
 every one who belonged to it his enemy. 
 
 He left San Francisco, where he was known to 
 all, and travelled south through Texas, and then 
 to New Orleans and Florida. He never could re 
 call this period with clearness. He remembered 
 changing from one train to another, from one 
 hotel to the next. Nothing impressed itself upon 
 him. For what he had lost nothing could give 
 consolation. Without honor life held no charm. 
 And he believed that in the eyes of all men he 
 was a thief, a pariah, and an outcast. 
 
 He had been in Cuba with the Army of Occupa 
 tion, and of that beautiful island had grown fool- 
 
 154
 
 The Long Arm 
 
 ishly fond. He was familiar with every part of it, 
 and he believed in one or another of its pretty 
 ports he could so completely hide himself that no 
 one could intrude upon his misery. In the States, 
 in the newspapers he seemed to read only of those 
 places where he had seen service, of those places 
 and friends and associates he most loved. In the 
 little Cuban village in which he would bury him 
 self he would cut himself off from all newspapers, 
 from all who knew him; from those who had been 
 his friends, and those who knew his name only to 
 connect it with a scandal. 
 
 On his way from Port Tampa to Cuba the boat 
 stopped at Key West, and for the hour in which 
 she discharged cargo Swanson went ashore and 
 wandered aimlessly. The little town, reared on a 
 flat island of coral and limestone, did not long de 
 tain him. The main street of shops, eating-houses, 
 and saloons, the pretty residences with overhang 
 ing balconies, set among gardens and magnolia- 
 trees, were soon explored, and he was returning to 
 the boat when the martial music of a band caused 
 him to halt. A side street led to a great gateway 
 surmounted by an anchor. Beyond it Swanson 
 saw lawns of well-kept grass, regular paths, pretty 
 cottages, the two-starred flag of an admiral, and, 
 rising high above these, like four Eiffel towers, 
 
 155
 
 The Long Arm 
 
 the gigantic masts of a wireless. He recognized 
 that he was at the entrance to the Key West naval 
 station, and turned quickly away. 
 
 He walked a few feet, the music of the band still 
 in his ears. In an hour he would be steaming to 
 ward Cuba, and, should he hold to his present pur 
 pose, in many years this would be the last time he 
 would stand on American soil, would see the uni 
 form of his country, would hear a military band 
 lull the sun to sleep. It would hurt, but he won 
 dered if it were not worth the hurt. A smart ser 
 geant of marines, in passing, cast one glance at 
 the man who seemed always to wear epaulets, and 
 brought his hand sharply to salute. The act de 
 termined Swanson. He had obtained the salute 
 under false pretences, but it had pleased, not hurt, 
 him. He turned back and passed into the gate 
 of the naval station. 
 
 From the gate a grass-lined carriage drive led 
 to the waters of the harbor and the wharves. At 
 its extreme end was the band-stand, flanked on 
 one side by the cottage of the admiral, on the other 
 by a sail-loft with iron-barred windows and white 
 washed walls. Upon the turf were pyramids of 
 cannon-balls and, laid out in rows as though await 
 ing burial, old-time muzzle-loading guns. Across 
 the harbor the sun was sinking into the coral reefs, 
 
 156
 
 The Long Arm 
 
 and the spring air, still warm from its caresses, was 
 stirred by the music of the band into gentle, 
 rhythmic waves. The scene was one of peace, or 
 der, and content. 
 
 But as Swanson advanced, the measure of the 
 music was instantly shattered by a fierce volley of 
 explosions. They came so suddenly and sharply 
 as to make him start. It was as though from his 
 flank a quick-firing gun in ambush had opened 
 upon him. Swanson smiled at having been taken 
 unawares. For in San Francisco he often had 
 heard the roar and rattle of the wireless. But 
 never before had he listened to an attack like this. 
 
 From a tiny white-and-green cottage, squatting 
 among the four giant masts, came the roar of a 
 forest fire. One could hear the crackle of the 
 flames, the crash of the falling tree-trunks. The 
 air about the cottage was torn into threads; be 
 neath the shocks of the electricity the lawn seemed 
 to heave and tremble. It was like some giant 
 monster, bound and fettered, struggling to be 
 free. Now it growled sullenly, now in impotent 
 rage it spat and spluttered, now it lashed about 
 with crashing, stunning blows. It seemed as 
 though the wooden walls of the station could not 
 contain it. 
 
 From the road Swanson watched, through the 
 157
 
 The Long Arm 
 
 open windows of the cottage, the electric bolts 
 flash and flare and disappear. The thing appealed 
 to his imagination. Its power, its capabilities fas 
 cinated him. In it he saw a hungry monster reach 
 ing out to every corner of the continent and devour 
 ing the news of the world; feeding upon tales of 
 shipwreck and disaster, lingering over some dainty 
 morsel of scandal, snatching from ships and cities 
 two thousand miles away the thrice-told tale of a 
 conflagration, the score of a baseball match, the 
 fall of a cabinet, the assassination of a king. 
 
 In a sudden access of fierceness, as though in an 
 ecstasy over some fresh horror just received, it 
 shrieked and chortled. And then, as suddenly as 
 it had broken forth, it sank to silence, and from the 
 end of the carriage drive again rose, undisturbed, 
 the music of the band. 
 
 The musicians were playing to a select audience. 
 On benches around the band-stand sat a half dozen 
 nurse-maids with knitting in their hands, the baby- 
 carriages within arm's length. On the turf older 
 children of the officers were at play, and up and 
 down the paths bareheaded girls, and matrons, and 
 officers in uniform strolled leisurely. From the 
 vine-covered cottage of Admiral Preble, set in a 
 garden of flowering plants and bending palmettos, 
 came the tinkle of tea-cups and the ripple of 
 
 158
 
 The Long Arm 
 
 laughter, and at a respectful distance, seated on the 
 dismantled cannon, were marines in khaki and 
 bluejackets in glistening white. 
 
 It was a family group, and had not Swanson 
 recognized among the little audience others of the 
 passengers from the steamer and natives of the 
 town who, like himself, had been attracted by the 
 music, he would have felt that he intruded. He 
 now wished to remain. He wanted to carry with 
 him into his exile a memory of the men in uni 
 form, of the music, and pretty women, of the gor 
 geous crimson sunset. But, though he wished to 
 remain, he did not wish to be recognized. 
 
 From the glances already turned toward him, 
 he saw that in this little family gathering the pres 
 ence of a stranger was an event, and he was aware 
 that during the trial the newspapers had made his 
 face conspicuous. Also it might be that stationed 
 at the post was some officer or enlisted man who 
 had served with him in Cuba, China, or the Phil 
 ippines, and who might point him out to others. 
 Fearing this, Swanson made a detour and ap 
 proached the band-stand from the wharf, and with 
 his back to a hawser-post seated himself upon the 
 string-piece. 
 
 He was overcome with an intolerable melan 
 choly. From where he sat he could see, softened 
 
 159
 
 The Long Arm 
 
 into shadows by the wire screens of the veranda, 
 Admiral Preble and his wife and their guests at tea. 
 A month before, he would have reported to the ad 
 miral as the commandant of the station, and paid 
 his respects. Now he could not do that; at least 
 not without inviting a rebuff. A month before, he 
 need only have shown his card to the admiral's 
 orderly, and the orderly and the guard and the 
 officers' mess and the admiral himself would have 
 turned the post upside down to do him honor. 
 But of what avail now was his record in three cam 
 paigns? Of what avail now was his medal of 
 honor? They now knew him as Swanson, who had 
 been court-martialled, who had been allowed to 
 resign, who had left the army for the army's good; 
 they knew him as a civilian without rank or au 
 thority, as an ex-officer who had robbed his brother 
 officers, as an outcast. 
 
 His position, as his morbid mind thus distorted 
 it, tempted Swanson no longer. For being in this 
 plight he did not feel that in any way he was to 
 blame. But with a flaming anger he still blamed 
 his brother officers of the court martial who had 
 not cleared his name and with a clean bill of health 
 restored him to duty. Those were the men he 
 blamed; not Rueff, the sergeant, who he believed 
 had robbed him, nor himself, who, in a passion of 
 
 160
 
 The Long Arm 
 
 wounded pride, had resigned and so had given 
 reason for gossip; but the men who had not in 
 tones like a bugle-call proclaimed his innocence, 
 who, when they had handed him back his sword, 
 had given it grudgingly, not with congratula 
 tion. 
 
 As he saw it, he stood in a perpetual pillory. 
 When they had robbed him of his honor they had 
 left him naked, and life without honor had lost its 
 flavor. He could eat, he could drink, he could 
 exist. He knew that in many corners of the world 
 white arms would reach out to him and men would 
 beckon him to a place at table. 
 
 But he could not cross that little strip of turf 
 between him and the chattering group on the ve 
 randa and hand his card to the admiral's orderly. 
 Swanson loved life. He loved it so that without 
 help, money, or affection he could each morning 
 have greeted it with a smile. But life without 
 honor! He felt a sudden hot nausea of disgust. 
 Why was he still clinging to what had lost its pur 
 pose, to what lacked the one thing needful? 
 
 "If life be an ill thing," he thought, "I can 
 lay it down!" 
 
 The thought was not new to him, and during 
 the two past weeks of aimless wandering he had 
 carried with him his service automatic. To reas- 
 
 161
 
 The Long Arm 
 
 sure himself he laid his fingers on its cold smooth 
 surface. He would wait, he determined, until 
 the musicians had finished their concert and the 
 women and children had departed, and then 
 
 Then the orderly would find him where he was 
 now seated, sunken against the hawser-post with 
 a hole through his heart. To his disordered brain 
 his decision appeared quite sane. He was sure he 
 never had been more calm. And as he prepared 
 himself for death he assured himself that for one 
 of his standard no other choice was possible. 
 Thoughts of the active past, or of what distress 
 in the future his act would bring to others, did not 
 disturb him. The thing had to be, no one lost 
 more heavily than himself, and regrets were cow 
 ardly. 
 
 He counted the money he had on his person and 
 was pleased to find there was enough to pay for 
 what services others soon must render him. In 
 his pockets were letters, cards, a cigarette-case, 
 each of which would tell his identity. He had no 
 wish to conceal it, for of what he was about to do 
 he was not ashamed. It was not his act. He 
 would not have died "by his own hand." To his 
 unbalanced brain the officers of the court martial 
 were responsible. It was they who had killed 
 him. As he saw it, they had made his death as in- 
 
 162
 
 The Long Arm 
 
 evitable as though they had sentenced him to be 
 shot at sunrise. 
 
 A line from "The Drums of the Fore and Aft" 
 came back to him. Often he had quoted it, when 
 some one in the service had suffered through 
 the fault of others. It was the death-cry of the 
 boy officer, Devlin. The knives of the Ghazi had 
 cut him down, but it was his own people's aban 
 doning him in terror that had killed him. And 
 so, with a sob, he flung the line at the retreating 
 backs of his comrades: "You've killed me, you 
 cowards!" 
 
 Swanson, nursing his anger, repeated this sav 
 agely. He wished he could bring it home to those 
 men of the court martial. He wished he could 
 make them know that his death lay at their door. 
 He determined that they should know. On one 
 of his visiting-cards he pencilled: 
 
 "To the Officers of my Court Martial: 'You've 
 killed me, you cowards!" 
 
 He placed the card in the pocket of his waistcoat. 
 They would find it just above the place where the 
 bullet would burn the cloth. 
 
 The band was playing "Auf Wiedersehen," and 
 the waltz carried with it the sadness that had made 
 people call the man who wrote it the waltz king. 
 Swanson listened gratefully. He was glad that be- 
 
 163
 
 The Long Arm 
 
 fore he went out, his last mood had been of regret 
 and gentleness. The sting of his anger had de 
 parted, the music soothed and sobered him. It 
 had been a very good world. Until he had broken 
 the spine of things it had treated him well, far 
 better, he admitted, than he deserved. There 
 were many in it who had been kind, to whom he 
 was grateful. He wished there was some way by 
 which he could let them know that. As though in 
 answer to his wish, from across the parade-ground 
 the wireless again began to crash and crackle; but 
 now Swanson was at a greater distance from it, 
 and the sighing rhythm of the waltz was not in 
 terrupted. 
 
 Swanson considered to whom he might send a 
 farewell message, but as in his mind he passed 
 from one friend to another, he saw that to each 
 such a greeting could bring only distress. He de 
 cided it was the music that had led him astray. 
 This was no moment for false sentiment. He let 
 his hand close upon the pistol. 
 
 The audience now was dispersing. The nurse 
 maids had collected their charges, the musicians 
 were taking apart their music-racks, and from the 
 steps of the vine-covered veranda Admiral Preble 
 was bidding the friends of his wife adieu. At his 
 side his aide, young, alert, confident, with ill-con- 
 
 164
 
 The Long Arm 
 
 cealed impatience awaited their departure. Swan- 
 son found that he resented the aide. He resented 
 the manner in which he speeded the parting 
 guests. Even if there were matters of importance 
 he was anxious to communicate to his chief, he 
 need not make it plain to the women folk that they 
 were in the way. 
 
 When, a month before, he had been adjutant, in 
 a like situation he would have shown more self- 
 command. He disapproved of the aide entirely. 
 He resented the fact that he was as young as him 
 self, that he was in uniform, that he was an aide. 
 Swanson certainly hoped that when he was in uni 
 form he had not looked so much the conquer 
 ing hero, so self-satisfied, so supercilious. With a 
 smile he wondered why, at such a moment, a man 
 he had never seen before, and never would see 
 again, should so disturb him. 
 
 In his heart he knew. The aide was going 
 forward just where he was leaving off. The rib 
 bons on the tunic of the aide, the straps on his 
 shoulders, told Swanson that they had served in 
 the same campaigns, that they were of the same 
 relative rank, and that when he himself, had he 
 remained in the service, would have been a briga 
 dier-general the aide would command a battle-ship. 
 The possible future of the young sailor filled Swan- 
 
 165
 
 The Long Arm 
 
 son with honorable envy and bitter regret. With 
 all his soul he envied him the right to look his fel 
 low man in the eye, his right to die for his coun 
 try, to give his life, should it be required of him, 
 for ninety million people, for a flag. Swanson saw 
 the two officers dimly, with eyes of bitter self-pity. 
 He was dying, but he was not dying gloriously for 
 a flag. He had lost the right to die for it, and he 
 was dying because he had lost that right. 
 
 The sun had sunk and the evening had grown 
 chill. At the wharf where the steamer lay on 
 which he had arrived, but on which he was not 
 to depart, the electric cargo-lights were already 
 burning. But for what Swanson had to do there 
 still was light enough. From his breast-pocket he 
 took the card on which he had written his message 
 to his brother officers, read and reread it, and re 
 placed it. 
 
 Save for the admiral and his aide at the steps 
 of the cottage, and a bareheaded bluejacket who 
 was reporting to them, and the admiral's orderly, 
 who was walking toward Swanson, no one was in 
 sight. Still seated upon the string-piece of the 
 wharf, Swanson so moved that his back was toward 
 the four men. The moment seemed propitious, 
 almost as though it had been prearranged. For 
 with such an audience, for his taking off no other 
 
 166
 
 The Long Arm 
 
 person could be blamed. There would be no ques 
 tion but that death had been self-inflicted. 
 
 Approaching from behind him Swanson heard 
 the brisk steps of the orderly drawing rapidly 
 nearer. He wondered if the wharf were govern 
 ment property, if he were trespassing, and if for 
 that reason the man had been sent to order him 
 away. He considered bitterly that the govern 
 ment grudged him a place even in which to die. 
 Well, he would not for long be a trespasser. His 
 hand slipped into his pocket, with his thumb he 
 lowered the safety-catch of the pistol. 
 
 But the hand with the pistol in it did not leave 
 his pocket. The steps of the orderly had come to 
 a sudden silence. Raising his head heavily, Swan- 
 son saw the man, with his eyes fixed upon him, 
 standing at salute. They had first made his life 
 unsupportable, Swanson thought, now they would 
 not let him leave it. 
 
 "Captain Swanson, sir?" asked the orderly. 
 
 Swanson did not speak or move. 
 
 "The admiral's compliments, sir," snapped the 
 orderly, "and will the captain please speak with 
 him?" 
 
 Still Swanson did not move. 
 
 He felt that the breaking-point of his self-con 
 trol had come. This impertinent interruption, this 
 
 167
 
 The Long Arm 
 
 thrusting into the last few seconds of his life of a 
 reminder of all that he had lost, this futile post 
 ponement of his end, was cruel, unhuman, un 
 thinkable. The pistol was still in his hand. He 
 had but to draw it and press it close, and before 
 the marine could leap upon him he would have 
 escaped. 
 
 From behind, approaching hurriedly, came the 
 sound of impatient footsteps. 
 
 The orderly stiffened to attention. "The ad 
 miral!" he warned. 
 
 Twelve years of discipline, twelve years of rec 
 ognition of authority, twelve years of deference to 
 superior officers, dragged Swanson's hand from his 
 pistol and lifted him to his feet. As he turned, 
 Admiral Preble, the aide, and the bareheaded blue 
 jacket were close upon him. The admiral's face 
 beamed, his eyes were young with pleasurable ex 
 citement; with the eagerness of a boy he waved 
 aside formal greetings. 
 
 "My dear Swanson," he cried, "I assure you it's 
 a most astonishing, most curious coincidence! See 
 this man?" He flung out his arm at the blue 
 jacket. "He's my wireless chief. He was wireless 
 operator on the transport that took you to Manila. 
 When you came in here this afternoon he recog 
 nized you. Half an hour later he picks up a mes- 
 
 168
 
 The Long Arm 
 
 sage picks it up two thousand miles from here 
 . from San Francisco Associated Press news 
 it concerns you; that is, not really concerns you, 
 but I thought, we thought" as though signalling 
 for help, the admiral glanced unhappily at his aide 
 "we thought you'd like to know. Of course, to 
 us," he added hastily, "it's quite superfluous 
 quite superfluous, but ' 
 
 The aide coughed apologetically. "You might 
 read, sir," he suggested. 
 
 "What? Exactly! Quite so!" cried the admiral. 
 
 In the fading light he held close to his eyes a 
 piece of paper. 
 
 "San Francisco, April 20," he read. "Rueff, 
 first sergeant, shot himself here to-day, leaving 
 written confession theft of regimental funds for 
 which Swanson, captain, lately court-martialled. 
 Money found intact in RuefFs mattress. Inno 
 cence of Swanson never questioned, but dissat 
 isfied with findings of court martial has left army. 
 Brother officers making every effort to find him 
 and persuade return." 
 
 The admiral sighed happily. "And my wife," 
 he added, with an impressiveness that was in 
 tended to show he had at last arrived at the 
 important part of his message, "says you are to- 
 stay to dinner." 
 
 169
 
 The Long Arm 
 
 Abruptly, rudely, Swanson swung upon his heel 
 and turned his face from the admiral. His head 
 was thrown back, his arms held rigid at his sides. 
 In slow, deep breaths, like one who had been 
 dragged from drowning, he drank in the salt, chill 
 air. After one glance the four men also turned, 
 and in the falling darkness stood staring at noth 
 ing, and no one spoke. 
 
 The aide was the first to break the silence. In a 
 polite tone, as though he were continuing a con 
 versation which had not been interrupted, he ad 
 dressed the admiral. "Of course, RuefFs written 
 confession was not needed," he said. "His shoot 
 ing himself proved that he was guilty." 
 
 Swanson started as though across his naked 
 shoulders the aide had drawn a whip. 
 
 In penitence and gratitude he raised his eyes 
 to the stars. High above his head the strands 
 of the wireless, swinging from the towering masts 
 like the strings of a giant aeolian harp, were swept 
 by the wind from the ocean. To Swanson the 
 sighing and whispering wires sang in praise and 
 thanksgiving. 
 
 170
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE
 
 THE GOD OF COINCIDENCE 
 
 THE God of Coincidence is fortunate in pos 
 sessing innumerable press agents. They 
 have made the length of his arm a proverb. How 
 at exactly the right moment he extends it across 
 continents and drags two and two together, thus 
 causing four to result where but for him sixes and 
 sevens would have obtained, they have made 
 known to the readers of all of our best magazines. 
 For instance, Holworthy is leaving for the Congo 
 to find a cure for the sleeping sickness, and for 
 himself any sickness from which one is warranted 
 never to wake up. This is his condition because 
 the beautiful million-heiress who is wintering at 
 the Alexander Young Hotel in Honolulu has re 
 fused to answer his letters, cables, and appeals. 
 
 He is leaning upon the rail taking his last neck- 
 breaking look at the Woolworth building. The 
 going-ashore bugle has sounded, pocket-handker 
 chiefs are waving; and Joe Hutton, the last vis 
 itor to leave the ship, is at the gangway. 
 
 173
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 "Good-by, Holworthy!" he calls. "Where do 
 you keep yourself? Haven't seen you at the club 
 in a year!" 
 
 "Haven't been there in a year nor mean to!" 
 is the ungracious reply of our hero. 
 
 "Then, for Heaven's sake," exclaims Hutton, 
 "send some one to take your mail out of the H 
 box! Every time I look for letters I wade through 
 yours." 
 
 "Tear them up!" calls Holworthy. "They're 
 bills." 
 
 Hutton now is half-way down the gangplank. 
 
 "Then your creditors," he shouts back, "must 
 all live at the Alexander Young Hotel in Hono 
 lulu!" 
 
 That night an express train shrieking through 
 the darkness carried with it toward San Fran 
 cisco 
 
 In this how evident is the fine Italian hand of 
 the God of Coincidence! 
 
 Had Hutton's name begun with an M; had the 
 H in Hutton been silent; had he not carried to the 
 Mauretania a steamer basket for his rich aunt; 
 had he not resented the fact that since Holwor- 
 thy's election to the Van Sturtevant Club he had 
 ceased to visit the Grill Club a cure for sleeping 
 sickness might have been discovered; but two lov- 
 
 174
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 ing hearts never would have been reunited and 
 that story would not have been written. 
 
 Or, Mrs. Montclair, with a suit-case, is leaving 
 her home forever to join handsome Harry Bellairs, 
 who is at the corner with a racing-car and all the 
 money of the bank of which he has been cashier. 
 As the guilty woman places the farewell letter 
 against the pin-cushion where her husband will be 
 sure to find it, her infant son turns in his sleep 
 and jabs himself with a pin. His howl of anguish 
 resembles that of a puppy on a moonlight night. 
 The mother recognizes her master's voice. She 
 believes her child dying, flies to the bedside, tears 
 up the letter, unpacks the suit-case. The next 
 morning at breakfast her husband, reading the 
 newspaper, exclaims aloud: 
 
 "Harry Bellairs," he cries, "has skipped with 
 the bank's money! I always told you he was not 
 a man you ought to know." 
 
 "His manner to me," she says severely, "always 
 was that of a perfect gentleman." 
 
 Again coincidence gets the credit. Had not the 
 child tossed had not at the critical moment the 
 safety pin proved untrue to the man who invented 
 it that happy family reunion would have been 
 impossible. 
 
 Or, it might be told this way: 
 175
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 Old man McCurdy, the Pig-iron King, forbids 
 his daughter Gwendolyn even to think of marrying 
 poor but honest Beef Walters, the baseball pitcher, 
 and denies him his house. The lovers plan an 
 elopement. At midnight Beef is to stand at the 
 tradesman's entrance and whistle "Waiting at the 
 Church"; and down the silent stairs Gwendolyn is 
 to steal into his arms. At the very same hour the 
 butler has planned with the policeman on fixed 
 post to steal Mother McCurdy's diamonds and 
 pass them to a brother of the policeman, who is 
 to wait at the tradesman's entrance and whistle 
 "Waiting for the Robert E. Lee." 
 
 This sounds improbable especially that the 
 policeman would allow even his brother to get the 
 diamonds before he did; but, with the God of Coin 
 cidence on the job, you shall see that it will all 
 come out right. Beef is first at the door. He 
 whistles. The butler an English butler with no 
 ear for music, shoves into his hands tiaras and sun 
 bursts. Honest Beef hands over the butler to the 
 policeman and the tiaras to Mother McCurdy. 
 
 "How can I reward you?" exclaims the grateful 
 woman. 
 
 "Your daughter's hand!" 
 
 Again the God of Coincidence scores and Beef 
 Walters is credited with an assist. And for pre- 
 
 176
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 venting the robbery McCurdy has the peg-post 
 cop made a captain; thus enabling him to wear 
 diamonds of his own and raising him above the 
 need of taking them from others. 
 
 These examples of what the god can do are mere 
 fiction; the story that comes now really happened. 
 It also is a story of coincidence. It shows how this 
 time the long arm was stretched out to make two 
 young people happy; it again illustrates that, in 
 the instruments he chooses, the God of Coinci 
 dence works in a mysterious way his wonders to 
 perform. This time the tool he used was a hat of 
 green felt. 
 
 The story really should be called "The Man in 
 the Green Hat/' 
 
 At St. James's Palace the plenipotentiaries of the 
 Allies and of Turkey were trying to bring peace 
 to Europe; in Russell Square, Bloomsbury, Sam 
 Lowell was trying to arrange a peace with Mrs. 
 Wroxton, his landlady. The ultimatum of the 
 Allies was : " Adrianople or fight ! " The last words 
 of Mrs. Wroxton were: "Five pounds or move 
 out!" 
 
 Sam did not have five pounds. He was a 
 stranger in London; he had lost his position in New 
 York and that very morning had refused to marry 
 the girl he loved Polly Seward, the young woman 
 
 177
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 the Sunday papers called "The Richest Girl in 
 America." 
 
 For any man for one day that would seem to 
 be trouble enough; but to the Sultan of Turkey 
 that day brought troubles far more serious. And, 
 as his losses were Sam's gain, we must follow the 
 troubles of the Sultan. Until, with the aid of a 
 green felt hat, the God of Coincidence turns the 
 misfortunes of the Sultan into a fortune for Sam, 
 Sam must wait. 
 
 From the first days of the peace conference it 
 was evident there was a leak. The negotiations 
 had been opened under a most solemn oath of 
 secrecy. As to the progress of the conference, only 
 such information or misinformation if the dip 
 lomats considered it better as was mutually 
 agreed upon by the plenipotentiaries was given to 
 a waiting world. But each morning, in addition 
 to the official report of the proceedings of the day 
 previous, one newspaper, the Times, published an 
 account which differed from that in every other 
 paper, and which undoubtedly came from the in 
 side. In details it was far more generous than the 
 official report; it gave names, speeches, arguments; 
 it described the wordy battles of the diplomats, the 
 concessions, bluffs, bargains. 
 
 After three days the matter became public scan- 
 178
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 dal. At first, the plenipotentiaries declared the 
 events described in the Times were invented each 
 evening in the office of the Times; but the proceed 
 ings of the day following showed the public this was 
 not so. 
 
 Some one actually present at the conference was 
 telling tales out of school. These tales were cabled 
 to Belgrade, Sofia, Athens, Constantinople; and 
 hourly from those capitals the plenipotentiaries 
 were assailed by advice, abuse, and threats. The 
 whole world began to take part in their negotia 
 tions; from every side they were attacked; from 
 home by the Young Turks, or the On to Constan 
 tinople Party; and from abroad by peace societies, 
 religious bodies, and chambers of commerce. Even 
 the armies in the field, instead of waiting for the 
 result of their deliberations, told them what to do, 
 and that unless they did it they would better re 
 main in exile. To make matters worse, in every 
 stock exchange gambling on the news furnished 
 by the Times threatened the financial peace of 
 Europe. To work under such conditions of pub 
 licity was impossible. The delegates appealed to 
 their hosts of the British Foreign Office. 
 
 Unless the chiel amang them takin' notes was 
 discovered and the leak stopped, they declared the 
 conference must end. Spurred on by questions in 
 
 179
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 Parliament, by appeals from the great banking 
 world, by criticisms not altogether unselfish from the 
 other newspapers, the Foreign Office surrounded 
 St. James's Palace and the office of the Times with 
 an army of spies. Every secretary, stenographer, 
 and attendant at the conference was under sur 
 veillance, his past record looked into, his present 
 comings and goings noted. Even the plenipoten 
 tiaries themselves were watched; and employees 
 of the Times were secretly urged to sell the gov 
 ernment the man who was selling secrets to them. 
 But those who were willing to be "urged" did not 
 know the man; those who did know him refused 
 to be bought. 
 
 By a process of elimination suspicion finally 
 rested upon one Adolf Hertz, a young Hungarian 
 scholar who spoke and wrote all the mongrel lan 
 guages of the Balkans; who for years, as a copying 
 clerk and translator, had been employed by the 
 Foreign Office, and who now by it had been lent 
 to the conference. For the reason that when he 
 lived in Budapest he was a correspondent of the 
 Times, the police, in seeking for the leak, centred 
 their attention upon Hertz. But, though every 
 moment he was watched, and though Hertz knew 
 he was watched, no present link between him and 
 the Times had been established and this in spite 
 
 1 80
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 of the fact that the hours during which it was 
 necessary to keep him under closest observation 
 were few. Those were the hours between the 
 closing of the conference, and midnight, when the 
 provincial edition of the Times went to press. For 
 the remainder of the day, so far as the police cared, 
 Hertz could go to the devil! But for those hours, 
 except when on his return from the conference he 
 locked himself in his lodgings in Jermyn Street, 
 detectives were always at his elbow. 
 
 It was supposed that it was during this brief 
 period when he was locked in his room that he 
 wrote his report; but how, later, he conveyed it 
 to the Times no one could discover. In his rooms 
 there was no telephone; his doors and windows 
 were openly watched; and after leaving his rooms 
 his movements were as they always had been 
 methodical, following a routine open to observa 
 tion. His programme was invariably the same. 
 Each night at seven from his front door he walked 
 west. At Regent Street he stopped to buy an 
 evening paper from the aged news-vender at the 
 corner; he then crossed Piccadilly Circus into Cov 
 entry Street, skirted Leicester Square, and at the 
 end of Green Street entered Pavoni's Italian res 
 taurant. There he took his seat always at the 
 same table, hung his hat always on the same brass 
 
 181
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 peg, ordered the same Hungarian wine, and read 
 the same evening paper. He spoke to no one; no 
 one spoke to him. 
 
 When he had finished his coffee and his ciga 
 rette he returned to his lodgings, and there he re 
 mained until he rang for breakfast. From the 
 time at which he left his home until his return to 
 it he spoke to only two persons the news-vender 
 to whom he handed a halfpenny; the waiter who 
 served him the regular table d'hote dinner be 
 tween whom and Hertz nothing passed but three 
 and six for the dinner and sixpence for the waiter 
 himself. 
 
 Each evening, the moment he moved into the 
 street a plain-clothes man fell into step beside him; 
 another followed at his heels; and from across the 
 street more plain-clothes men kept their eyes on 
 every one approaching him in front or from the 
 rear. When he bought his evening paper six pairs 
 of eyes watched him place a halfpenny in the hand 
 of the news-vender, and during the entire time of 
 his stay in Pavoni's every mouthful he ate was 
 noted every direction he gave the waiter was 
 overheard. 
 
 Of this surveillance Hertz was well aware. To 
 have been ignorant of it would have argued him 
 blind and imbecile. But he showed no resent- 
 
 182
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 ment. With eyes grave and untroubled, he stead 
 ily regarded his escort; but not by the hastening 
 of a footstep or the acceleration of a gesture did he 
 admit that by his audience he was either distressed 
 or embarrassed. That was the situation on the 
 morning when the Treaty of London was to be 
 signed and sealed. 
 
 In spite of the publicity given to the conference 
 by the Times, however, what the terms of the 
 treaty might be no one knew. If Adrianople were 
 surrendered; if Salonica were given to Greece; if 
 Servia obtained a right-of-way to the Adriatic 
 peace was assured; but, should the Young Turks 
 refuse should Austria prove obstinate not only 
 would the war continue, but the Powers would be 
 involved, and that greater, more awful war the 
 war dreaded by all the Christian world might 
 turn Europe into a slaughter-house. 
 
 Would Turkey and Austria consent and peace 
 ensue ? Would they refuse and war follow ? That 
 morning those were the questions on the lips of 
 every man in London save one. He was Sam 
 Lowell; and he was asking himself another and 
 more personal question: "How can I find five 
 pounds and pacify Mrs. Wroxton?" 
 
 He had friends in Ne\r York who would cable 
 him money to pay his passage home; but he did 
 
 183
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 not want to go home. He preferred to starve in 
 London than be vulgarly rich anywhere else. That 
 was not because he loved London, but because 
 above everything in life he loved Polly Seward 
 and Polly Seward was in London. He had begun 
 to love her on class day of his senior year; and, 
 after his father died and left him with no one else 
 to care for, every day he had loved her more. 
 
 Until a month before he had been in the office 
 of Wetmore & Hastings, a smart brokers' firm in 
 Wall Street. He had obtained the position not 
 because he was of any use to Wetmore & Hastings, 
 but because the firm was the one through which 
 his father had gambled the money that would 
 otherwise have gone to Sam. In giving Sam a 
 job the firm thought it was making restitution. 
 Sam thought it was making the punishment fit the 
 crime; for he knew nothing of the ways of Wall 
 Street, and having to learn them bored him ex 
 tremely. He wanted to write stories for the maga 
 zines. He wanted to bind them in a book and 
 dedicate them to Polly. And in this wish editors 
 humored him but not so many editors or with 
 such enthusiasm as to warrant his turning his 
 back on Wall Street. 
 
 That he did later when, after a tour of the world 
 that had begun from the San Francisco side, Polly 
 
 184
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 Seward and her mother and Senator Seward 
 reached Naples. There Senator Seward bought 
 old Italian furniture for his office on the twenty- 
 fifth floor of the perfectly new Seward building. 
 Mrs. Seward tried to buy for Polly a prince nearly 
 as old as the furniture, and Polly bought picture 
 post-cards which she sent to Sam. 
 
 Polly had been absent six months, and Sam's 
 endurance had been so timed as just to last out 
 the half-year. It was not guaranteed to with 
 stand any change of schedule, and the two months' 
 delay in Italy broke his heart. It could not run 
 overtime on a starvation diet of post-cards; so 
 when he received a cable reading, "Address Lon 
 don, Claridge's, " his heart told him it could no 
 longer wait and he resigned his position and 
 sailed. 
 
 On her trip round the world Polly had learned 
 many things. She was observant, alert, intent on 
 asking questions, hungering for facts. And a 
 charming young woman who. seeks facts rather 
 than attention will never lack either. But of all 
 the facts Polly collected, the one of surpassing in 
 terest, and which gave her the greatest happiness, 
 was that she could not live without Sam Lowell. 
 She had suspected this, and it was partly to make 
 sure that she had consented to the trip round the 
 
 185
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 world. Now that she had made sure, she could not 
 too soon make up for the days lost. Sam had 
 spent his money, and he either must return to 
 New York and earn more or remain near Polly 
 and starve. It was an embarrassing choice. 
 Polly herself made the choice even more diffi 
 cult. 
 
 One morning when they walked in St. James's 
 Park to feed the ducks she said to him: 
 
 "Sam, when are we to be married?" 
 
 When for three years a man has been begging a 
 girl to marry him, and she consents at the exact 
 moment when, without capitulation to all that 
 he holds honorable, he cannot marry anybody, his 
 position deserves sympathy. 
 
 "My dear one," exclaimed the unhappy youth, 
 "you make me the most miserable of men! I 
 can't marry! I'm in an awful place! If I mar 
 ried you now I'd be a crook! It isn't a question 
 of love in a cottage, with bread and cheese. If 
 cottages were renting for a dollar a year I couldn't 
 rent one for ten minutes. I haven't cheese 
 enough to bait a mouse-trap. It's terrible! But 
 we have got to wait." 
 
 "Wait!" cried Polly. "I thought you had been 
 waiting! Have I been away too long? Do you 
 love some one else?" 
 
 186
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 "Don't be ridiculous!" said Sam crossly. 
 "Look at me," he commanded, "and tell me 
 whom I love!" 
 
 Polly did not take time to look. 
 
 "But I," she protested, "have so much money!" 
 
 "It's not your money," explained Sam. "It's 
 your mother's money or your father's, and both 
 of them dislike me. They even have told me so. 
 Your mother wants you to marry that Italian; 
 and your father, having half the money in America, 
 naturally wants to marry you to the other half. If 
 I were selfish and married you I'd be all the things 
 they think I am." 
 
 "You are selfish!" cried Polly. "You're think 
 ing of yourself and of what people will say, in 
 stead of how to make me happy. What's the use 
 of money if you can't buy what you want?" 
 
 "Are you suggesting you can buy me?" de 
 manded Sam. 
 
 "Surely," said Polly "if I can't get you any 
 other way. And you may name your own price, 
 too." 
 
 "When I am making enough to support myself 
 without sponging on you," explained Sam, "you 
 can have as many millions as you like; but I must 
 first make enough to keep me alive. A man who 
 can't do that isn't fit to marry." 
 
 187
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 "How much," demanded Polly, "do you need 
 to keep you alive? Maybe I could lend it to you." 
 
 Sam was entirely serious. 
 
 "Three thousand a year," he said. 
 
 Polly exclaimed indignantly. 
 
 "I call that extremely extravagant!" she cried. 
 "If we wait until you earn three thousand a year 
 we may be dead. Do you expect to earn that 
 writing stories?" 
 
 "I can try," said Sam "or I will rob a bank." 
 
 Polly smiled upon him appealingly. 
 
 "You know how I love your stories," she said, 
 "and I wouldn't hurt your feelings for the world; 
 but, Sam dear, I think you had better rob a bank!" 
 
 Addressing an imaginary audience, supposedly 
 of men, Sam exclaimed: 
 
 "Isn't that just like a woman? She wouldn't 
 care," he protested, "how I got the money!" 
 
 Polly smiled cheerfully. 
 
 "Not if I got you!" she said. In extenuation, 
 also, she addressed an imaginary audience, pre 
 sumably of women. "That's how I love him!" 
 she exclaimed. "And he asks me to wait! Isn't 
 that just like a man? Seriously," she went on, 
 "if we just go ahead and get married father would 
 have to help us. He'd make you a vice-president 
 or something." 
 
 188
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 At this suggestion Sam expressed his extreme 
 displeasure. 
 
 "The last time I talked to your father," he said, 
 "I was in a position to marry, and I told him I 
 wanted to marry you. What he said to that was: 
 * Don't be an ass!' Then I told him he was unin 
 telligent and I told him why. First, because he 
 could not see that a man might want to marry his 
 daughter in spite of her money; and second, be 
 cause he couldn't see that her money wouldn't 
 make up to a man for having him for a father-in- 
 law." 
 
 "Did you have to tell him that?" asked Polly. 
 
 "Some one had to tell him," said Sam gloomily. 
 "Anyway, as a source of revenue father is elimi 
 nated. I have still one chance in London. If that 
 fails I must go home. I've been promised a job 
 in New York reporting for a Wall Street paper 
 and I'll write stories on the side. I've cabled for 
 money, and if the London job falls through I shall 
 sail Wednesday." 
 
 "Wednesday!" cried Polly. "When you say 
 things like 'Wednesday' you make the world so 
 dark! You must stay here! It has been such a 
 long six months; and before you earn three thou 
 sand dollars I shall be an old, old maid. But if 
 you get work here we could see each other every 
 day." 
 
 189
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 They were in the Sewards' sitting-room at 
 Claridge's. Sam took up the desk telephone. 
 
 "In London," he said, "my one best and only 
 bet is a man named Forsythe, who helps edit the 
 Pall Mall. I'll telephone him now. If he can 
 promise me even a shilling a day I'll stay on and 
 starve but I'll be near you. If Forsythe fails 
 me I shall sail Wednesday." 
 
 The telephone call found Forsythe at the Pall 
 Mall office. He would be charmed to advise Mr. 
 Lowell on a matter of business. Would he that 
 night dine with Mr. Lowell? He would. And 
 might he suggest that they dine at Pavoni's ? He 
 had a special reason for going there, and the din 
 ner would cost only three and six. 
 
 "That's reason enough!" Sam told him. 
 
 "And don't forget," said Polly when, for the 
 fifth time, Sam rose to go, "that after your dinner 
 you are to look for me at the Duchess of Deptford's 
 dance. I asked her for a card and you will find 
 it at your lodgings. Everybody will be there; but 
 it is a big place full of dark corners where we 
 can hide." 
 
 "Don't hide until I arrive," said Sam. "I shall 
 be very late, as I shall have to walk. After I pay 
 for Forsythe's dinner and for white gloves for your 
 dance I shall not be in a position to hire a taxi. 
 But maybe I shall bring good news. Maybe 
 
 190
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 Forsythe will give me the job. If he does we will 
 celebrate in champagne." 
 
 "You will let me at least pay for the cham 
 pagne?" begged Polly. 
 
 "No," said Sam firmly "the duchess will 
 furnish that." 
 
 When Sam reached his lodgings in Russell 
 Square, which he approached with considerable 
 trepidation, he found Mrs. Wroxton awaiting him. 
 But her attitude no longer was hostile. On the 
 contrary, as she handed him a large, square en 
 velope, decorated with the strawberry leaves of a 
 duke, her manner was humble. 
 
 Sam opened the envelope and, with apparent 
 carelessness, stuck it over the fireplace. 
 
 "About that back rent," he said; "I have 
 cabled for money, and as soon " 
 
 "I know," said Mrs. Wroxton. "I read the 
 cable." She was reading the card of invitation 
 also. "There's no hurry, sir," protested Mrs. 
 Wroxton. "Any of my young gentlemen who is 
 made welcome at Deptford House is made wel 
 come here!" 
 
 "Credit, Mrs. Wroxton," observed Sam, "is 
 better than cash. If you have only cash you 
 spend it and nothing remains. But with credit 
 
 you can continue indefinitely to to " 
 
 191
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 "So you can!" exclaimed Mrs. Wroxton en 
 thusiastically. "Stay as long as you like, Mr. 
 Lowell." 
 
 At Pavoni's Sam found Forsythe already seated 
 and, with evident interest, observing the scene of 
 gayety before him. The place was new to Sam, 
 and after the darkness and snow of the streets it 
 appeared both cheerful and resplendent. It was 
 brilliantly lighted; a ceiling of gay panels picked 
 out with gold, and red plush sofas, backed against 
 walls hung with mirrors and faced by rows of 
 marble-topped tables, gave it an air of the Con 
 tinent. 
 
 Sam surrendered his hat and coat to the waiter. 
 The hat was a soft Alpine one of green felt. The 
 waiter hung it where Sam could see it, on one of 
 many hooks that encircled a gilded pillar. 
 
 After two courses had been served Forsythe 
 said: 
 
 "I hope you don't object to this place. I had a 
 special reason for wishing to be here on this par 
 ticular night. I wanted to be in at the death!" 
 
 "Whose death?" asked Sam. "Is the dinner as 
 bad as that?" 
 
 Forsythe leaned back against the mirror behind 
 them and, bringing his shoulder close to Sam's, 
 spoke in a whisper. 
 
 192
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 "As you know," he said, "to-day the delegates 
 sign the Treaty of London. It still must receive 
 the signatures of the Sultan and the three 
 kings; and they will sign it. But until they do, 
 what the terms of the treaty are no one can find 
 out." 
 
 "I'll bet the Times finds out!" said Sam. 
 
 "That's it!" returned Forsythe. "Hertz, the 
 man who is supposed to be selling the secrets of 
 the conference to the Times, dines here. To-night 
 is his last chance. If to-night he can slip the 
 Times a copy of the Treaty of London without 
 being caught, and the Times has the courage to 
 publish it, it will be the biggest newspaper sensa 
 tion of modern times; and it will either cause a 
 financial panic all over Europe or prevent one. 
 The man they suspect is facing us. Don't look 
 now, but in a minute you will see him sitting alone 
 at a table on the right of the middle pillar. The 
 people at the tables nearest him even the women 
 are detectives. His waiter is in the employ of 
 Scotland Yard. The maitre d'hotel, whom you 
 will see always hovering round his table, is a police 
 agent lent by Bulgaria. For the Allies are even 
 more anxious to stop the leak than we are. We 
 are interested only as their hosts; with them it is 
 a matter of national life or death. A week ago 
 
 193
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 one of our own inspectors tipped me off to what is 
 going on, and every night since then I've dined 
 here, hoping to see something suspicious." 
 
 "Have you?" asked Sam. 
 
 "Only this," whispered Forsythe "on four 
 different nights I've recognized men I know are 
 on the staff of the Times, and on the other nights 
 men I don't know may have been here. But after 
 all that proves nothing, for this place is a resort 
 of newspaper writers and editors and the Times 
 men's being here may have been only a coinci 
 dence." 
 
 "And Hertz?" asked Sam "what does he do?" 
 
 The Englishman exclaimed with irritation. 
 
 "Just what you see him doing now!" he pro 
 tested. "He eats his dinner! Look at him!" he 
 commanded. "Of all in the room he's the least 
 concerned." 
 
 Sam looked and saw the suspected Adolf Hertz 
 dangling a mass of macaroni on the end of his fork- 
 Sam watched him until it disappeared. 
 
 "Maybe that's a signal!" suggested Sam. 
 "Maybe everything he does is part of a cipher 
 code! He gives the signals and the Times men 
 read them and write them down." 
 
 "A man would have a fine chance to write any 
 thing down in this room!" said Forsythe. 
 
 194
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 "But maybe," persisted Sam, "when he makes 
 those strange movements with his lips he is talk 
 ing to a confederate who can read the lip language. 
 The confederate writes it down at the office 
 and " 
 
 "Fantastic and extremely improbable!" com 
 mented Forsythe. "But, nevertheless, the fact 
 remains, the fellow does communicate with some 
 one from the Times; and the police are positive he 
 does it here and that he is doing it now!" 
 
 The problem that so greatly disturbed his friend 
 would have more deeply interested Sam had the 
 solving of his own trouble been less imperative. 
 That alone filled his mind. And when the coffee 
 was served and the cigars lit, without beating 
 about the bush Sam asked Forsythe bluntly if on 
 his paper a rising and impecunious genius could 
 find a place. With even less beating about the 
 bush Forsythe assured him he could not. The 
 answer was final, and the disappointment was so 
 keen that Sam soon begged his friend to excuse 
 him, paid his bill, and rose to depart. 
 
 "Better wait!" urged Forsythe. "You'll find 
 nothing so good out at a music-hall. This is 
 Houdini getting out of his handcuffs before an 
 audience entirely composed of policemen." 
 
 Sam shook his head gloomily. 
 195
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 "I have a few handcuffs of my own to get rid 
 of," he said, "and it makes me poor company." 
 
 He bade his friend good night and, picking his 
 way among the tables, moved toward the pillar on 
 which the waiter had hung his hat. The pillar 
 was the one beside which Hertz was sitting, and as 
 Sam approached the man he satisfied his curiosity 
 by a long look. Under the glance Hertz lowered 
 his eyes and fixed them upon his newspaper. Sam 
 retrieved his hat and left the restaurant. 
 
 His mind immediately was overcast. He re 
 membered his disappointment and that the part 
 ing between himself and Polly was now inevitable. 
 Without considering his direction he turned to 
 ward Charing Cross Road. But he was not long 
 allowed to meditate undisturbed. 
 
 He had only crossed the little street that runs 
 beside the restaurant and passed into the shadow 
 of the National Gallery when, at the base of the 
 Irving Memorial, from each side he was fiercely 
 attacked. A young man of eminently respectable 
 appearance kicked his legs from under him, and 
 another of equally impeccable exterior made an 
 honest effort to knock off his head. 
 
 Sam plunged heavily to the sidewalk. As he 
 sprawled forward his hat fell under him and in his 
 struggle to rise was hidden by the skirts of his 
 
 196
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 greatcoat. That, also, he had fallen heavily upon 
 his hat with both knees Sam did not know. The 
 strange actions of his assailants enlightened him. 
 To his surprise, instead of continuing their assault 
 or attempting a raid upon his pockets, he found 
 them engaged solely in tugging at the hat. And 
 so preoccupied were they in this that, though still 
 on his knees, Sam was able to land some lusty 
 blows before a rush of feet caused the young men 
 to leap to their own and, pursued by several burly 
 forms, disappear in the heart of the traffic. 
 
 Sam rose and stood unsteadily. He found him 
 self surrounded by all of those who but a moment 
 before he had left contentedly dining at Pavoni's. 
 In an excited circle waiters and patrons of the 
 restaurant, both men and women, stood in the 
 falling snow, bareheaded, coatless, and cloakless, 
 staring at him. Forsythe pushed them aside and 
 took Sam by the arm. 
 
 "What happened?" demanded Sam. 
 
 "You ought to know," protested Forsythe. 
 "You started it! The moment you left the res 
 taurant two men grabbed their hats and jumped 
 after you; a dozen other men, without waiting for 
 hats, jumped after them. The rest of us got out 
 just as the two men and the detectives dived into 
 the traffic." 
 
 197
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 A big man, with an air of authority, drew Sam 
 to one side. 
 
 "Did they take anything from you, sir?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "I've nothing they could take," said Sam. 
 "And they didn't try to find out. They just 
 knocked me down." 
 
 Forsythe turned to the big man. 
 
 "This gentleman is a friend of mine, inspector," 
 he said. "He is a stranger in town and was at 
 Pavoni's only by accident." 
 
 "We might need his testimony," suggested the 
 official. 
 
 Sam gave his card to the inspector and then 
 sought refuge in a taxicab. For the second time 
 he bade his friend good night. 
 
 "And when next we dine," he called to him in 
 parting, "choose a restaurant where the detective 
 service is quicker!" 
 
 Three hours later, brushed and repaired by Mrs. 
 Wroxton, and again resplendent, Sam sat in a se 
 cluded corner of Deptford House and bade Polly a 
 long farewell. It was especially long owing to the 
 unusual number of interruptions; for it was evi 
 dent that Polly had many friends in London, and 
 that not to know the Richest One in America and 
 her absurd mother, and the pompous, self-satisfied 
 
 198
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 father, argued oneself nobody. But finally the 
 duchess carried Polly off to sup with her; and as 
 the duchess did not include Sam in her invitation 
 at least not in such a way that any one could 
 notice it Sam said good night but not before he 
 had arranged a meeting with Polly for eleven that 
 same morning. If it was clear, the meeting was 
 to be at the duck pond in St. James's Park; if it 
 snowed, at the National Gallery in front of the 
 Age of Innocence. 
 
 After robbing the duchess of three suppers, Sam 
 descended to the hall and from an attendant re 
 ceived his coat and hat, which latter the attend 
 ant offered him with the inside of the hat show 
 ing. Sam saw in it the trademark of a foreign 
 maker. 
 
 "That's not my hat," said Sam. 
 
 The man expressed polite disbelief. 
 
 "I found it rolled up in the pocket of your great 
 coat, sir," he protested. 
 
 The words reminded Sam that on arriving at 
 Deptford House he had twisted the hat into a roll 
 and stuffed it into his overcoat pocket. 
 
 "Quite right," said Sam. But it was not his 
 hat; and with some hope of still recovering his 
 property he made way for other departing guests 
 and at one side waited. 
 
 199
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 For some clew to the person he believed was 
 now wearing his hat, Sam examined the one in his 
 hand. Just showing above the inside band was 
 something white. Thinking it might be the card 
 of the owner, Sam removed it. It was not a card, 
 but a long sheet of thin paper, covered with type 
 writing, and many times folded. Sam read the 
 opening paragraph. Then he backed suddenly 
 toward a great chair of gold and velvet, and fell 
 into it. 
 
 He was conscious the attendants in pink stock 
 ings were regarding him askance; that, as they 
 waited in the draughty hall for cars and taxis, the 
 noble lords in stars and ribbons, the noble ladies 
 in tiaras and showing much-furlined galoshes, were 
 discussing his strange appearance. They might 
 well believe the youth was ill; they might easily 
 have considered him intoxicated. Outside rose 
 the voices of servants and police calling the car 
 riages. Inside other servants echoed them. 
 
 "The Duchess of Sutherland's car!" they 
 chanted. "Mrs. Trevor Hill's carriage! The 
 French ambassador's carriage! Baron Hauss- 
 mann's car!" 
 
 Like one emerging from a trance, Sam sprang 
 upright. A little fat man, with mild blue eyes and 
 curly red hair, was shyly and with murmured 
 
 200
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 apologies pushing toward the exit. Before he 
 gained it Sam had wriggled a way to his elbow. 
 
 "Baron Haussmann!" he stammered. "I must 
 speak to you. It's a matter of gravest importance. 
 Send away your car," he begged, "and give me five 
 minutes." 
 
 The eyes of the little fat man opened wide in 
 surprise, almost in alarm. He stared at Sam re 
 provingly. 
 
 "Impossible!" he murmured. "I I do not 
 know you." 
 
 "This is a letter of introduction," said Sam. 
 Into the unwilling fingers of the banker he thrust 
 the folded paper. Bending over him, he whis 
 pered in his ear. "That," said Sam, "is the 
 Treaty of London!" 
 
 The alarm of Baron Haussmann increased to a 
 panic. 
 
 "Impossible!" he gasped. And, with reproach, 
 he repeated: "I do not know you, sir! I do not 
 know you!" 
 
 At that moment, towering above the crush, ap 
 peared the tall figure of Senator Seward. The 
 rich man of the New World and the rich man of 
 Europe knew each other only by sight. But, upon 
 seeing Sam in earnest converse with the great 
 banker, the senator believed that without appear- 
 
 2OI
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 ing to seek it he might through Sam effect a meet 
 ing. With a hearty slap on the shoulder he greeted 
 his fellow countryman. 
 
 "Halloo, Sam!" he cried genially. "You walk 
 ing home with me?" 
 
 Sam did not even turn his head. 
 
 "No!" he snapped. "I'm busy. Go 'way!" 
 
 Crimson, the senator disappeared. Baron 
 Haussmann regarded the young stranger with 
 amazed interest. 
 
 "You know him!" he protested. "He called 
 you Sam!" 
 
 "Know him?" cried Sam impatiently. "I've 
 got to know him! He's going to be my father-in- 
 law." 
 
 The fingers of the rich man clutched the folded 
 paper as the claws of a parrot cling to the bars of 
 his cage. He let his sable coat slip into the hands 
 of a servant; he turned back toward the marble 
 staircase. 
 
 "Come!" he commanded. 
 
 Sam led him to the secluded corner Polly and he 
 had left vacant and told his story. 
 
 "So, it is evident," concluded Sam, "that each 
 night some one in the service of the Times dined at 
 Pavoni's, and that his hat was the same sort of 
 hat as the one worn by Hertz; and each night, 
 
 202
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 inside the lining of his hat, Hertz hid the report 
 of that day's proceedings. And when the Times 
 man left the restaurant he exchanged hats with 
 Hertz. But to-night I got Hertz's hat and with 
 it the treaty!" 
 
 In perplexity the blue eyes of the little great 
 man frowned. 
 
 "It is a remarkable story," he said. 
 
 "You mean you don't believe me!" retorted 
 Sam. "If I had financial standing if I had 
 credit if I were not a stranger you would not 
 hesitate." 
 
 Baron Haussmann neither agreed nor contra 
 dicted. He made a polite and deprecatory ges 
 ture. Still in doubt, he stared at the piece of white 
 paper. Still deep in thought, he twisted and 
 creased between his fingers the Treaty of Lon 
 don! 
 
 Returning with the duchess from supper, Polly 
 caught sight of Sam and, with a happy laugh, ran 
 toward him. Seeing he was not alone, she halted 
 and waved her hand. 
 
 "Don't forget!" she called. "At eleven!" 
 
 She made a sweet and lovely picture. Sam rose 
 and bowed. 
 
 "I'll be there at ten," he answered. 
 
 With his mild blue eyes the baron followed Polly 
 203
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 until she had disappeared. Then he turned and 
 smiled at Sam. 
 
 "Permit me," he said, "to offer you my felic 
 itations. Your young lady is very beautiful 
 and very good." Sam bowed his head. "If she 
 trusts you," murmured the baron, "I think I can 
 trust you too." 
 
 "How wonderful is credit!" exclaimed Sam. 
 "I was just saying so to my landlady. If you 
 have only cash you spend it and nothing remains. 
 But with credit you can " 
 
 "How much," interrupted the banker, "do you 
 want for this?" 
 
 Sam returned briskly to the business of the 
 moment. 
 
 "To be your partner," he said "to get half of 
 what you make out of it." 
 
 The astonished eyes of the baron were large with 
 wonder. Again he reproved Sam. 
 
 "What I shall make out of it?" he demanded 
 incredulously. "Do you know how much I shall 
 make out of it?" 
 
 "I cannot even guess," said Sam; "but I want 
 half." 
 
 The baron smiled tolerantly. 
 
 "And how," he asked, "could you possibly 
 know what I give you is really half?" 
 
 204
 
 The God of Coincidence 
 
 In his turn, Sam made a deprecatory gesture. 
 
 " Your credit," said Sam, "is good!" 
 
 That morning, after the walk in St. James's 
 Park, when Sam returned with Polly to Claridge's, 
 they encountered her father in the hall. Mindful 
 of the affront of the night before, he greeted Sam 
 only with a scowl. 
 
 "Senator," cried Sam happily, "you must be 
 the first to hear the news! Polly and I are going 
 into partnership. We are to be married." 
 
 This time Senator Seward did not trouble him 
 self even to tell Sam he was an ass. He merely 
 grinned cynically. 
 
 "Is that all your news?" he demanded with 
 sarcasm. 
 
 "No," said Sam "I am going into partnership 
 with Baron Haussmann too!" 
 
 205
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF 
 COBRE
 
 THE BURIED TREASURE OF COBRE 
 
 YOUNG EVERETT at last was a minister 
 plenipotentiary. In London as third sec 
 retary he had splashed around in the rain to find 
 the ambassador's carriage. In Rome as a second 
 secretary he had served as a clearing-house for 
 the Embassy's visiting-cards; and in Madrid as 
 first secretary he had acted as interpreter for a 
 minister who, though valuable as a national chair 
 man, had much to learn of even his own language. 
 But although surrounded by all the wonders and 
 delights of Europe, although he walked, talked, 
 wined, and dined with statesmen and court beau 
 ties, Everett was not happy. He was never his 
 own master. Always he answered the button 
 pressed by the man higher up. Always over him 
 loomed his chief; always, for his diligence and 
 zeal, his chief received credit. 
 
 As His Majesty's naval attache put it sympa 
 thetically, "Better be a top-side man on a sam 
 pan than First LufF on the Dreadnought. Don't 
 be another man's right hand. Be your own right 
 
 209
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 hand." Accordingly when the State Department 
 offered to make him minister to the Republic 
 of Amapala, Everett gladly deserted the flesh- 
 pots of Europe, and, on muleback over trails in 
 the living rock, through mountain torrents that 
 had never known the shadow of a bridge, through 
 swamp and jungle, rode sunburnt and saddle- 
 sore into his inheritance. 
 
 When giving him his farewell instructions, the 
 Secretary of State had not attempted to deceive 
 him. 
 
 "Of all the smaller republics of Central Amer 
 ica," he frankly told him, "Amapala is the least 
 desirable, least civilized, least acceptable. It 
 offers an ambitious young diplomat no chance. 
 But once a minister, always a minister. Having 
 lifted you out of the secretary class we can't de 
 mote you. Your days of deciphering cablegrams 
 are over, and if you don't die of fever, of boredom, 
 or brandy, call us up in a year or two and we will 
 see what we can do." 
 
 Everett regarded the Secretary blankly. 
 
 "Has the Department no interest in Amapala?*' 
 he begged. "Is there nothing you want there?" 
 
 "There is one thing we very much want," re 
 turned the Secretary, "but we can't get it. We 
 want a treaty to extradite criminals." 
 
 210
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 The young minister laughed confidently. 
 
 "Why!" he exclaimed, "that should be easy." 
 
 The Secretary smiled. 
 
 "You have our full permission to get it," he 
 said. "This department," he explained, "under 
 three administrations has instructed four minis 
 ters to arrange such a treaty. The Bankers' Asso 
 ciation wants it; the Merchants' Protective Al 
 liance wants it. Amapala is the only place within 
 striking distance of our country where a fugitive 
 is safe. It is the only place where a dishonest 
 cashier, swindler, or felon can find refuge. Some 
 times it seems almost as though when a man 
 planned a crime he timed it exactly so as to catch 
 the boat for Amapala. And, once there, we can't 
 lay our hands on him; and, what's more, we can't 
 lay our hands on the money he takes with him. 
 I have no right to make a promise," said the great 
 man, "but the day that treaty is signed you can 
 sail for a legation in Europe. Do I make myself 
 clear?" 
 
 "So clear, sir," cried Everett, laughing, "that 
 if I don't arrange that treaty I will remain in 
 Amapala until I do." 
 
 "Four of your predecessors," remarked the Sec 
 retary, "made exactly the same promise, but none 
 of them got us the treaty." 
 
 211
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 "Probably none of them remained in Amapala, 
 either," retorted Everett. 
 
 "Two did," corrected the Secretary; "as you 
 ride into Camaguay you see their tombstones." 
 
 Everett found the nine-day mule-ride from the 
 coast to the capital arduous, but full of interest. 
 After a week at his post he appreciated that until 
 he left it and made the return journey nothing of 
 equal interest was again likely to occur. For life 
 in Camaguay, the capital of Amapala, proved to 
 be one long dreamless slumber. In the morning 
 each of the inhabitants engaged in a struggle to 
 get awake; after the second breakfast he ceased 
 struggling, and for a siesta sank into his hammock. 
 After dinner, at nine o'clock, he was prepared to 
 sleep in earnest, and went to bed. The official 
 life as explained to Everett by Garland, the Amer 
 ican consul, was equally monotonous. When 
 President Mendoza was not in the mountains 
 deer-hunting, or suppressing a revolution, each 
 Sunday he invited the American minister to dine 
 at the palace. In return His Excellency expected 
 once a week to be invited to breakfast with the 
 minister. He preferred that the activities of that 
 gentleman should go no further. Life in the dip 
 lomatic circle was even less strenuous. Everett 
 was the doyen of the diplomatic corps because he 
 
 212
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 was the only diplomat. All other countries were 
 represented by consuls who were commission mer 
 chants and shopkeepers. They were delighted at 
 having among them a minister plenipotentiary. 
 When he took pity on them and invited them to 
 tea, which invitations he delivered in person to 
 each consul at the door of each shop, the entire 
 diplomatic corps, as the consuls were pleased to 
 describe themselves, put up the shutters, put on 
 their official full-dress uniforms and arrived in a 
 body. 
 
 The first week at his post Everett spent in read 
 ing the archives of the legation. They were most 
 discouraging. He found that for the sixteen years 
 prior to his arrival the only events reported to the 
 department by his predecessors were revolutions 
 and the refusals of successive presidents to con 
 sent to a treaty of extradition. On that point 
 all Amapalans were in accord. Though over-night 
 the government changed hands, though presidents 
 gave way to dictators, and dictators to military 
 governors, the national policy of Amapala con 
 tinued to be "No extradition!" The ill success 
 of those who had preceded him appalled Everett. 
 He had promised himself by a brilliant assault 
 to secure the treaty and claim the legation in 
 Europe. But the record of sixteen years of fail- 
 
 213
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 ure caused him to alter his strategy. Instead 
 of an attack he prepared for a siege. He un 
 packed his books, placed the portrait of his own 
 President over the office desk, and proceeded to 
 make friends with his fellow exiles. 
 
 Of the foreign colony in Camaguay some fifty 
 were Americans, and from the rest of the world 
 they were as hopelessly separated as the crew of 
 a light-ship. From the Pacific they were cut off" 
 by the Cordilleras, from the Caribbean by a nine- 
 day mule-ride. To the north and south, jungle, 
 forests, swamp-lands, and mountains hemmed 
 them in. 
 
 Of the fifty Americans, one-half were constantly 
 on the trail; riding to the coast to visit their plan 
 tations, or into the mountains to inspect their 
 mines. When Everett arrived, of those absent 
 the two most important were Chester Ward and 
 Colonel Goddard. Indeed, so important were 
 these gentlemen that Everett was made to under 
 stand that, until they approved, his recognition 
 as the American minister was in a manner tem 
 porary. 
 
 Chester Ward, or "Chet," as the exiles referred 
 to him, was one of the richest men in Amapala, 
 and was engaged in exploring the ruins of the 
 lost city of Cobre, which was a one-hour ride from 
 
 214
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 the capital. Ward possessed the exclusive right 
 to excavate that buried city and had held it 
 against all comers. The offers of American uni 
 versities, of archaeological and geographical so 
 cieties that also wished to dig up the ancient 
 city and decipher the hieroglyphs on her walls, 
 were met with a curt rebuff. That work, the 
 government of Amapala would reply, was in the 
 trained hands of Senor Chester Ward. In his 
 chosen effort the government would not disturb 
 him, nor would it permit others coming in at the 
 eleventh hour to rob him of his glory. This 
 Everett learned from the consul, Garland. 
 
 "Ward and Colonel Goddard," the consul ex 
 plained, "are two of five countrymen of ours who 
 run the American colony, and, some say, run the 
 government. The others are Mellen, who has the 
 asphalt monopoly; Jackson, who is building the 
 railroads, and Major Feiberger, of the San Jose 
 silver-mines. They hold monopolies and pay 
 President Mendoza ten per cent of the earnings, 
 and, on the side, help him run the country. Of 
 the five, the Amapalans love Goddard best, be 
 cause he's not trying to rob them. Instead, he 
 wants to boost Amapala. His ideas are perfectly 
 impracticable, but he doesn't know that, and 
 neither do they. He's a kind of Colonel Mulberry 
 
 215
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 Sellers and a Southerner. Not the professional 
 sort, that fight elevator-boys because they're 
 colored, and let off rebel yells in rathskellers when 
 a Hungarian band plays 'Dixie,' but the sort you 
 read about and so seldom see. He was once State 
 Treasurer of Alabama." 
 
 "What's he doing down here?" asked the min 
 ister. 
 
 "Never the same thing two months together," 
 the consul told him; "railroads, mines, rubber. 
 He says all Amapala needs is developing." 
 
 As men who can see a joke even when it is 
 against themselves, the two exiles smiled ruefully. 
 
 "That's all it needs," said Everett. 
 
 For a moment the consul regarded him thought 
 fully. 
 
 "I might as well tell you," he said, "you'll 
 learn it soon enough anyway, that the men who 
 will keep you from getting your treaty are these 
 five, especially old man Goddard and Ward." 
 
 Everett exclaimed indignantly: 
 
 "Why should they interfere?" 
 
 "Because," explained the consul, "they are 
 fugitives from justice, and they don't want to go 
 home. Ward is wanted for forgery or some polite 
 crime, I don't know which. And Colonel God 
 dard for appropriating the State funds of Alabama. 
 
 216
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 Ward knew what he was doing and made a lot 
 out of it. He's still rich. No one's weeping over 
 him. Goddard's case is different. He was im 
 posed on and made a catspaw. When he was 
 State treasurer the men who appointed him came 
 to him one night and said they must have some of 
 the State's funds to show a bank examiner in the 
 morning. They appealed to him on the ground 
 of friendship, as the men who'd given him his job. 
 They would return the money the next evening. 
 Goddard believed they would. They didn't, and 
 when some one called for a show-down the colonel 
 was shy about fifty thousand dollars of the State's 
 money. He lost his head, took the boat out of 
 Mobile to Porto Cortez, and hid here. He's been 
 here twenty years and all the Amapalans love 
 him. He's the adopted father of their country. 
 They're so afraid he'll be taken back and punished 
 that they'll never consent to an extradition treaty 
 even if the other Americans, Mellen, Jackson, 
 and Feiberger, weren't paying them big money 
 not to consent. President Mendoza himself told 
 me that as long as Colonel Goddard honored his 
 country by remaining in it, he was his guest, and 
 he would never agree to extradition. 'I could as 
 soon/ he said, 'sign his death-warrant." : 
 Everett grinned dismally. 
 217
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 "That's rather nice of them," he said, "but it's 
 hard on me. But," he demanded, "why Ward? 
 What has he done for Amapala? Is it because 
 of Cobre, because of his services as an archae 
 ologist ? " 
 
 The consul glanced around the patio and 
 dragged his chair nearer to Everett. 
 
 "This is my own dope," he whispered; "it 
 may be wrong. Anyway, it's only for your pri 
 vate information." 
 
 He waited until, with a smile, Everett agreed to 
 secrecy. 
 
 "Chet Ward," protested the consul, "is no 
 more an archaeologist than I am! He talks well 
 about Cobre, and he ought to, because every word 
 he speaks is cribbed straight from Hauptmann's 
 monograph, published in 1855. And he has dug 
 up something at Cobre; something worth a darned 
 sight more than stone monkeys and carved altars. 
 But his explorations are a bluff. They're a blind 
 to cover up what he's really after; what I think 
 he's found!" 
 
 As though wishing to be urged, the young man 
 paused, and Everett nodded for him to continue. 
 He was wondering whether life in Amapala might 
 not turn out to be more interesting than at first 
 it had appeared, or whether Garland was not a 
 most charming liar. 
 
 218
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 "Ward visits the ruins every month," con 
 tinued Garland. "But he takes with him only 
 two mule-drivers to cook and look after the pack- 
 train, and he doesn't let even the drivers inside 
 the ruins. He remains at Cobre three or four 
 days and, to make a show, fills his saddle-bags 
 with broken tiles and copper ornaments. He 
 turns them over to the government, and it dumps 
 them in the back yard of the palace. You can't 
 persuade me that he holds his concession with 
 that junk. He's found something else at Cobre 
 and he shares it with Mendoza, and I believe it's 
 gold." 
 
 The minister smiled delightedly. 
 
 "What kind of gold?" 
 
 "Maybe in the rough," said the consul. "But 
 I prefer to think it's treasure. The place is full 
 of secret chambers, tombs, and passageways cut 
 through the rock, deep under the surface. I be 
 lieve Ward has stumbled on some vault where the 
 priests used to hide their loot. I believe he's get 
 ting it out bit by bit and going shares with Men 
 doza." 
 
 "If that were so," ventured Everett, "why 
 wouldn't Mendoza take it all?" 
 
 "Because Ward," explained the consul, "is the 
 only one who knows where it is. The ruins cover 
 two square miles. You might search for years. 
 
 219
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 They tried to follow and spy on him, but Ward 
 was too clever for them. He turned back at 
 once. If they don't take what he gives, they 
 get nothing. So they protect him from real ex 
 plorers and from extradition. The whole thing is 
 unfair. A real archaeologist turned up here a 
 month ago. He had letters from the Smithsonian 
 Institute and several big officials at Washington, 
 but do you suppose they would let him so much as 
 smell of Cobre? Not they! Not even when I 
 spoke for him as consul. Then he appealed to 
 Ward, and Ward turned him down hard. You 
 were arriving, so he's hung on here hoping you 
 may have more influence. His name is Peabody; 
 he's a professor, but he's young and full of 'get 
 there,' and he knows more about the ruins of 
 Cobre now than Ward does after having them all 
 to himself for two years. He's good people and 
 I hope you'll help him." 
 
 Everett shook his head doubtfully. 
 
 "If the government has given the concession 
 to him," he pointed out, "no matter who Ward 
 may be, or what its motives were for giving it to 
 him, I can't ask it to break its promise. As an 
 American citizen Ward is as much entitled to my 
 help officially as Professor Peabody, whatever 
 his standing." 
 
 220
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 "Ward's a forger," protested Garland, "a fugi 
 tive from justice; and Peabody is a scholar and 
 a gentleman. I'm not keen about dead cities my 
 self this one we're in now is dead enough for me 
 but if civilization is demanding to know what 
 Cobre was like eight hundred years ago, civiliza 
 tion is entitled to find out, and Peabody seems 
 the man for the job. It's a shame to turn him 
 down for a gang of grafters." 
 
 "Tell him to come and talk to me," said the 
 minister. 
 
 "He rode over to the ruins of Copan last week," 
 explained Garland, "where the Harvard expedi 
 tion is. But he's coming back to-morrow on pur 
 pose to see you." 
 
 The consul had started toward the door when 
 he suddenly returned. 
 
 "And there's some one else coming to see you," 
 he said. "Some one," he added anxiously, "you 
 want to treat right. That's Monica Ward. She's 
 Chester Ward's sister, and you mustn't get her 
 mixed up with anything I told you about her 
 brother. She's coming to ask you to help start a 
 Red Cross Society. She was a volunteer nurse in 
 the hospital in the last two revolutions, and what 
 she saw makes her want to be sure she won't see 
 it again. She's taught the native ladies the 'first 
 
 221
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 aid' drill, and they expect you to be honorary 
 president of the society. You'd better accept." 
 
 Shaking his head, Garland smiled pityingly 
 upon the new minister. 
 
 "You've got a swell chance to get your treaty," 
 he declared. "Monica is another one who will 
 prevent it." 
 
 Everett sighed patiently. 
 
 "What," he demanded, "might her particular 
 crime be; murder, shoplifting, treason " 
 
 "If her brother had to leave this country," 
 interrupted Garland, "she'd leave with him. And 
 the people don't want that. Her pull is the same 
 as old man Goddard's. Everybody loves him 
 and everybody loves her. I love her," exclaimed 
 the consul cheerfully; "the President loves her, 
 the Sisters in the hospital, the chain-gang in the 
 street, the washerwomen in the river, the palace 
 guard, everybody in this flea-bitten, God-for 
 saken country loves Monica Ward and when you 
 meet her you will, too." 
 
 Garland had again reached the door to the 
 outer hall before Everett called him back. 
 
 "If it is not a leading question," asked the 
 minister, "what little indiscretion in your life 
 brought you to Amapala?" 
 
 Garland grinned appreciatively. 
 
 222
 
 'You mustn't get her mixed up with anything I told you 
 about her brother"
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 "I know they sound a queer lot," he assented, 
 "but when you get to know 'em, you like 'em. 
 My own trouble," he added, "was a horse. I 
 never could see why they made such a fuss about 
 him. He was lame when I took him." 
 
 Disregarding Garland's pleasantry, for some 
 time His Excellency sat with his hands clasped 
 behind his head, frowning up from the open patio 
 into the hot cloudless sky. On the ridge of his 
 tiled roof a foul buzzard blinked at him from red- 
 rimmed eyes, across the yellow wall a lizard ran 
 for shelter, at his elbow a macaw compassing the 
 circle of its tin prison muttered dreadful oaths. 
 Outside, as the washerwomen beat their linen 
 clubs upon the flat rocks of the river, the hot stale 
 air was spanked with sharp reports. In Cama- 
 guay theirs was the only industry, the only sign 
 of cleanliness; and recognizing that another shirt 
 had been thrashed into subjection and rags, Ever 
 ett winced. No less visibly did his own thoughts 
 cause him to wince. Garland he had forgotten, 
 and he was sunk deep in self-pity. His thoughts 
 were of London, with its world politics, its splen 
 did traditions, its great and gracious ladies; of 
 Paris in the spring sunshine, when he cantered 
 through the Bois; of Madrid, with its pomp and 
 royalty, and the gray walls of its galleries pro- 
 
 223
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 claiming Murillo and Velasquez. These things 
 he had forsaken because he believed he was am 
 bitious; and behold into what a cul-de-sac his 
 ambition had led him! A comic-opera country 
 that was not comic, but dead and buried from the 
 world; a savage people, unread, unenlightened, 
 unclean; and for society of his countrymen, 
 pitiful derelicts in hiding from the law. In 
 his soul he rebelled. In words he exploded bit 
 terly. 
 
 "This is one hell of a hole, Garland," cried the 
 diplomat. His jaws and his eyes hardened. "I'm 
 going back to Europe. And the only way I can 
 go is to get that treaty. I was sent here to get 
 it. Those were my orders. And I'll get it if I 
 have to bribe them out of my own pocket; if I 
 have to outbid Mr. Ward, and send him and your 
 good Colonel Goddard and all the rest of the crew 
 to the jails where they belong!" 
 
 Garland heard him without emotion. From 
 long residence near the equator he diagnosed the 
 outbreak as a case of tropic choler, aggravated by 
 nostalgia and fleas. 
 
 "I'll bet you don't," he said. 
 
 "I'll bet you your passage-money home," 
 shouted Everett, "against my passage-money to 
 Europe." 
 
 224
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 "Done!" said Garland. "How much time do 
 you want two years ? " 
 
 The diplomat exclaimed mockingly: 
 
 "Two months!" 
 
 "I win now," said the consul. "I'll go home 
 and pack." 
 
 The next morning his clerk told Everett that 
 in the outer office Monica Ward awaited him. 
 
 Overnight Everett had developed a prejudice 
 against Miss Ward. What Garland had said in 
 her favor had only driven him the wrong way. 
 Her universal popularity he disliked. He argued 
 that to gain popularity one must concede and 
 capitulate. He felt that the sister of an ac 
 knowledged crook, no matter how innocent she 
 might be, were she a sensitive woman, would wish 
 to efface herself. And he had found that, as a rule, 
 women who worked in hospitals and organized 
 societies bored him. He did not admire the mil 
 itant, executive sister. He pictured Miss Ward 
 as probably pretty, but with the coquettish ef 
 frontery of the village belle and with the pushing, 
 "good-fellow" manners of the new school. He 
 was prepared either to have her slap him on the 
 back or, from behind tilted eye-glasses, make eyes 
 at him. He was sure she wore eye-glasses, and 
 was large, plump, and Junoesque. With reluc- 
 
 225
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 tance he entered the outer office. He saw, all in 
 white, a girl so young that she was hardly more 
 than a child, but with the tall, slim figure of a boy. 
 Her face was lovely as the face of a violet, and her 
 eyes were as shy. But shy not through lack of 
 confidence in Everett, nor in any human being, 
 but in herself. They seemed to say, "I am a very 
 unworthy, somewhat frightened young person; 
 but you, who are so big and generous, will over 
 look that, and you are going to be my friend. 
 Indeed, I see you are my friend." 
 
 Everett stood quite still. He nodded gloomily. 
 
 "Garland was right," he exclaimed; "I do!" 
 
 The young lady was plainly distressed. 
 
 "Do what?" she stammered. 
 
 "Some day I will tell you," said the young man. 
 "Yes," he added, without shame, "I am afraid I 
 will." He bowed her into the inner office. 
 
 "I am sorry," apologized Monica, "but I am 
 come to ask a favor two favors; one of you and 
 one of the American minister." 
 
 Everett drew his armchair from his desk and 
 waved Monica into it. 
 
 "I was sent here," he said, "to do exactly what 
 you want. The last words the President ad 
 dressed to me were, 'On arriving at your post 
 report to Miss Monica Ward.' " 
 
 226
 
 "Some day I will tell you," said the young man
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 Fearfully, Monica perched herself on the edge 
 of the armchair; as though for protection she 
 clasped the broad table before her. 
 
 "The favor I want," she hastily assured him, 
 "is not for myself." 
 
 "I am sorry," said Everett, "for it is already 
 granted." 
 
 "You are very good,*' protested Monica. 
 
 "No," replied Everett, "I am only powerful. 
 I represent ninety-five million Americans, and they 
 are all entirely at your service. So is the army 
 and navy." 
 
 Monica smiled and shook her head. The awe 
 she felt was due an American minister was rap 
 idly disappearing, and in Mr. Everett himself 
 her confidence was increasing. The other minis 
 ters plenipotentiary she had seen at Camaguay 
 had been old, with beards like mountain-goats, and 
 had worn linen dusters. They always were very 
 red in the face and very damp. Monica decided 
 Mr. Everett also was old; she was sure he must be 
 at least thirty-five; but in his silk pongee and 
 pipe-clayed tennis-shoes he was a refreshing spec 
 tacle. Just to look at him turned one quite cool. 
 
 "We have a very fine line of battle-ships this 
 morning at Guantanamo," urged Everett; "if 
 you want one I'll cable for it." 
 
 227
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 Monica laughed softly. It was good to hear 
 nonsense spoken. The Amapalans had never 
 learned it, and her brother said just what he meant 
 and no more. 
 
 "Our sailors were here once," Monica volun 
 teered. She wanted Mr. Everett to know he was 
 not entirely cut off from the world. "During the 
 revolution," she explained. "We were so glad 
 to see them; they made us all feel nearer home. 
 They set up our flag in the plaza, and the color- 
 guard let me photograph it, with them guarding 
 it. And when they marched away the archbishop 
 stood on the cathedral steps and blessed them, 
 and we rode out along the trail to where it comes 
 to the jungle. And then we waved good-by, and 
 they cheered us. We all cried." 
 
 For a moment, quite unconsciously, Monica 
 gave an imitation of how they all cried. It made 
 the appeal of the violet eyes even more disturb 
 ing. 
 
 "Don't you love our sailors?" begged Monica. 
 
 Fearful of hurting the feelings of others, she 
 added hastily, "And, of course, our marines, too." 
 
 Everett assured her if there was one thing that 
 meant more to him than all else, it was an Amer 
 ican bluejacket, and next to him an American 
 leatherneck. 
 
 228
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 It took a long time to arrange the details of the 
 Red Cross Society. In spite of his reputation 
 for brilliancy, it seemed to Monica Mr. Everett 
 had a mind that plodded. For his benefit it was 
 necessary several times to repeat the most simple 
 proposition. She was sure his inability to fasten 
 his attention on her League of Mercy was because 
 his brain was occupied with problems of state. 
 It made her feel selfish and guilty. ' When his 
 visitor decided that to explain further was but to 
 waste his valuable time and had made her third 
 effort to go, Everett went with her. He suggested 
 that she take him to the hospital and introduce 
 him to the sisters. He wanted to talk to them 
 about the Red Cross League. It was a charming 
 walk. Every one lifted his hat to Monica; the 
 beggars, the cab-drivers, the barefooted police 
 men, and the social lights of Camaguay on the 
 sidewalks in front of the cafes rose and bowed. 
 
 "It is like walking with royalty!" exclaimed 
 Everett. 
 
 While at the hospital he talked to the Mother 
 Superior, his eyes followed Monica. As she 
 moved from cot to cot he noted how the younger 
 sisters fluttered happily around her, like brides 
 maids around a bride, and how as she passed, the 
 eyes of those in the cots followed her jealously, 
 
 229
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 and after she had spoken with them smiled in 
 content. 
 
 "She is good," the Mother Superior was saying, 
 "and her brother, too, is very good." 
 
 Everett had forgotten the brother. With a 
 start he lifted his eyes and found the Mother Su 
 perior regarding him. 
 
 "He is very good," she repeated. "For us, he 
 built this wing of the hospital. It was his money. 
 We should be very sorry if any harm came to Mr. 
 Ward. Without his help we would starve." She 
 smiled, and with a gesture signified the sick. "I 
 mean they would starve; they would die of dis 
 ease and fever." The woman fixed upon him 
 grave, inscrutable eyes. "Will Your Excellency 
 remember?" she said. It was less of a question 
 than a command. "Where the church can for 
 give " she paused. 
 
 Like a real diplomat Everett sought refuge in 
 mere words. 
 
 "The church is all-powerful, Mother," he said. 
 "Her power to forgive is her strongest weapon. 
 I have no such power. It lies beyond my au 
 thority. I am just a messenger-boy carrying the 
 wishes of the government of one country to the 
 government of another." 
 
 The face of the Mother Superior remained 
 grave, but undisturbed. 
 
 230
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 "Then, as regards our Mr. Ward," she said, 
 "the wishes of your government are 
 
 Again she paused; again it was less of a ques 
 tion than a command. With interest Everett 
 gazed at the whitewashed ceiling. 
 
 "I have not yet," he said, "communicated 
 them to any one." 
 
 That night, after dinner in the patio, he reported 
 to Garland the words of the Mother Superior. 
 
 "That was my dream, Prophet," concluded 
 Everett, "you who can read this land of lotus- 
 eaters, interpret! What does it mean?" 
 
 "It only means what I've been telling you," 
 said the consul. "It means that if you're going 
 after that treaty, you've only got to fight the 
 Catholic Church. That's all it means!" 
 
 Later in the evening Garland said: "I saw you 
 this morning crossing the plaza with Monica. 
 When I told you everybody in this town loved 
 her, was I right?" 
 
 "Absolutely!" assented Everett. "But why 
 didn't you tell me she was a flapper?" 
 
 "I don't know what a flapper is," promptly re 
 torted Garland. "And if I did, I wouldn't call 
 Monica one." 
 
 "A flapper is a very charming person," pro 
 tested Everett. "I used the term in its most 
 complimentary sense. It means a girl between 
 
 231
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 fourteen and eighteen. It's English slang, and 
 in England at the present the flapper is very pop 
 ular. She is driving her sophisticated elder sister, 
 who has been out two or three seasons, and the 
 predatory married woman to the wall. To men 
 of my years the flapper is really at the dangerous 
 age." ' 
 
 In his bamboo chair Garland tossed violently 
 and snorted. 
 
 "I sized you up," he cried, "as a man of the 
 finest perceptions. I was wrong. You don't ap 
 preciate Monica! Dangerous! You might as well 
 say God's sunshine is dangerous, or a beautiful 
 flower is dangerous." 
 
 Everett shook his head at the other man re 
 proachfully: 
 
 "Did you ever hear of a sunstroke?" he de 
 manded. "Don't you know if you smell certain 
 beautiful flowers you die? Can't you grasp any 
 other kind of danger than being run down by a 
 trolley-car? Is the danger of losing one's peace 
 of mind nothing, of being unfaithful to duty> 
 nothing! Is " 
 
 Garland raised his arms. 
 
 "Don't shoot!" he begged. "I apologize. 
 You do appreciate Monica. You have your con 
 sul's permission to walk with her again." 
 
 232
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 The next day young Professor Peabody called 
 and presented his letters. He was a forceful 
 young man to whom the delays of diplomacy did 
 not appeal, and one apparently accustomed to 
 riding off whatever came in his way. He seemed 
 to consider any one who opposed him, or who 
 even disagreed with his conclusions, as offering a 
 personal affront. With indignation he launched 
 into his grievance. 
 
 "These people," he declared, "are dogs in the 
 manger, and Ward is the worst of the lot. He 
 knows no more of archaeology than a congressman. 
 The man's a fakir! He showed me a spear-head 
 of obsidian and called it flint; and he said the 
 Aztecs borrowed from the Mayas, and that the 
 Toltecs were a myth. And he got the Aztec solar 
 calendar mixed with the Ahau. He's as ignorant 
 as that." 
 
 "I can't believe it!" exclaimed Everett. 
 
 "You may laugh," protested the professor, 
 <k but the ruins of Cobre hold secrets the students 
 of two continents are trying to solve. They hide 
 the history of a lost race, and I submit it's not 
 proper one man should keep that knowledge from 
 the world, certainly not for a few gold armlets ! " 
 
 Everett raised his eyes. 
 
 "What makes you say that?" he demanded. 
 233
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 "I've been kicking my heels in this town for a 
 month," Peabody told him, "and I've talked to 
 the people here, and to the Harvard expedition 
 at Copan, and everybody tells me this fellow 
 has found treasure." The archaeologist exclaimed 
 with indignation: "What's gold," he snorted, 
 "compared to the discovery of a lost race?" 
 
 "I applaud your point of view," Everett as 
 sured him. "I am to see the President to-morrow, 
 and I will lay the matter before him. I'll ask 
 him to give you a look in." 
 
 To urge his treaty of extradition was the rea 
 son for the audience with the President, and with 
 all the courtesy that a bad case demanded Men- 
 doza protested against it. He pointed out that 
 governments entered into treaties only when the 
 ensuing benefits were mutual. For Amapala in 
 a treaty of extradition he saw no benefit. Ama 
 pala was not so far "advanced" as to produce 
 defaulting bank presidents, get-rich-quick pro 
 moters, counterfeiters, and thieving cashiers. 
 Her fugitives were revolutionists who had fought 
 and lost, and every one was glad to have them go, 
 and no one wanted them back. 
 
 "Or," suggested the President, "suppose I am 
 turned out by a revolution, and I seek asylum in 
 your country ? My enemies desire my life. They 
 
 would ask for my extradition " 
 
 234
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 "If the offence were political," Everett cor 
 rected, "my government would surrender no 
 one." 
 
 "But my enemies would charge me with mur 
 der," explained the President. "Remember Cas 
 tro. And by the terms of the treaty your govern 
 ment would be forced to surrender me. And I am 
 shot against the wall." The president shrugged 
 his shoulders. "That treaty would not be nice 
 forme!" 
 
 "Consider the matter as a patriot," said the 
 diplomat. "Is it good that the criminals of my 
 country should make their home in yours ? When 
 you are so fortunate as to have no dishonest men 
 of your own, why import ours? We don't seek 
 the individual. We want to punish him only as 
 a warning to others. And we want the money 
 he takes with him. Often it is the savings of the 
 very poor." 
 
 The President frowned. It was apparent that 
 both the subject and Everett bored him. 
 
 "I name no names," exclaimed Mendoza, "but 
 to those who come here we owe the little railroads 
 we possess. They develop our mines and our 
 coffee plantations. In time they will make this 
 country very modern, very rich. And some you 
 call criminals we have learned to love. Their 
 
 235
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 past does not concern us. We shut our ears. We 
 do not spy. They have come to us as to a sanc 
 tuary, and so long as they claim the right of 
 sanctuary, I will not violate it." 
 
 As Everett emerged from the cool, dark halls 
 of the palace into the glare of the plaza he was 
 scowling; and he acknowledged the salute of the 
 palace guard as though those gentlemen had of 
 fered him an insult. 
 
 Garland was waiting in front of a cafe and 
 greeted him with a mocking grin. 
 
 "Congratulations," he shouted. 
 
 "I have still twenty-two days," said Everett. 
 
 The aristocracy of Camaguay invited the new 
 minister to formal dinners of eighteen courses, and 
 to picnics less formal. These latter Everett greatly 
 enjoyed, because while Monica Ward was too 
 young to attend the state dinners, she was exactly 
 the proper age for the all-day excursions to the 
 waterfalls, the coffee plantations, and the asphalt 
 lakes. The native belles of Camaguay took no 
 pleasure in riding farther afield than the military 
 parade-ground. Climbing a trail so steep that 
 you viewed the sky between the ears of your pony, 
 or where with both hands you forced a way through 
 hanging vines and creepers, did not appeal. But 
 to Monica, with the seat and balance of a cowboy, 
 
 236
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 riding astride, with her leg straight and the ball 
 of her foot just feeling the stirrup, these expedi 
 tions were the happiest moments in her exile. 
 So were they to Everett; and that on the trail 
 one could ride only in single file was a most poig 
 nant regret. In the column the place of honor 
 was next to whoever rode at the head, but Everett 
 relinquished this position in favor of Monica. By 
 this manoeuvre she always was in his sight, and 
 he could call upon her to act as his guide and to 
 explain what lay on either hand. His delight and 
 wonder in her grew daily. He found that her 
 mind leaped instantly and with gratitude to what 
 ever was most fair. Just out of reach of her 
 pony's hoofs he pressed his own pony forward, 
 and she pointed out to him what in the tropic 
 abundance about them she found most beauti 
 ful. Sometimes it was the tumbling waters of a 
 cataract; sometimes, high in the topmost branches 
 of a ceiba-tree, a gorgeous orchid; sometimes 
 a shaft of sunshine as rigid as a search-light, 
 piercing the shadow of the jungle. At first she 
 would turn in the saddle and call to him, but as 
 each day they grew to know each other better she 
 need only point with her whip-hand and he would 
 answer "Yes," and each knew the other under 
 stood. 
 
 237
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 As a body, the exiles resented Everett. They 
 knew his purpose in regard to the treaty, and for 
 them he always must be the enemy. Even though 
 as a man they might like him, they could not for 
 get that his presence threatened their peace and 
 safety. Chester Ward treated him with impeccable 
 politeness; but, although his house was the show- 
 place of Camaguay, he never invited the American 
 minister to cross the threshold. On account of 
 Monica, Everett regretted this and tried to keep 
 the relations of her brother and himself outwardly 
 pleasant. But Ward made it difficult. To no 
 one was his manner effusive, and for Monica only 
 he seemed to hold any real feeling. The two were 
 alone in the world; he was her only relative, and 
 to the orphan he had been father and mother. 
 When she was a child he had bought her toys and 
 dolls; now, had the sisters permitted, he would 
 have dressed her in imported frocks, and with 
 jewels killed her loveliness. He seemed to under 
 stand how to spend his money as little as did the 
 gossips of Camaguay understand from whence it 
 came. 
 
 That Monica knew why her brother lived in 
 Camaguay Everett was uncertain. She did not 
 complain of living there, but she was not at rest, 
 and constantly she was asking Everett of foreign 
 
 238
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 lands. As Everett was homesick for them, he 
 was most eloquent. 
 
 "I should like to see them for myself," said 
 Monica, "but until my brother's work here is 
 finished we must wait. And I am young, and 
 after a few years Europe will be just as old. When 
 my brother leaves Amapala, he promises to take 
 me wherever I ask to go: to London, to Paris, to 
 Rome. So I read and read of them; books of 
 history, books about painting, books about the 
 cathedrals. But the more I read the more I want 
 to go at once, and that is disloyal.'* 
 
 "Disloyal?" asked Everett. 
 
 "To my brother," explained Monica. "He 
 does so much for me. I should think only of his 
 work. That is all that really counts. For the 
 world is waiting to learn what he has discovered. 
 It is like having a brother go in search of the North 
 Pole. You are proud of what he is doing, but you 
 want him back to keep him to yourself. Is that 
 selfish ?" 
 
 Everett was a trained diplomat, but with his 
 opinion of Chester Ward he could not think of the 
 answer. Instead, he was thinking of Monica in 
 Europe; of taking her through the churches and 
 galleries which she had seen only in black and 
 white. He imagined himself at her side facing 
 
 239
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 the altar of some great cathedral, or some paint 
 ing in the Louvre, and watching her face lighten 
 and the tears come to her eyes, as they did now, 
 when things that were beautiful hurt her. Or he 
 imagined her rid of her half-mourning and accom 
 panying him through a cyclonic diplomatic career 
 that carried them to Japan, China, Persia; to 
 Berlin, Paris, and London. In these imaginings 
 Monica appeared in pongee and a sun-hat riding 
 an elephant, in pearls and satin receiving royalty, 
 in tweed knickerbockers and a woollen jersey 
 coasting around the hairpin curve at Saint 
 Moritz. 
 
 Of course he recognized that except as his wife 
 Monica could not accompany him to all these 
 strange lands and high diplomatic posts. And 
 of course that was ridiculous. He had made up 
 his mind for the success of what he called his 
 career, that he was too young to marry; but he 
 was sure, should he propose to marry Monica, 
 every one would say he was too old. And there 
 was another consideration. What of the brother? 
 Would his government send him to a foreign post 
 when his wife was the sister of a man they had 
 just sent to the penitentiary? 
 
 He could hear them say in London, "We know 
 your first secretary, but who is Mrs. Everett?" 
 
 240
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 And the American visitor would explain: "She 
 is the sister of 'Inky Dink,' the forger. He is 
 bookkeeping in Sing Sing." 
 
 Certainly it would be a handicap. He tried to 
 persuade himself that Monica so entirely filled his 
 thoughts because in Camaguay there was no one 
 else; it was a case of propinquity; her loneliness 
 and the fact that she lay under a shadow for which 
 she was not to blame appealed to his chivalry. 
 So, he told himself, in thinking of Monica except 
 as a charming companion, he was an ass. And 
 then, arguing that in calling himself an ass he had 
 shown his saneness and impartiality, he felt justi 
 fied in seeing her daily. 
 
 One morning Garland came to the legation to 
 tell Everett that Peabody was in danger of bring 
 ing about international complications by having 
 himself thrust into the cartel. 
 
 "If he qualifies for this local jail," said Garland, 
 "you will have a lot of trouble setting him free. 
 You'd better warn him it's easier to keep out than 
 to get out." 
 
 "What has he been doing?" asked the minister. 
 
 "Poaching on Ward's ruins," said the consul. 
 "He certainly is a hustler. He pretends to go to 
 Copan, but really goes to Cobre. Ward had him 
 followed and threatened to have him arrested. 
 
 241
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 Peabody claims any tourist has a right to visit 
 the ruins so long as he does no excavating. Ward 
 accused him of exploring the place by night and 
 taking photographs by flash-light of the hiero 
 glyphs. He's put an armed guard at the ruins, 
 and he told Peabody they are to shoot on sight. 
 So Peabody went to Mendoza and said if anybody 
 took a shot at him he'd bring war-ships down here 
 and blow Amapala off the map." 
 
 "A militant archaeologist," said Everett, "is 
 something new. Peabody is too enthusiastic. 
 He and his hieroglyphs are becoming a bore." 
 
 He sent for Peabody and told him unless he 
 curbed his spirit his minister could not promise 
 to keep him out of a very damp and dirty dun 
 geon. 
 
 "I am too enthusiastic," Peabody admitted, 
 "but to me this fellow Ward is like a red flag to 
 the bull. His private graft is holding up the 
 whole scientific world. He won't let us learn the 
 truth, and he's too ignorant to learn it himself. 
 Why, he told me Cobre dated from 1578 when 
 Palacio wrote of it to Philip the Second, not know 
 ing that in that very letter Palacio states that he 
 found Cobre in ruins. Is it right a man as igno 
 rant " 
 
 Everett interrupted by levelling his finger. 
 242
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 "You," he commanded, "keep out of those 
 ruins! My dear professor," he continued re 
 proachfully, "you are a student, a man of peace. 
 Don't try to wage war on these Amapalans. 
 They're lawless, they're unscrupulous. So is 
 Ward. Besides, you are in the wrong, and if they 
 turn ugly, your minister cannot help you." He 
 shook his head and smiled doubtfully. "I can't 
 understand," he exclaimed, "why you're so keen. 
 It's only a heap of broken pottery. Sometimes 
 I wonder if your interest in Cobre is that only of 
 the archaeologist." 
 
 "What other interest " demanded Peabody. 
 
 "Doesn't Ward's buried treasure appeal at all?" 
 asked the minister. "I mean, of course, to your 
 imagination. It does to mine." 
 
 The young professor laughed tolerantly. 
 
 "Buried treasure!" he exclaimed. "If Ward 
 has found treasure, and I think he has, he's wel 
 come to it. What we want is what you call the 
 broken pottery. It means nothing to you, but 
 to men like myself, who live eight hundred years 
 behind the times, it is much more precious than 
 gold." 
 
 A few moments later Professor Peabody took 
 his leave, and it was not until he had turned the 
 corner of the Calle Morazan that he halted and, 
 
 243
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 like a man emerging from water, drew a deep 
 breath. 
 
 "Gee!" muttered the distinguished archaeolo 
 gist, "that was a close call!" 
 
 One or two women had loved Everett, and after 
 five weeks, in which almost daily he had seen 
 Monica, he knew she cared for him. This dis 
 covery made him entirely happy and filled him 
 with dismay. It was a complication he had not 
 foreseen. It left him at the parting of two ways, 
 one of which he must choose. For his career he 
 was willing to renounce marriage, but now that 
 Monica loved him, even though he had consciously 
 not tried to make her love him, had he the right 
 to renounce it for her also? He knew that the 
 difference between Monica and his career lay in 
 the fact that he loved Monica and was in love 
 with his career. Which should he surrender? 
 Of this he thought long and deeply, until one night, 
 without thinking at all, he chose. 
 
 Colonel Goddard had given a dance, and, as all 
 invited were Americans, the etiquette was less 
 formal than at the gatherings of the Amapalans. 
 For one thing, the minister and Monica were able 
 to sit on the veranda overlooking the garden with 
 out his having to fight a duel in the morning. 
 
 It was not the moonlight, or the music, or the 
 244
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 palms that made Everett speak. It was simply 
 the knowledge that it was written, that it had to 
 be. And he heard himself, without prelude or 
 introduction, talking easily and assuredly of the 
 life they would lead as man and wife. From this 
 dream Monica woke him. The violet eyes were 
 smiling at him through tears. 
 
 "When you came," said the girl, "and I loved 
 you, I thought that was the greatest happiness. 
 Now that I know you love me I ask nothing more. 
 And I can bear it." 
 
 Everett felt as though an icy finger had moved 
 swiftly down his spine. He pretended not to 
 understand. 
 
 "Bear what?" he demanded roughly. 
 
 "That I cannot marry you," said the girl. 
 "Even had you not asked me, in loving you I 
 would have been happy. Now that I know you 
 thought of me as your wife, I am proud. I am 
 grateful. And the obstacle " 
 
 Everett laughed scornfully. 
 
 "There is no obstacle." 
 
 Monica shook her head. Unafraid, she looked 
 into his eyes, her own filled with her love for him. 
 
 "Don't make it harder," she said. "My 
 brother is hiding from the law. What he did I 
 don't know. When it happened I was at the con- 
 
 245
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 vent, and he did not send for me until he had 
 reached Amapala. I never asked why we came, 
 but were I to marry you, with your name and your 
 position, every one else would ask. And the scan 
 dal would follow you; wherever you went it would 
 follow; it would put an end to your career." 
 
 His career, now that Monica urged it as her 
 rival, seemed to Everett particularly trivial. 
 
 "I don't know what your brother did either," 
 he said. "His sins are on his own head. They're 
 not on yours, not on mine. I don't judge him; 
 neither do I intend to let him spoil my happiness. 
 Now that I have found you I will never let you 
 
 go/' 
 
 Sadly Monica shook her head and smiled. 
 
 "When you leave here," she said, "for some 
 new post, you won't forget me, but you'll be grate 
 ful that I let you go alone; that I was not a drag 
 on you. When you go back to your great people 
 and your proud and beautiful princesses, all this 
 will seem a strange dream, and you will be glad 
 you are awake and free." 
 
 "The idea of marrying you, Monica," said 
 Everett, "is not new. It did not occur to me only 
 since we moved out here into the moonlight. 
 Since I first saw you I've thought of you, and 
 only of you. I've thought of you with me in 
 
 1246
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 every corner of the globe, as my wife, my sweet 
 heart, my partner, riding through jungles as we 
 ride here, sitting opposite me at our own table, 
 putting the proud and beautiful princesses at their 
 ease. And in all places, at all moments, you 
 make all other women tawdry and absurd. And 
 I don't think you are the most wonderful person 
 I ever met because I love you, but I love you be 
 cause you are the most wonderful person I ever 
 met." 
 
 "I am young," said Monica, "but since I began 
 to love you I am very old. And I see clearly that 
 it cannot be." 
 
 "Dear heart," cried Everett, "that is quite 
 morbid. What the devil do I care what your 
 brother has done! I am not marrying your 
 brother." 
 
 For a long time, leaning forward with her 
 elbows on her knees and her face buried in her 
 hands, the girl sat silent. It was as though she 
 were praying. Everett knew it was not of him, 
 but of her brother, she was thinking, and his heart 
 ached for her. For him to cut the brother out of 
 his life was not difficult; what it meant to her he 
 could guess. 
 
 When the girl raised her eyes they were elo 
 quent with distress. 
 
 247
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 "He has been so good to me," she said; "always 
 so gentle. He has been mother and father to me. 
 He is the first person I can remember. When I 
 was a child he put me to bed, he dressed me, and 
 comforted me. When we became rich there was 
 nothing he did not wish to give me. I cannot 
 leave him. He needs me more than ever I needed 
 him. I am all he has. And there is this besides. 
 Were I to marry, of all the men in the world it 
 would be harder for him if I married you. For if 
 you succeed in what you came here to do, the law 
 will punish him, and he will know it was through 
 you he was punished. And even between you 
 and me there always would be that knowledge, 
 that feeling." 
 
 "That is not fair," cried Everett. "I am not 
 an individual fighting less fortunate individuals. 
 I am an insignificant wheel in a great machine. 
 You must not blame me because I " 
 
 With an exclamation the girl reproached him. 
 
 "Because you do your duty!" she protested. 
 " Is that fair to me ? If for my sake or my brother 
 you failed in your duty, if you were less vigilant, 
 less eager, even though we suffer, I could not love 
 you." 
 
 Everett sighed happily. 
 
 "As long as you love me," he said, "neither 
 your brother nor any one else can keep us apart." 
 
 248
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 "My brother," said the girl, as though she were 
 pronouncing a sentence, "always will keep us 
 apart, and I will always love you." 
 
 It was a week before he again saw her, and then 
 the feeling he had read in her eyes was gone or 
 rigorously concealed. Now her manner was that 
 of a friend, of a young girl addressing a man older 
 than herself, one to whom she looked up with 
 respect and liking, but with no sign of any feeling 
 deeper or more intimate. It upset Everett com 
 pletely. When he pleaded with her, she asked : 
 
 "Do you think it is easy for me? But " she 
 protested, "I know I am doing right. I am do 
 ing it to make you happy." 
 
 "You are succeeding," Everett assured her, "in 
 making us both damned miserable." 
 
 For Everett, in the second month of his stay in 
 Amapala, events began to move quickly. Fol 
 lowing the example of two of his predecessors, the 
 Secretary of State of the United States was about 
 to make a grand tour of Central America. He 
 came on a mission of peace and brotherly love, to 
 foster confidence and good-will, and it was secretly 
 hoped that, in the wake of his escort of battle 
 ships, trade would follow fast. There would be 
 salutes and visits of ceremony, speeches, ban 
 quets, reviews. But in these rejoicings Amapala 
 would have no part. 
 
 249
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 For, so Everett was informed by cable, unless, 
 previous to the visit of the Secretary, Amapala 
 fell into line with her sister republics and signed 
 a treaty of extradition, from the itinerary of the 
 great man Amapala would find herself pointedly 
 excluded. It would be a humiliation. In the 
 eyes of her sister republics it would place her out 
 side the pale. Everett saw that in his hands his 
 friend the Secretary had placed a powerful weapon; 
 and lost no time in using it. He caught the 
 President alone, sitting late at his dinner, sur 
 rounded by bottles, and read to him the Secre 
 tary's ultimatum. General Mendoza did not at 
 once surrender. Before he threw over the men 
 who fed him the golden eggs that made him rich, 
 and for whom he had sworn never to violate the 
 right of sanctuary, he first, for fully half an 
 hour, raged and swore. During that time, while 
 Everett sat anxiously expectant, the President 
 paced and repaced the length of the dining-hall. 
 When to relight his cigar, or to gulp brandy from 
 a tumbler, he halted at the table, his great bulk 
 loomed large in the flickering candle-flames, and 
 when he continued his march, he would disappear 
 into the shadows, and only his scabbard clanking 
 on the stone floor told of his presence. At last 
 he halted and shrugged his shoulders so that the 
 tassels of his epaulets tossed like wheat. 
 
 250
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 "You drive a hard bargain, sir," he said. 
 "And I have no choice. To-morrow bring the 
 treaty and I will sign." 
 
 Everett at once produced it and a fountain pen. 
 
 "I should like to cable to-night," he urged, 
 "that you have signed. They are holding back 
 the public announcement of the Secretary's route 
 until hearing from Your Excellency. This is only 
 tentative," he pointed out; "the Senate must 
 ratify. But our Senate will ratify it, and when 
 you sign now, it is a thing accomplished." 
 
 Over the place at which Everett pointed, the 
 pen scratched harshly; and then, throwing it 
 from him, the President sat in silence. With 
 eyes inflamed by anger and brandy he regarded 
 the treaty venomously. As though loath to let 
 it go, his hands played with it, as a cat plays with 
 the mouse between her paws. Watching him 
 breathlessly, Everett feared the end was not yet. 
 He felt a depressing premonition that if ever the 
 treaty were to reach Washington he best had 
 snatch it and run. Even as he waited, the end 
 came. An orderly, appearing suddenly in the 
 light of the candles, announced the arrival, in the 
 room adjoining, of "The Colonel Goddard and 
 Sefior Mellen." They desired an immediate 
 audience. Their business with the President was 
 
 251
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 most urgent. Whether from Washington their 
 agents had warned them, whether in Camaguay 
 they had deciphered the cablegram from the State 
 Department, Everett could only guess, but he 
 was certain the cause of their visit was the treaty. 
 That Mendoza also believed this was most evi 
 dent. 
 
 Into the darkness, from which the two exiles 
 might emerge, he peered guiltily. With an oath 
 he tore the treaty in half. Crushing the pieces 
 of paper into a ball, he threw it at Everett's feet. 
 His voice rose to a shriek. It was apparent he 
 intended his words to carry to the men outside. 
 Like an actor on a stage he waved his arms. 
 
 " That is my answer!" he shouted. "Tell your 
 Secretary the choice he offers is an insult! It is 
 blackmail. We will not sign his treaty. We do 
 not desire his visit to our country." Thrilled by 
 his own bravado, his voice rose higher. "Nor," 
 he shouted, "do we desire the presence of his 
 representative. Your usefulness is at an end. 
 You will receive your passports in the morning." 
 
 As he might discharge a cook, he waved Everett 
 away. His hand, trembling with excitement, 
 closed around the neck of the brandy-bottle. 
 Everett stooped and secured the treaty. On his 
 return to Washington, torn and rumpled as it 
 
 252
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 was, it would be his justification. It was his 
 
 " Exhibit A:' 
 
 As he approached the legation he saw drawn up 
 in front of it three ponies ready saddled. For an 
 instant he wondered if Mendoza intended further 
 to insult him, if he planned that night to send him 
 under guard to the coast. He determined hotly 
 sooner than submit to such an indignity he would 
 fortify the legation, and defend himself. But 
 no such heroics were required of him. As he 
 reached the door, Garland, with an exclamation 
 of relief, hailed him, and Monica, stepping from 
 the shadow, laid an appealing hand upon his 
 sleeve. 
 
 "My brother!" she exclaimed. "The guard 
 at Cobre has just sent word that they found Pea- 
 body prowling in the ruins and fired on him. He 
 fired back, and he is still there hiding. My 
 brother and others have gone to take him. I 
 don't know what may happen if he resists. Ches 
 ter is armed, and he is furious; he is beside him 
 self; he would not listen to me. But he must 
 listen to you. Will you go," the girl begged, 
 "and speak to him; speak to him, I mean," she 
 added, "as the American minister?" 
 
 Everett already had his foot in the stirrup. 
 "I'm the American minister only until to-mor- 
 
 253
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 row," he said. "I've got my walking-papers. 
 But I'll do all I can to stop this to-night. Gar 
 land," he asked, "will you take Miss Ward home, 
 and then follow me?" 
 
 "If I do not go with you," said Monica, "I 
 will go alone." 
 
 Her tone was final. With a clatter of hoofs that 
 woke alarmed echoes in the sleeping streets the 
 three horses galloped abreast toward Cobre. In 
 an hour they left the main trail and at a walk 
 picked their way to where the blocks of stone, 
 broken columns, and crumbling temples of the 
 half-buried city checked the jungle. 
 
 The moon made it possible to move in safety, 
 and at different distances the lights of torches 
 told them the man-hunt still was in progress. 
 
 "Thank God," breathed Monica, "we are in 
 time." 
 
 Everett gave the ponies in care of one of the 
 guards. He turned to Garland. 
 
 "Catch up with those lights ahead of us," he 
 said, "and we will join this party to the right. 
 If you find Ward, tell him I forbid him taking the 
 law into his own hands; tell him I will protect 
 his interests. If you meet Peabody, make him 
 give up his gun, and see that the others don't 
 harm him!" 
 
 254
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 Everett and the girl did not overtake the lights 
 they had seen flashing below them. Before they 
 were within hailing distance, that searching party 
 had disappeared, and still farther away other 
 torches beckoned. 
 
 Stumbling and falling, now in pursuit of one 
 will-o'-the-wisp, now of another, they scrambled 
 forward. But always the lights eluded them. 
 From their exertions and the moist heat they were 
 breathless, and their bodies dripped with water. 
 Panting, they halted at the entrance of what once 
 had been a tomb. From its black interior came 
 a damp mist; above them, alarmed by their in 
 trusion, the vampire bats whirled blindly in cir 
 cles. Monica, who by day possessed some slight 
 knowledge of the ruins, had, in the moonlight, 
 lost all sense of direction. 
 
 "We're lost," said Monica, in a low tone. Un 
 consciously both were speaking in whispers. "I 
 thought we were following what used to be the 
 main thoroughfare of the city; but I have never 
 seen this place before. From what I have read 
 I think we must be among the tombs of the 
 kings." 
 
 She was silenced by Everett placing one hand 
 quickly on her arm, and with the other pointing. 
 In the uncertain moonlight she saw moving cau- 
 
 255
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 tiously away from them, and unconscious of their 
 presence, a white, ghostlike figure. 
 
 "Peabody," whispered Everett. 
 
 "Call him," commanded Monica. 
 
 "The others might hear," objected Everett. 
 "We must overtake him. If we're with him when 
 they meet, they wouldn't dare " 
 
 With a gasp of astonishment, his words ceased. 
 
 Like a ghost, the ghostlike figure had vanished. 
 
 "He walked through that rock!" cried Mon 
 ica. 
 
 Everett caught her by the wrist. "Come!" 
 he commanded. 
 
 Over the face of the rock, into which Peabody 
 had dived as into water, hung a curtain of vines. 
 Everett tore it apart. Concealed by the vines 
 was the narrow mouth to a tunnel; and from it 
 they heard, rapidly lessening in the distance, the 
 patter of footsteps. 
 
 "Will you wait," demanded Everett, "or come 
 with me?" 
 
 With a shudder of distaste, Monica answered 
 by seizing his hand. 
 
 With his free arm Everett swept aside the vines, 
 and, Monica following, they entered the tunnel. 
 It was a passageway cleanly cut through the 
 solid rock and sufficiently wide to permit of their 
 
 256
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 moving freely. At the farther end, at a distance 
 of a hundred yards, it opened into a great vault, 
 also hollowed from the rock and, as they saw to 
 their surprise, brilliantly lighted. 
 
 For an instant, in black silhouette, the figure 
 of Peabody blocked the entrance to this vault, 
 and then, turning to the right, again vanished. 
 Monica felt an untimely desire to laugh. Now 
 that they were on the track of Peabody she no 
 longer feared the outcome of the adventure. In 
 the presence of the American minister and of her 
 self there would be no violence; and as they 
 trailed the archaeologist through the tunnel she 
 was reminded of Alice and her pursuit of the white 
 rabbit. This thought, and her sense of relief that 
 the danger was over, caused her to laugh aloud. 
 
 They had gained the farther end of the tunnel 
 and the entrance to the vault, when at once her 
 amusement turned to wonder. For the vault 
 showed every evidence of use and of recent occu 
 pation. In brackets, and burning brightly, were 
 lamps of modern make; on the stone floor stood 
 a canvas cot, saddle-bags, camp-chairs, and in 
 the centre of the vault a collapsible table. On 
 this were bottles filled with chemicals, trays, and 
 presses such as are used in developing photo 
 graphs, and apparently hung there to dry, swing 
 ing from strings, the proofs of many negatives. 
 
 257
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 Loyal to her brother, Monica exclaimed indig 
 nantly. At the proofs she pointed an accusing 
 finger. 
 
 "Look!" she whispered. "This is Peabody's 
 darkroom, where he develops the flash-lights he 
 takes of the hieroglyphs! Chester has a right to 
 be furious!" 
 
 Impulsively she would have pushed past Ever 
 ett; but with an exclamation he sprang in front 
 of her. 
 
 "No!" he commanded, "come away!" 
 
 He had fallen into a sudden panic. His tone 
 spoke of some catastrophe, imminent and over 
 whelming. Monica followed the direction of his 
 eyes. They were staring in fear at the proofs. 
 
 The girl leaned forward; and now saw them 
 clearly. 
 
 Each was a United States Treasury note for 
 five hundred dollars. 
 
 Around the turn of the tunnel, approaching the 
 vault apparently from another passage, they 
 heard hurrying footsteps; and then, close to them 
 from the vault itself, the voice of Professor Pea- 
 body. 
 
 It was harsh, sharp, peremptory. 
 
 "Hands up!" it commanded. "Drop that 
 
 gun!' 
 
 258
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 As though halted by a precipice, the footsteps 
 fell into instant silence. There was a pause, and 
 then the ring of steel upon the stone floor. There 
 was another pause, and Monica heard the voice 
 of her brother. Broken, as though with running, 
 it still retained its level accent, its note of inso 
 lence. 
 
 "So," it said, "I have caught you?" 
 
 Monica struggled toward the lighted vault, but 
 around her Everett threw his arm. 
 
 "Come away!" he begged. 
 
 Monica fought against the terror of something 
 unknown. She could not understand. They had 
 come only to prevent a meeting between* her 
 brother and Peabody; and now that they had 
 met, Everett was endeavoring to escape. 
 
 It was incomprehensible. 
 
 And the money in the vault, the yellow bills 
 hanging from a cobweb of strings; why should 
 they terrify her; what did they threaten ? Dully, 
 and from a distance, Monica heard the voice of 
 Peabody. 
 
 "No," he answered; "I have caught you! 
 And I've had a hell of a time doing it!" 
 
 Monica tried to call out, to assure her brother 
 of her presence. But, as though in a nightmare, 
 she could make no sound. Fingers of fear 
 
 259
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 gripped at her throat. To struggle was no longer 
 possible. 
 
 The voice of Peabody continued : 
 
 "Six months ago we traced these bills to New 
 Orleans. So we guessed the plant was in Central 
 America. We knew only one man who could 
 make them. When I found you were in Amapala 
 and they said you had struck 'buried treasure' 
 the rest was easy." 
 
 Monica heard the voice of her brother answer 
 with a laugh. 
 
 "Easy?" he mocked. "There's no extradition. 
 You can't touch me. You're lucky if you get out 
 of here alive. I've only to raise my voice " 
 
 "And, I'll kill you!" 
 
 This was danger Monica could understand. 
 Freed from the nightmare of doubt, with a cry 
 she ran forward. She saw Peabody, his back 
 against a wall, a levelled automatic in his hand; 
 her brother at the entrance to a tunnel like the 
 one from which she had just appeared. His arms 
 were raised above his head. At his feet lay a 
 revolver. For an instant, with disbelief, he stared 
 at Monica, and then, as though assured that it 
 was she, his eyes dilated. In them were fear and 
 horror. So genuine was the agony in the face of 
 the counterfeiter that Everett, who had followed, 
 
 260
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 turned his own away. But the eyes of the 
 brother and sister remained fixed upon each other, 
 hers, appealingly; his, with despair. He tried 
 to speak, but the words did not come. When he 
 did break the silence his tone was singularly wist 
 ful, most tenderly kind. 
 
 "Did you hear?" he asked. 
 
 Monica slowly bowed her head. With the same 
 note of gentleness her brother persisted : 
 
 "Did you understand!" 
 
 Between them stretched the cobweb of strings 
 hung with yellow certificates; each calling for five 
 hundred dollars, payable in gold. Stirred by the 
 night air from the open tunnels, they fluttered 
 and flaunted. 
 
 Against the sight of them, Monica closed her 
 eyes. Heavily, as though with a great physical 
 effort, again she bowed her head. 
 
 The eyes of her brother searched about him 
 wildly. They rested on the mouth of the tunnel. 
 
 With his lowered arm he pointed. 
 
 "Who is that? "he cried. 
 
 Instinctively the others turned. 
 
 It was for an instant. The instant sufficed. 
 
 Monica saw her brother throw himself upon 
 the floor, felt herself flung aside as Everett and 
 the detective leaped upon him; saw her brother 
 
 261
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 press his hands against his heart, the two men 
 dragging at his arms. 
 
 The cavelike room was shaken with a report, 
 an acrid smoke assailed her nostrils. The men 
 ceased struggling. Her brother lay still. 
 
 Monica sprang toward the body, but a black 
 wave rose and submerged her. As she fainted, 
 to save herself she threw out her arms, and as 
 she fell she dragged down with her the buried 
 treasure of Cobre. 
 
 Stretched upon the stone floor beside her brother 
 she lay motionless. Beneath her, and wrapped 
 about and covering her, as the leaves covered the 
 babes in the wood, was a vast cobweb of yellow 
 bills, each for five hundred dollars, payable in gold. 
 
 A month later the harbor of Porto Cortez in 
 Honduras was shaken with the roar of cannon. 
 In comparison, the roaring of all the cannon of all 
 the revolutions that that distressful country ever 
 had known, were like fire-crackers under a barrel. 
 
 Faithful to his itinerary, the Secretary of State 
 of the United States was paying his formal visit 
 to Honduras, and the President of that republic, 
 waiting upon the Fruit Company's wharf to greet 
 him, was receiving the salute of the American 
 battle-ships. Back of him, on the wharf, his own 
 
 262
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 barefooted artillerymen in their turn were salut 
 ing, excitedly and spasmodically, the distinguished 
 visitor. As an honor he had at last learned to 
 accept without putting a finger in each ear, the 
 Secretary of State smiled with gracious calm. 
 Less calm was the President of Honduras. He 
 knew something the Secretary did not know. 
 He knew that at any moment a gun of his salut 
 ing battery might turn turtle, or blow into the 
 harbor himself, his cabinet, and the larger part of 
 his standing army. 
 
 Made fast to the wharf on the side opposite 
 to the one at which the Secretary had landed was 
 one of the Fruit Company's steamers. She was 
 on her way north, and Porto Cortez was a port of 
 call. That her passengers might not intrude upon 
 the ceremonies, her side of the wharf was roped 
 off and guarded by the standing army. But from 
 her decks and from behind the ropes the passen 
 gers, with a battery of cameras, were perpetuating 
 the historic scene. 
 
 Among them, close to the ropes, viewing the 
 ceremony with the cynical eye of one who in 
 Europe had seen kings and emperors meet upon 
 the Field of the Cloth of Gold, was Everett. He 
 made no effort to bring himself to the attention 
 of his former chief. But when the introductions 
 
 263
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 were over, the Secretary of State turned his eyes 
 to his fellow countrymen crowding the rails of the 
 American steamer. They greeted him with cheers. 
 The great man raised his hat, and his eyes fell 
 upon Everett. The Secretary advanced quickly, 
 his hand extended, brushing to one side the stand 
 ing army. 
 
 "What are you doing here?" he demanded. 
 
 "On my way home, sir," said Everett. "I 
 couldn't leave sooner; there were personal rea 
 sons. But I cabled the department my resigna 
 tion the day Mendoza gave me my walking-papers. 
 You may remember," Everett added dryly, "the 
 department accepted by cable." 
 
 The great man showed embarrassment. 
 
 "It was most unfortunate," he sympathized. 
 "We wanted that treaty, and while, no doubt, 
 you made every effort " 
 
 He became aware of the fact that Everett's 
 attention was not exclusively his own. Follow 
 ing the direction of the young man's eyes the Sec 
 retary saw on the deck just above them, leaning 
 upon the rail, a girl in deep mourning. 
 
 She was very beautiful. Her face was as lovely 
 as a violet and as shy. To the Secretary a beau 
 tiful woman was always a beautiful woman. But 
 he had read the papers. Who had not? He was 
 
 264
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 sure there must be some mistake. This could not 
 be the sister of a criminal; the woman for whom 
 Everett had smashed his career. 
 
 The Secretary masked his astonishment, but 
 not his admiration. 
 
 "Mrs. Everett?" he asked. His very tone 
 conveyed congratulations. 
 
 "Yes," said the ex-diplomat. "Some day I 
 shall be glad to present you." 
 
 The Secretary did not wait for an introduction. 
 Raising his eyes to the ship's rail, he made a deep 
 and courtly bow. With a gesture worthy of 
 d'Artagnan, his high hat swept the wharf. The 
 members of his staff, the officers from the war 
 ships, the President of Honduras and the members 
 of his staff endeavored to imitate his act of hom 
 age, and in confusion Mrs. Everett blushed be 
 comingly. 
 
 "When I return to Washington," said the Sec 
 retary hastily, "come and see me. You are too 
 valuable to lose. Your career 
 
 Again Everett was looking at his wife. Her 
 distress at having been so suddenly drawn into 
 the lime-light amused him, and he was smiling. 
 Then, as though aware of the Secretary's mean 
 ing, he laughed. 
 
 "My dear sir!" he protested. His tone sug- 
 265
 
 The Buried Treasure of Cobre 
 
 gested he was about to add "mind your own 
 business," or "go to the devil." 
 
 Instead he said: "I'm not worrying about my 
 career. My career has just begun." 
 
 266
 
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