Part 3 (1/2)

”How is he to know?” persisted Roddy, ”that we are not paid by Alvarez, that we aren't leading him on to escape so that the sentries can have an excuse to shoot him. That has been done before. It is an old trick, like killing a man in his cell and giving out that he committed suicide. The first thing Rojas will ask us is, who sends us, and where are our credentials.”

”I guess he will take his chance,” said Peter. ”He'll see we are not Venezuelans.”

”That is the very thing that will make him refuse,” protested Roddy.

”Why should he trust himself to strangers--to gringos? No, I tell you, we can't go on without credentials.” He lowered his voice and glanced suspiciously into the dark corners of the _patio_. ”And the only people who can give them to us,” he added, tapping impressively upon the table, ”live in Curacao.”

With sudden enthusiasm Peter de Peyster sat upright.

”I am on in that scene,” he protested.

”I thought of it first,” said Roddy.

”We will toss,” compromised Peter. ”The head of Bolivar, you go. The arms of Venezuela, I go, and you stay here and catch eels.”

The silver peso rang upon the table, and Roddy exclaimed jubilantly:

”Heads! I go!” he cried. But the effort of Peter to show he was not disappointed was so unconvincing that Roddy instantly relented.

”We had better both go!” he amended. ”Your headwork is better than mine, so you come, too. And if you give me the right signals, I'll try to put the ball where you can reach it.”

As though in his eagerness he would set forth on the instant, Roddy sprang to his feet and stood smiling down at Peter, his face lit with pleasurable excitement. Then suddenly his expression grew thoughtful.

”Peter,” he inquired, ”how old do you think the daughters are?”

II

The next day Roddy and Peter sailed for Willemstad, the chief port and the capital of the tiny island colony of Holland. In twelve hours they had made their land-fall and were entering the harbor mouth. The sun was just rising, and as its rays touched the cliff from which, twelve hours later, Senora Rojas and her daughters would look toward Porto Cabello, they felt a thrill of possible adventure.

Roddy knew that, as a refuge for revolutionists exiled from Venezuela, Willemstad was policed with secret agents of Alvarez, and he knew that were these spies to learn that during his visit either he or Peter had called upon the family of Rojas they would be reported to Caracas as ”suspect,” and the chance of their saving the Lion of Valencia would be at an end. So it became them to be careful.

Before leaving Porto Cabello Roddy had told McKildrick, the foreman of the Construction Company's work there, that some boxes of new machinery and supplies for his launch had gone astray and that he wished permission to cross to Curacao to look them up. McKildrick believed the missing boxes were only an excuse for a holiday, but he was not anxious to a.s.sert his authority over the son and heir of the F. C. C., and so gave Roddy his leave of absence. And at the wharf at Porto Cabello, while waiting for the s.h.i.+p to weigh anchor, Roddy had complained to the custom-house officials at having to cross to Curacao. He gave them the same reason for the trip, and said it was most annoying.

In order to be consistent, when, on landing at Willemstad, three soiled individuals approached Roddy and introduced themselves as guides, he told them the same story. He was looking for boxes of machinery invoiced for Porto Cabello; he feared they had been carried on to La Guayra or dropped at Willemstad. Could they direct him to the office of the steams.h.i.+p line and to the American Consul? One of the soiled persons led him across the quay to the office of the agent, and while Roddy repeated his complaint, listened so eagerly that to both Peter and Roddy it was quite evident the business of the guide was not to disclose Curacao to strangers, but to learn what brought strangers to Curacao. The agent was only too delighted to serve the son of one who in money meant so much to the line. For an hour he searched his books, his warehouse and the quays. But, naturally, the search was unsuccessful, and with most genuine apologies Roddy left him, saying that at the office of the American Consul he would continue his search for the lost boxes.

Meanwhile, Peter, in his character of tourist, engaged rooms for them at the Hotel Commercial, and started off alone to explore the town.

At the Consulate, the soiled person listened to the beginning of Roddy's speech, and then, apparently satisfied he had learned all that was necessary, retreated to the outer office.

The Consul promptly rose and closed the door.

The representative of the United States was an elderly man, of unusual height, with searching, honest blue eyes under white eyebrows. His hair was white, his beard, worn long, was white, and his clothes were of white duck.

His name was Sylva.n.u.s Cobb Codman, with the added t.i.tle of captain, which he had earned when, as a younger man, he had been owner and master of one of the finest whalers that ever cleared the harbor of New Bedford. During his cruises he had found the life of the West Indies much to his liking, and when, at the age of fifty, he ceased to follow the sea, he had asked for an appointment as consul to Porto Cabello. Since then, except when at home on leave at Fairhaven, he had lived in the Spanish Americas, and at many ports had served the State Department faithfully and well. In spite of his age, Captain Codman gave a pleasant impression of strength and nervous energy. Roddy felt that the mind and body of the man were as clean as his clothes, and that the Consul was one who could be trusted.

As Captain Codman seated himself behind his desk he was frowning.

”You must look out for that guide,” he said. ”He is from Caracas. He is an agent of Alvarez. It just shows,” he went on impatiently, ”what little sense these spies have, that he didn't recognize your name. The Forrester Construction Company is certainly well enough known. That the son of your father should be spied on is ridiculous.”

”Then, again,” said Roddy mysteriously, ”maybe it isn't. I haven't got such a clean bill of health. That's why I came to you.” With an air which he considered was becoming in a conspirator, he lowered his voice. ”May I ask, sir,” he said, ”if you are acquainted with Senora Rojas, who is in exile here?”