Part 7

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 Sylvanus Cobb Codman, with the added title 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 Señora Rojas, who is in exile here?"

The blue eyes of the Consul opened slightly, but he answered with directness, "I am. I have that honor."

"And with her daughters?" added Roddy anxiously.

With dignity the Consul inclined his head.

"I want very much to meet them--her," corrected Roddy. "I am going to set her husband free!"

For a moment, as though considering whether he were not confronted by a madman, the Consul regarded Roddy with an expression of concern. Then, in the deprecatory tone of one who believes he has not heard aright, he asked, "You are going to do--what?"

"I am going to help General Rojas to escape," Roddy went on briskly--"myself and another fellow. But we are afraid he won't trust himself to us, so I am over here to get credentials from his wife. But, you see, I have first got to get credentials to her. So I came to ask you if you'd sort of vouch for me, tell her who I am--and all that."

The Consul was staring at him so strangely that Roddy believed he had not made himself fully understood.

"You know what I mean," he explained. "Credentials, something he will know came from her--a ring or a piece of paper saying, 'These are friends. Go with them.' Or a lock of her hair, or--or--you know," urged Roddy in embarrassment--"credentials."

"Are you jesting?" asked the older man coldly.

Roddy felt genuinely uncomfortable. He was conscious he was blushing. "Certainly not," he protested. "It is serious enough, isn't it?"

The voice of the Consul dropped to a whisper.

"Who sent you here?" he demanded. Without waiting for an answer he suddenly rose. Moving with surprising lightness to the door, he jerked it open. But if by this manoeuvre he expected to precipitate the spy into the room, he was disappointed, for the outer office was empty. The Consul crossed it quickly to the window. He saw the spy disappearing into a neighboring wine-shop.

When Captain Codman again entered the inner office he did not return to his seat, but, after closing the door, as though to shut Roddy from the only means of escape, he stood with his back against it. He was very much excited.

"Mr. Forrester," he began angrily, "I don't know who is back of you, and," he cried violently, "I don't mean to know. I have been American Consul in these Central American countries for fifteen years, and I have never mixed myself up with what doesn't concern me. I represent the United States government. I don't represent anything else. I am not down here to assist any corporation, no matter how rich, any junta, any revolutionary party----"

"Here! Wait!" cried Roddy anxiously. "You don't understand! I am not a revolution. There is only me and Peter."

"What is that?" snapped the Consul savagely. The exclamation was like the crack of a flapping jib.

"You see, it's this way," began Roddy. He started to explain elaborately. "Peter and I belong to the Secret Order----"

"Stop!" thundered the Consul. "I tell you I won't listen to you!"

The rebuff was most embarrassing. Ignorant as to how he had offended the Consul, and uncertain as to whether the Consul had not offended him, Roddy helplessly rubbed his handkerchief over his perplexed and perspiring countenance. He wondered if, as a conspirator, he had not been lacking in finesse, if he had not been too communicative.

In the corner of the room, in a tin cage, a great green parrot, with its head cocked on one side, had been regarding Roddy with mocking, malevolent eyes. Now, to further add to his discomfiture, it suddenly emitted a chuckle, human and contemptuous. As though choking with hidden laughter, the bird gurgled feebly, "Polly, Polly." And then, in a tone of stern disapproval, added briskly, "You talk too much!" At this flank attack Roddy flushed indignantly. He began to wish he had brought Peter with him, to give him the proper signals.

With his hands clinched behind him, and tossing his white beard from side to side, the Consul paced the room.

"So that is it!" he muttered. "That is why he left Paris. That explains the Restaurador. Of course," he added indignantly as he passed Roddy, throwing the words at him over his shoulder, "that is where the money came from!"