Since his arrival O’Hara had felt that Tom Whalen was watching him. In his short walks out into the waste a few miles from the place, he knew that he was always followed by this burly giant. Even in the night watches he had been wakened by the consciousness that this man was peering at him intently and suspiciously.

Not only so, but every attempt of O’Hara’s to get a note or message sent to his nephew, Danny Dexter, had been futile. The Japanese was the only one who had left the place. He had the habit of slipping quietly away in the huge motor car, especially toward evening he was wont to start, and usually his path lay in the direction of the border, far to the south. Often O’Hara lay awake into the small hours of the morning, disturbed by the steady stare of Tom Whalen and listening for the hum of the returning motor car. He was never quite sure of hearing it, but always when the morning came there was Jo, the Japanese man-of-all-work, servile and alert and quiet as ever.

There was evidently no hope of any message reaching Danny from that quarter.

As time went on, O’Hara’s perplexity, instead of diminishing, became deeper and more acute than ever. True, there had been no visitors to the ranch, and as far as he could see, there was little likelihood that his presence in this remote spot would be discovered. In this respect Providence had been kind to him. What disturbed him most of all was the sepulchral silence of the place—the air of mystery that seemed to brood over the lives of the few inhabitants. Hour after hour O’Hara pondered the matter, but the mystery was still as clouded as ever. No summons had yet come to him from the bungalow occupied by Brown and his beautiful consort, nor had he been able to penetrate the reserve of the scowling Tom Whalen or the sleek, cat-footed Jap.

O’Hara’s mind was still in a state of turmoil, when, a few days later, an incident happened that shook his equanimity to its very foundation. The day in question had been hot and sweltering, and in O’Hara’s case, had been followed by a sleepless night. After hours of tossing about, he had risen from his couch, making his way through the darkness to the unlocked door. Flinging it open, a flood of pale moonlight poured into the room. A silvery sheen enveloped the slumbering buildings of the ranch, making them stand out in ghostly silhouette against the moon-lit background of sandy waste. As O’Hara softly closed the door behind him, a deep continuous snore from the opposite side of the room informed him that Tom Whalen had fallen into a profound sleep, and was likely to remain dead to the world for some hours at least.

The clean, crisp night air caused the blood to tingle in O’Hara’s veins. He surveyed the peaceful prospect a moment, then started on a brisk stroll among the various outbuildings, stopping now and then to fill his lungs with the glorious desert air.

Passing the odd-looking garage, he noticed that the doors were flung wide open, as though Jo, the Jap chauffeur, expected to return with the car before morning. He had retraced his steps to the door of his sleeping-room, and was about to woo sleep for a second time when the distant chugging of a motor car sounded on his ears.

“That’s only Jo,” he said to himself. “I wonder what the close-mouthed Oriental does on those lonesome night trips?”

But his own question caused him to smile. Jo’s night excursions were certainly mysterious, to say the least, but not more so than a hundred other things about the ranch that had risen to perplex him. Indeed, he was obliged to confess to himself that he had found out next to nothing about the real life of the strange group in which he was placed.

By this time the motor car had drawn much closer to the ranch. The steady chug-chug of the escaping gas, magnified tenfold by the vast impressive silence of the night, fell on the ear of the listener like a succession of sledge-hammer blows on a blacksmith’s anvil. O’Hara crept into a convenient patch of shadow, and waited for the car to pass on its way to the garage. But before coming into his angle of vision, the huge machine swerved abruptly to the right and made directly for the ranch-house.

Curious and interested now, the concealed man cautiously stepped forth from his hiding-place and peered round the corner of the building. The machine had come to a stop at the door of the Brown bungalow. Straining his eyes, O’Hara was able to make out several blank shapes that descended from the tonneau and noiselessly entered the house. A fraction of a minute later the chugging recommenced as the car was driven over the quarter-mile that lay between the house and the garage.

As O’Hara stood in the shadow, reflecting on the import of what he had seen, a strange feeling came over him—a sense that important events were impending in which he was somehow involved. He was about to dismiss the thought as an idle fancy when he noticed a tiny flicker of light which same through a slit in the drawn curtains of the ranch-house. Suddenly a daring thought gave him pause. Should he attempt to carry out the hare-brained plan that had gripped him so suddenly? Dare he do so?

For several moments he stood lost in reflection. Then, James O’Hara did a curious thing—a thing that might well have aroused a spectator’s curiosity, had a spectator been there to observe it. Though already lightly clad, he noiselessly entered the room where the giant Tom Whalen still lay breathing heavily. Hastily disrobing, he garbed himself in khaki shirt and trousers, which were almost mustard-color from many washings, and left the room again as quietly as he came in. Softly but swiftly, he made his way to the rear of the building, keeping in shadow as much as possible. Then, striking out on hands and knees in a direction at right angles from the beckoning gleam of light, he stopped when he had put a distance of about a hundred yards between himself and his starting-point. The moon continued to beat down on the yellow sands as the creeping figure, visible only as a dark retreating mass against an amber background, suddenly dropped flat on the ground and was lost to view. The khaki costume was now no longer distinguishable, but blended perfectly with the sand, which stretched out for miles on every side in little flats and hillocks.

Resting in this position a few moments, and raising his head now and then to ascertain whether he had been observed, O’Hara started to crawl slowly through the sand in the direction of the bungalow. Fifteen minutes later he had gained the side of the building whence the flicker of light had come.

A thrill of satisfaction gripped him for a moment as he realized that thus far his plan had been successful. And now, as he was considering what further measures to take, the sound of voices engaged in earnest conversation floated out from a window just above him.

A deep voice that quavered with suppressed emotion came to his ears, and a tremor passed down O’Hara’s spine as he realized that his employer was speaking.

“Listen to me, Schwartz,” the commanding voice was saying. “I tell you, this thing must be done. Understand? It must. The Mexican government is friendly to Germany, and would like nothing better than kicking the hated Yankees out. Villa is with us, and will do what we say. But he must be paid. It will take money—lots of it. But later on we will get it back with interest—yes, double interest, and triple interest. Germany must line her pockets, too. The time to do it is now. Later, we will not have so good a chance. Why, man,” and here the voice held a confidential note, “the Fatherland is interested in our success. We are simply carrying out instructions!”

“Ach!” ejaculated the awed listener. “Ve must all help der Vaterland. Ve must all be good Chermans.”

These sentiments must have fallen on grateful ears, for Brown’s next words were uttered in a friendly tone that warmed the heart of his confederate:

“Schwartz, you are a true son of Deutschland. It is men like you who must again make the Fatherland great!”

The pleased Schwartz drank in the words of appreciation eagerly, emitting meantime an enthusiastic “ja! ja!” of assent.

“Millions of dollars are to be had in Mexico,” continued the speaker. “Mines, oil lands—everything. But the hated, money-loving Yankees have gobbled up everything they could lay their hands on. But we have found a way to beat them. Our German friends, who have suffered so much in this hated country, have given us ample funds. We have much influence with the government at Mexico City. Simply pull the wires—the thing is done! Our ambassador will see to it. But there is much work for all of us. Never shall it be said that Germans accepted the leavings of Americans. Rather will we all go down in destruction!”

As this conversation was proceeding, a tense-muscled man stood outside beneath the window, listening with bated breath to every word that fell from the plotters’ lips. James O’Hara was deeply stirred.

American rights were menaced. So much was plain from the words of the conspirators. That American lives would be endangered, if not lost, was almost certain.

Again and again, as the plot was more fully developed in his hearing, the concealed man struggled silently with himself to keep down the rising flood of anger that threatened to explode and reveal his presence to the Germans. He was a lover of his country, though, by an unlucky stroke of fate, a fugitive from his country’s justice. By every consideration of manhood he was bound to uphold the honor and dignity and safety of America. He was an American citizen, and these were the obligations that citizenship imposed.

O’Hara fought down the angry outburst. He realized that his best course of action lay in keeping cool. The thing to do was to learn all he could about their plans. Then would he be the better prepared for action when the time for action arrived.

Meanwhile, in short, rapid sentences, Brown was conveying his instructions to the other, who was plainly a subordinate figure: “First, you must deliver these papers to Herr Schmidt, the German consul. He will supply you with the necessary funds. You will then meet Villa’s representative at the designated spot. You will convey my instructions to him, and urge immediate action. You will in turn receive his latest report. I will send for this in a week’s time. I have here on the ranch an escaped criminal named O’Hara. He knows nothing of our work. He suspects nothing. You are to deliver the sealed papers to him in Mexican Juarez, and arrange to have him sent back over the border. Now, we understand one another. Do not fail.”

The interview was over.

A few minutes passed without any further sounds from the interior of the house.

Then a slight chugging sound informed O’Hara that the motor car with its Jap chauffeur was again on its way to the house, doubtless to carry the German emissary toward the border. The front door opened, a single dark figure glided out, the tonneau door closed, and the huge machine rolled rapidly away. Then, silence.

Quivering from the astounding adventure through which he had just passed, O’Hara made his way back to his sleeping-room. He hastily shed the few light garments that covered him and sank into bed, but the amazing events of the night were too recent to allow any hope of sleep.

In the quiet of the night, as he reviewed his experiences from the day of his arrival at the ranch, O’Hara was able to understand many things that hitherto had seemed to border on the mysterious. The remembrance of his first meeting with Henry Brown, the military bearing of the latter, the careful diction with just the merest trace of a German accent, the nightly comings and goings of the Japanese chauffeur, the aloofness and secrecy that characterized the actions of every member of the ranch from the very beginning—all these things, when analyzed in the light of the conversation he had overheard between Brown and his visitor, lost their cloak of mystery and became links in a chain of evidence that held fast at every point.

The more O’Hara thought of it, the more certain he became that he had stumbled across that long-sought-for outpost of German intrigue that was beneath so many of the Mexican troubles. For many months Uncle Sam had known of the existence of such activity, but diligent search had failed to trace it to its source. Throughout the war, reports poured into the government concerning the operations of a crafty German band that was engaged in sowing seeds of hatred against the Americans. Though the armistice had brought a decided let-up in this activity, there was still evidence of a deeply-laid plot to injure the United States and libel its aims in the Latin republic.