At the Palace, the Americans were separated. Saxon was ushered into a small room, barely furnished. Its one window was barred, and the one door that penetrated its thick wall was locked from the outside. It seemed incredible that under such stimulus his memory should remain torpid. This must be an absolute echo from the past—yet, he could not remember. But Rodman remembered—and evidently the government remembered.

About the same hour, Mr. Partridge called at the “Frances y Ingles,” where he learned that SeÑor Saxon had gone out. He called again late in the evening. Saxon had not returned.

The following morning, the Hon. Charles Pendleton, Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary of the United States of America, read Saxon’s letters of introduction. The letters sufficiently established the standing of the artist to assure him his minister’s interest. Partridge was dispatched to the hotel to bring the traveler to the legation. Partridge came back within the hour, greatly perturbed. Having found that Saxon had not returned during the night, and knowing the customs of the country, he had spent a half-hour in investigating by channels known to himself. He learned, at the end of much questioning and cross-questioning, that the seÑor, together with another gentleman evidently also an Americano del Nordo, had passed the street-door late in the evening, with military escort.

Mr. Partridge hastened to his legation at a rate of speed subversive of all Puerto Frio traditions. In Puerto Frio, haste is held to be an affront to dignity, and dignity is esteemed.

The Hon. Charles Pendleton listened to his subordinate’s report with rising choler.

His diplomacy was of the aggressive type, and his first duty was that of making the protecting pinions of the spread eagle stretch wide enough to reach every one of those entitled to its guardianship.

Saxon and Rodman had the night before entered the frowning walls of the Palace through a narrow door at the side. The American minister now passed hastily between files of presented arms. Inside, he learned that his excellency, el Presidente, had not yet finished his breakfast, but earnestly desired his excellency, el ministro, to share with him an alligator pear and cup of coffee.

In the suave presence of the dictator, the minister’s choler did not cease. Rather, it smoldered while he listened perfunctorily to flattering banalities. He had struck through intermediary stages; had passed over the heads of departments and holders of portfolios, to issue his ultimatum to the chief executive. Yet, in approaching his subject, he matched the other’s suavity with a pleasantness that the dictator distrusted. The dark face of the autocrat became grave until, when Mr. Pendleton reached the issue, it was deeply sympathetic, surprised and attentive.

“I am informed that some one—I can not yet say who—wearing your excellency’s uniform, seized an American citizen of prominence on the streets of Puerto Frio last evening.”

The President was shocked and incredulous. “Impossible!” he exclaimed with deep distress; then, again: “Impossible!”

From the diplomat’s eloquent sketching of the situation, it might have been gathered that the United States war department stood anxiously watching for such affronts, and that the United States war department would be very petulant when notification of the incident reached it. Mr. Pendleton further assured his excellency, el Presidente, that it would be his immediate care to see that such notification had the right of way over the Panama cable.

“I have information,” began the dictator slowly, “that two men suspected of connection with an insurgent junta have been arrested. As to their nationality, I have received no details. Certainly, no American citizen has been seized with my consent. The affair appears grave, and shall be investigated. Your excellency realizes the necessity of vigilance. The revolutionist forfeits his nationality.” He spread his hands in a vague gesture.

“Mr. Robert Saxon,” retorted the minister, “should hardly be a suspect. The fact that he was not a guest at my legation, and for the time a member of my family, was due only to the accident of my absence from the city on his arrival yesterday.”

With sudden bustle, the machinery of the Palace was set in motion. Of a surety, some one had blundered, and “some one” should be condignly punished!

It was a very irate gentleman, flushed from unwonted exertion in the tropics, who was ushered at last into Saxon’s room. It was a very much puzzled and interested gentleman who stood contemplatively studying the direct eyes of the prisoner a half-hour later.

Saxon had told Mr. Pendleton the entire narrative of his quest of himself, and, as he told it, the older man listened without a question or interruption, standing with his eyes fixed on the teller, twisting an unlighted cigar in his fingers.

“Mr. Saxon, I am here to safeguard the interests of Americans. Our government does not, however, undertake to chaperon filibustering expeditions. It becomes necessary to question you.”

There followed a brief catechism in which the replies seemed to satisfy the questioner. When he came to the incident of his meeting with Rodman, Saxon paused.

“As to Rodman,” he said, “who was arrested with me, I have no knowledge that would be evidence. I know nothing except from the hearsay of his recital.”

Mr. Pendleton raised his hand.

“I am only questioning you as to yourself. This other man, Rodman, will have to prove his innocence. I’m afraid I can’t help him. According to their own admissions, they know nothing against you beyond the fact that you were seen with him last night.”

Saxon came to his feet, bewildered.

“But the previous matter—the embezzlement?” he demanded. “Of course, I had nothing to do with this affair. It was that other for which I was arrested.”

The envoy laughed.

“You punched cows six years ago. You cartooned five years ago, and you have painted landscapes ever since. I presume, if it became necessary, you could prove an alibi for almost seven years?”

Saxon nodded. He fancied he saw the drift of the argument. It was to culminate in the same counsel that Steele had given. He would be advised to allow the time to reach the period when his other self should be legally dead.

Mr. Pendleton paced the floor for a space, then came back and halted before the cot, on the edge of which the prisoner sat.

“I have been at this post only two years, but I am, of course, familiar with the facts of that case.” He paused, then added with irrelevance: “It may be that you bear a somewhat striking resemblance to this particularly disreputable conspirator. Of course, that’s possible, but—”

“But highly improbable,” admitted Saxon.

“Oh, you are not that man! That can be mathematically demonstrated,” asserted Mr. Pendleton suddenly. “I was only reflecting on the fallibility of circumstantial evidence. I am a lawyer, and once, as district attorney, I convicted a man on such evidence. He’s in the penitentiary now, and it set me wondering if—”

But Saxon stood dumfounded, vainly trying to speak. His face was white, and he had seized the envoy by the arm with a grip too emphatic for diplomatic etiquette.

“Do you know what you are saying?” he shouted. “I am not that man! How do you know that?”

“I know it,” responded Mr. Pendleton calmly, “because the incident of the firing-squad occurred five years ago—and the embezzlement only four years back.”

Saxon remained staring in wide-eyed amazement. He felt his knees grow suddenly weak, and the blood cascaded through the arteries of his temples. Then, he turned, and, dropping again to the edge of the cot, covered his face with his hands.

“You see,” explained Mr. Pendleton, “there is only one ground upon which any charge against you can be reinstated—an impeachment of your evidence as to how you have put in the past five years. And,” he smilingly summarized, “since the case comes before this court solely on your self-accusation, since you have journeyed some thousands of miles merely to prosecute yourself, I regard your evidence on that point as conclusive.” Later, the envoy, with his arm through that of the liberated prisoner, walked out past deferential sentries into the Plaza.

“And, now, the blockade being run,” he amiably inquired, “what are your plans?”

“Plans!” exclaimed Saxon scornfully; “plans, sir, is plural. I have only one: to catch the next boat that’s headed north. Why,” he explained, “there is soon going to be an autumn in the Kentucky hills with all the woods a blaze of color.”

The minister’s eyes took on a touch of nostalgia.

“I guess there’s nothing much the matter with the autumn in Indiana, either,” he affirmed.

They walked on together at a slow gait, for the morning sun was already beginning to beat down as if it were focused through a burning-glass.

“And say,” suggested Mr. Pendleton at last, “if you ever get to a certain town in Indiana called Vevay, which is on some of the more complete maps, walk around for me and look at the Davis building. You won’t see much—only a hideous two-story brick, with a metal roof and dusty windows, but my shingle used to hang out there—and it’s in God’s country!”

Before they had reached the legation, Saxon remembered that his plans involved another detail, and with some secrecy he sought the cable office, and wrote a message to Duska. Its composition consumed a half-hour, yet he felt it was not quite the masterpiece the occasion demanded. It read:

“Arrived yesterday. Slept in jail. Out to-day. Am not he.”

The operator, counting off the length with his pencil, glanced up thoughtfully.

“It costs a dollar a word, sir,” he vouchsafed.

But Saxon nodded affluently, for he knew that the City of Rio sailed north that afternoon, and he did not know that her sister ship, the Amazon, with Duska on board, was at this moment nosing its way south through the tepid water—only twenty-four hours away.

As the City of Rio wound up her rusty anchor chains that afternoon, Saxon was jubilantly smoking his pipe by the rail. In the launch just putting off from the steamer’s side stood the Hon. Mr. Pendleton, waving his hat, and Jimmy Partridge wildly shouting, “Give my regards to Broadway!” The minister’s flag, which had floated over the steamer while the great personage was on board, was just dipping, and Saxon’s hand was still cramped under the homesick pressure of the farewell grips.

Suddenly, the traveler had a feeling of a presence at his elbow, and, turning, was profoundly astonished to behold again the complacent visage of Mr. Rodman.

“You see, I still appear to be among those present,” announced the filibuster, with some breeziness of manner. “It’s true that I stand before you, ‘my sweet young face still haggard with the anguish it has worn,’ but I’m here, which is, after all, the salient feature of the situation. Say, what did you do to them?”

“I?” questioned Saxon. “I did nothing. The minister came and took me out of their Bastile.”

“Well, say, he must have thrown an awful scare into them.” Mr. Rodman thoughtfully stroked his chin with a thin forefinger. “He must have intimidated them unmercifully and brutally. They stampeded into my wing of the Palace, and set me free as though they were afraid I had the yellow-fever. ‘Wide they flung the massive portals’—all that sort of thing. Now, what puzzles me is, why did they do it? They had the goods on me—almost. However, I’m entirely pleased.” Rodman laughed as he lighted a cigar, and waved his hand with mock sentiment toward the shore. “And I had put the rifles through, too,” he declared, jubilantly. “I’d turned them over to the insurrecto gentleman in good order. Did they clamor for your blood about the $200,000?”

“Rodman,” said Saxon slowly, “I hardly expect you to believe it, but that was a case of mistaken identity. I’m not the man you think. I was never in Puerto Frio before.”

Rodman let the cigar drop from his astonished lips, and caught wildly after it as it fell overboard.

“What?” he demanded, at last. “How’s that?” “It was a man who looked like me,” elucidated Saxon.

“You are damned right—he looked like you!” Rodman halted, amazed into silence. At last, he said: “Well, you have got the clear nerve! What’s the idea, anyhow. Don’t you trust me?”

The artist laughed.

“I hardly thought you would credit it,” he said. “After all, that doesn’t make much difference. The point is, my dear boy, I know it.”

But Rodman’s debonair smile soon returned. He held up his hand with a gesture of acceptance.

“What difference does it make? A gentleman likes to change his linen—why not his personality? I dare say it’s a very decent impulse.”

For a moment, Saxon looked up with an instinctive resentment for the politely phrased skepticism of the other. Then, his displeasure changed to a smile. He had, for a moment, felt the same doubt when Mr. Pendleton brought his verdict. Rodman had none of the facts, and a glance at the satirical features showed that it would be impossible for this unimaginative adventurer to construe premises to a seemingly impossible conclusion. He was the materialist, and dealt in palpable appearances. After all, what did it matter? He had made his effort, and would, as he had promised Duska, vex his Sphinx with no more questioning. He would go on as Robert Saxon, feeling that he had done his best with conscientious thoroughness. It was, after all, only cutting the Gordian knot in his life. After a moment, he looked up.

“Which way do you go?” he inquired.

The other man shrugged his shoulders.

“I go back to Puerto Frio—after the blow-off.”

“After the blow-off?” Saxon repeated, in interrogation.

“Sure!” Rodman stretched his thin hand shoreward, and dropped his voice. “Take a good look at yon fair city,” he laughed, “for, before you happen back here again, it may have fallen under fire and sword.”

The soldier of fortune spoke with some of the pride that comes to the man who feels he is playing a large game, whether it be a game of construction or destruction, or whether, as is oftener the case, it be both destruction and construction.

The painter obediently looked back at the adobe walls and cross-tipped towers.

“Puerto Frio has been very good to me,” he said, in an enigmatical voice.

But Rodman was thinking too much of his own plans to notice the comment.

“Do you see the mountain at the back of the city?” he suddenly demanded. “That’s San Francisco. Do you see anything queer about it?”

The artist looked at the peak rearing its summit against the hot blue overhead, and saw only a sleeping tropical background for the indolent tropical panorama stretching at its base.

“Well—” Rodman dropped his voice yet lower—“if you had a pair of field glasses and studied the heights, you could see a few black specks that are just now disused guns. By day after to-morrow, or, at the latest, one day more, each of those specks will be a crater, and the town will be under a shower of solid shot. There’s some class to work that can turn as mild a mannered hill as that into a volcano—no?”

Saxon stood gazing with fascination.

“Meanwhile,” he heard the other comment, “shipboard is good enough for yours truly—because, as you know, shipboard is neutral ground for political offenders—and the next gentleman who occupies the Palace will be a friend who owes me something.”