After the incidents above recorded, things went on quietly enough for some months. I had a serious talk with Jones, reproaching him gravely for his outrageous demeanor. He capitulated abjectly on being shown the cable, which was procured in the manner kindly indicated by the President. The latter had perhaps been in too great a hurry with his heavy guns, for his hint of violence had rather stirred than allayed Jones’ apprehensions. If there were nothing to conceal, why should his Excellency not stick at murder to hide it? However, I explained to him the considerations of high policy, dictating inviolable secrecy, and justifying a somewhat arbitrary way of dealing with a trusted official; and the marked graciousness with which Jones was received when he met the President at the ministry of finance on current business went far to obliterate his unpleasant recollections. I further bound him to my fortunes by obtaining for him a rise of salary from the directors, “in consequence of the favorable report of his conduct received from Mr. Martin.”

Peaceful as matters seemed, I was not altogether at ease. To begin with the new loan did not apparently at all improve the financial position of Aureataland. Desolation still reigned on the scene of the harbor works; there was the usual difficulty in paying salaries and meeting current expenditure. The President did not invite my confidence as to the disposal of his funds; indeed before long I was alarmed to see a growing coldness in his manner, which I considered at once ungrateful and menacing; and when the half-year came round he firmly refused to disburse more than half the amount of interest due on the second loan, thus forcing me to make an inroad on my reserve of forty-five thousand dollars. He gave me many good reasons for this course of conduct, dwelling chiefly on the necessary unproductiveness of public works in their early stages, and confidently promising full payment with arrears next time. Nevertheless, I began to see that I must face the possibility of a continual drain on resources that I had fondly hoped would be available for my own purposes for a considerable time at least. Thus one thing and another contributed to open a breach between his Excellency and myself, and, although I never ceased to feel his charm as a private companion, my distrust of him as a ruler, and, I may add, as a fellow-conspirator, steadily deepened.

Other influences were at this time—for we have now reached the beginning of 1883—at work in the same direction. Rich in the possession of my “bonus,” I had plunged even more freely than before into the gayeties of Whittingham, and where I was welcome before, I was now a doubly honored guest. I had also taken to play on a somewhat high scale, and it was my reputation as a daring gambler that procured me the honor of an acquaintance with the signorina, the lady to whom the President had referred during his interview with me; and my acquaintance with the signorina was very rich in results.

This lady was, after the President, perhaps the best-known person in Aureataland—best known, that is, by name and face and fame—for her antecedents and circumstances were wrapped in impenetrable mystery. When I arrived in the country the Signorina Christina Nugent had been settled there about a year. She had appeared originally as a member of an operatic company, which had paid a visit to our National Theater from the United States. The company passed on its not very brilliant way, but the signorina remained behind. It was said she had taken a fancy to Whittingham, and, being independent of her profession, had determined to make a sojourn there. At any rate, there she was; whether she took a fancy to Whittingham, or whether someone in Whittingham took a fancy to her, remained in doubt. She established herself in a pretty villa closely adjoining the Golden House; it stood opposite the presidential grounds, commanding a view of that stately inclosure; and here she dwelt, under the care of a lady whom she called “Aunt,” known to the rest of the world as Mrs. Carrington. The title “Signorina” was purely professional; for all I know the name “Nugent” was equally a creature of choice; but, anyhow, the lady herself never professed to be anything but English, and openly stated that she retained her title simply because it was more musical than that of “Miss.” The old lady and the young one lived together in great apparent amity, and certainly in the utmost material comfort; for they probably got through more money than anyone in the town, and there always seemed to be plenty more where that came from. Where it did come from was, I need hardly say, a subject of keen curiosity in social circles; and when I state that the signorina was now about twenty-three years of age, and of remarkably prepossessing appearance, it will be allowed that we in Whittingham were no worse than other people if we entertained some uncharitable suspicions. The signorina, however, did not make the work of detection at all easy. She became almost at once a leading figure in society; her salon was the meeting-place of all parties and most sets; she received many gracious attentions from the Golden House, but none on which slander could definitely settle. She was also frequently the hostess of members of the Opposition, and of no one more often than their leader, Colonel George McGregor, a gentleman of Scotch extraction, but not pronouncedly national characteristics, who had attained a high position in the land of his adoption; for not only did he lead the Opposition in politics, but he was also second in command of the army. He entered the Chamber as one of the President’s nominees (for the latter had reserved to himself power to nominate five members), but at the time of which I write the colonel had deserted his former chief, and, secure in his popularity with the forces, defied the man by whose help he had risen. Naturally, the President disliked him, a feeling I cordially shared. But his Excellency’s disapproval did not prevent the signorina receiving McGregor with great cordiality, though here again with no more empressement than his position seemed to demand.

I have as much curiosity as my neighbors, and I was proportionately gratified when the doors of “Mon Repos,” as the signorina called her residence, were opened to me. My curiosity, I must confess, was not unmixed with other feelings; for I was a young man at heart, though events had thrown sobering responsibilities upon me, and the sight of the signorina in her daily drives was enough to inspire a thrill even in the soul of a bank manager. She was certainly very beautiful—a tall, fair girl, with straight features and laughing eyes. I shall not attempt more description, because all such descriptions sound commonplace, and the signorina was, even by the admission of her enemies, at least very far from commonplace. It must suffice to say that, like Father O’Flynn, she “had such a way with her” that all of us men in Aureataland, old and young, rich and poor, were at her feet, or ready to be there on the least encouragement. She was, to my thinking, the very genius of health, beauty, and gayety; and she put the crowning touch to her charms by very openly and frankly soliciting and valuing the admiration she received. For, after all, it’s only exceptional men who are attracted by difficile beauty; to most of us a gracious reception of our timid advances is the most subtle temptation of the devil.

It may be supposed, then, that I thought my money very well invested when it procured me an invitation to “Mon Repos,” where the lady of the house was in the habit of allowing a genteel amount of gambling among her male friends. She never played herself, but stood and looked on with much interest. On occasion she would tempt fortune by the hand of a chosen deputy, and nothing could be prettier or more artistic than her behavior. She was just eager enough for a girl unused to the excitement and fond of triumph, just indifferent enough to show that her play was merely a pastime, and the gain of the money or its loss a matter of no moment. Ah! signorina, you were a great artist.

At “Mon Repos” I soon became an habitual, and, I was fain to think, a welcome, guest. Mrs. Carrington, who entertained a deep distrust of the manners and excesses of Aureataland, was good enough to consider me eminently respectable, while the signorina was graciousness itself. I was even admitted to the select circle at the dinner party which, as a rule, preceded her Wednesday evening reception, and I was a constant figure round the little roulette board, which, of all forms of gaming, was our hostess’ favorite delectation. The colonel was, not to my pleasure, an equally invariable guest, and the President himself would often honor the party with his presence, an honor we found rather expensive, for his luck at all games of skill or chance was extraordinary.

“I have always trusted Fortune,” he would say, “and to me she is not fickle.”

“Who would be fickle if your Excellency were pleased to trust her?” the signorina would respond, with a glance of almost fond admiration.

This sort of thing did not please McGregor. He made no concealment of the fact that he claimed the foremost place among the signorina’s admirers, utterly declining to make way even for the President. The latter took his boorishness very quietly; and I could not avoid the conclusion that the President held, or thought he held, the trumps. I was, naturally, intensely jealous of both these great men, and, although I had no cause to complain of my treatment, I could not stifle some resentment at the idea that I was, after all, an outsider and not allowed a part in the real drama that was going on. My happiness was further damped by the fact that luck ran steadily against me, and I saw my bonus dwindling very rapidly. I suppose I may as well be frank, and confess that my bonus, to speak strictly, vanished within six months after I first set foot in “Mon Repos,” and I found it necessary to make that temporary use of the “interest fund,” which the President had indicated as open to me under the terms of our bargain. However, my uneasiness on this score was lightened when the next installment of interest was punctually paid, and, with youthful confidence, I made little doubt that luck would turn before long.

Thus time passed on, and the beginning of 1884 found us all leading an apparently merry and untroubled life. In public affairs the temper was very different. The scarcity of money was intense, and serious murmuring had arises when the President “squandered” his ready money in buying interest, leaving his civil servants and soldiers unpaid. This was the topic of much discussion in the press at the time, when I went up one March evening to the signorina’s. I had been detained at the bank, and found the play in full swing when I came in. The signorina was taking no part in it, but sat by herself on a low lounge by the veranda window. I went up to her and made my bow.

“You spare us but little of your time, Mr. Martin,” she said.

“Ah, but you have all my thoughts,” I replied, for she was looking charming.

“I don’t care so much about your thoughts,” she said. Then, after a pause, she went on, “It’s very hot here, come into the conservatory.”

It almost looked as though she had been waiting for me, and I followed in high delight into the long, narrow glass house running parallel to the salon. High green plants hid us from the view of those inside, and we only heard distinctly his Excellency’s voice, saying with much geniality to the colonel, “Well, you must be lucky in love, colonel,” from which I concluded that the colonel was not in the vein at cards.

The signorina smiled slightly as she heard; then she plucked a white rose, turned round, and stood facing me, slightly flushed as though with some inner excitement.

“I am afraid those two gentlemen do not love one another,” she said.

“Hardly,” I assented.

“And you, do you love them—or either of them?”

“I love only one person in Aureataland,” I replied, as ardently as I dared.

The signorina bit her rose, glancing up at me with unfeigned amusement and pleasure. I think I have mentioned that she didn’t object to honest admiration.

“Is it possible you mean me?” she said, making me a little courtesy. “I only think so because most of the Whittingham ladies would not satisfy your fastidious taste.”

“No lady in the world could satisfy me except one,” I answered, thinking she took it a little too lightly.

“Ah! so you say,” she said. “And yet I don’t suppose you would do anything for me, Mr. Martin?”

“It would be my greatest happiness,” I cried.

She said nothing, but stood there, biting the rose.

“Give it to me,” I said; “it shall be my badge of service.”

“You will serve me, then?” said she.

“For what reward?”

“Why, the rose!”

“I should like the owner too,” I ventured to remark.

“The rose is prettier than the owner,” she said; “and, at any rate, one thing at a time, Mr. Martin! Do you pay your servants all their wages in advance?”

My practice was so much the contrary that I really couldn’t deny the force of her reasoning. She held out the rose. I seized it and pressed it close to my lips, thereby squashing it considerably.

“Dear me,” said the signorina, “I wonder if I had given you the other thing whether you would have treated it so roughly.”

“I’ll show you in a moment,” said I. — “Thank you, no, not just now,” she said, showing no alarm, for she knew she was safe with me. Then she said abruptly:

“Are you a Constitutionalist or a Liberal, Mr. Martin?”

I must explain that, in the usual race for the former title, the President’s party had been first at the post, and the colonel’s gang (as I privately termed it) had to put up with the alternative designation. Neither name bore any relation to facts.

“Are we going to talk politics?” said I reproachfully.

“Yes, a little; you see we got to an impasse on the other topic. Tell me.”

“Which are you, signorina?” I asked.

I really wanted to know; so did a great many people.

She thought for a moment, and then said:

“I have a great regard for the President. He has been most kind to me. He has shown me real affection.”

“The devil he has!” I muttered.

“I beg your pardon?” said she.

“I only said, ‘Of course he has.’ The President has the usual complement of eyes.”

The signorina smiled again, but went on as if I hadn’t spoken.

“On the other hand, I cannot disguise from myself that some of his measures are not wise.”

I said I had never been able to disguise it from myself.

“The colonel, of course, is of the same opinion,” she continued. “About the debt, for instance. I believe your bank is interested in it?”

This was no secret, so I said:

“Oh, yes, to a considerable extent.”

“And you?” she asked softly.

“Oh, I am not a capitalist! no money of mine has gone into the debt.”

“No money of yours, no. But aren’t you interested in it?” she persisted.

This was rather odd. Could she know anything?

She drew nearer to me, and, laying a hand lightly on my arm, said reproachfully:

“Do you love people, and yet not trust them, Mr. Martin?”

This was exactly my state of feeling toward the signorina, but I could not say so. I was wondering how far I should be wise to trust her, and that depended largely on how far his Excellency had seen fit to trust her with my secrets. I finally said:

“Without disclosing other people’s secrets, signorina, I may admit that if anything went wrong with the debt my employers’ opinion of my discretion would be severely shaken.”

“Of your discretion,” she said, laughing. “Thank you, Mr. Martin. And you would wish that not to happen?”

“I would take a good deal of pains to prevent its happening.”

“Not less willingly if your interest and mine coincided?”

I was about to make a passionate reply when we heard the President’s voice saying:

“And where is our hostess? I should like to thank her before I go.”

“Hush,” whispered the signorina. “We must go back. You will be true to me, Mr. Martin?”

“Call me Jack,” said I idiotically.

“Then you will be true, O Jack?” she said, stifling a laugh.

“Till death,” said I, hoping it would not be necessary.

She gave me her hand, which I kissed with fervor, and we returned to the salon, to find all the players risen from the table and standing about in groups, waiting to make their bows till the President had gone through that ceremony. I was curious to hear if anything passed between him and the signorina, but I was pounced upon by Donna Antonia, the daughter of the minister of finance, who happened to be present, notwithstanding the late hour, as a guest of the signorina’s for the night. She was a handsome young lady, a Spanish brunette of the approved pattern, but with manners formed at a New York boarding school, where she had undergone a training that had tempered, without destroying, her native gentility. She had distinguished me very favorably, and I was vain enough to suppose she honored me by some jealousy of my penchant for the signorina.

“I hope you have enjoyed yourself in the conservatory,” she said maliciously.

“We were talking business, Donna Antonia,” I replied.

“Ah! business! I hear of nothing but business. There is papa gone down to the country and burying himself alive to work out some great scheme of business.”

I pricked up my ears.

“Ah! what scheme is that?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know! Something about that horrid debt. But I was told not to say anything about it!”

The debt was becoming a bore. The whole air was full of it. I hastily paid Donna Antonia a few incoherent compliments, and took my leave. As I was putting on my coat Colonel McGregor joined me and, with more friendliness than he usually showed me, accompanied me down the avenue toward the Piazza. After some indifferent remarks he began:

“Martin, you and I have separate interests in some matters, but I think we have the same in others.”

I knew at once what he meant; it was that debt over again!

I remained silent, and he continued:

“About the debt, for instance. You are interested in the debt?”

“Somewhat,” said I. “A banker generally is interested in a debt.”

“I thought so,” said the colonel. “A time may come when we can act together. Meanwhile, keep your eye on the debt. Good-night!”

We parted at the door of his chambers in the Piazza, and I went on to my lodgings.

As I got into bed, rather puzzled and very uneasy, I damned the debt. Then, remembering that the debt was, as it seemed, for some reason a common interest to the signorina and myself, I apologized to it, and fell asleep.