MOTHER JENKS, grown impatient at the lack of news concerning Webster, left Dolores to her grief in the room across the hall and sought the open air, for of late she had been experiencing with recurring frequency a slight feeling of suffocation. She sat down on the broad granite steps, helped herself to a much-needed “bracer” from her brandy flask and was gazing pensively at the scene around her when Ricardo came up the stairs.

“'Elio!” Mother Jenks saluted him. “W'ere 'ave you been, Mr. Bowers?”

“I have just returned from capturing Sarros, Mrs. Jenks. He is on his way to the arsenal under guard.”

“Gor' strike me pink!” the old lady cried. “'Ave I lived to see this day!” Her face was wreathed in a happy smile. “I wonder 'ow the beggar feels to 'ave the shoe on the other foot, eh—the'eartless'ound! I'm 'opin' this General Ruey will 'ave the blighter shot.”

“You need have no worry on that score, Mrs. Jenks. I'm General Ruey. Andrew Bowers was just my summer name, as it were.”

“Angels guard me! Wot the bloomin' 'ell surprise won't we 'ave next. Wot branch o' the Ruey tribe do you belong to? Are you a nephew o' him that was president before Sarros shot 'im? Antonio Ruey, who was 'arf brother to the president, 'ad a son 'e called Ricardo. Are you 'im, might I arsk?”

“I am the son of Ricardo the Beloved,” he answered proudly.

“Not the lad as was away at school when 'is father was hexecuted?”

“I am that same lad, Mrs. Jenks. And who are you? You seem to know a deal of my family history.”

“I,” the old publican replied with equal pride, “am Mrs. Colonel 'Enery Jenks, who was your father's chief of hartillery an' 'ad the hextreme honour o' dyin' in front o' the same wall with 'im. By the w'y, 'ow's Mr. Webster?” she added, suddenly remembering the subject closest to her heart just then.

“His wounds are trifling. He'll live, Mrs. Jenks.”

“Well, that's better than gettin' poked in the eye with a sharp stick,” the old dame decided philosophically.

“Do you remember my little sister, Mrs. Jenks?” Ricardo continued. “She was in the palace when Sarros attacked it; she perished there.”

“I believe I 'ave got a slight recollection o' the nipper, sir,” Mother Jenks answered cautiously. To herself she said: “I s'y, 'Enrietta, 'ere's a pretty go. 'E don't know the lamb is livin' an' in the next room! My word, wot a riot w'en 'e meets 'er!”

“I will see you again, Mrs. Jenks. I must have a long talk with you,” Ricardo told her, and passed on into the palace; whereupon Mother Jenks once more fervently implored the Almighty to strike her pink, and the iron restraint of a long, hard, exciting day being relaxed at last, the good soul bowed her gray head in her arms and wept, moving her body from side to side the while and demanding, of no one in particular, a single legitimate reason why she, a blooming old baggage and not fit to live, should be the recipient of such manifold blessings as this day had brought forth.

In the meantime Ricardo, with his hand on the knob of the door leading to the room where Webster was having his wounds dressed, paused suddenly, his attention caught by the sound of a sob, long-drawn and inexpressibly pathetic. He listened and made up his mind that a woman in the room across the entrance-hall was bewailing the death of a loved one who answered to the name of Caliph and John darling. Further eavesdropping convinced him that Caliph, John darling, and Mr. John Stuart Webster were one and the same person, and so he tilted his head on one side like a cock-robin and considered.

“By jingo, that's most interesting,” he decided. “The wounded hero has a sweetheart or a wife—and an American, too. She must be a recent acquisition, because all the time we were together on the steamer coming down here he never spoke of either, despite the fact that we got friendly enough for such confidences. Something funny about this. I'd better sound the old boy before I start passing out words of comfort to that unhappy female.”

He passed on into the room. John Stuart Webster had, by this time, been washed and bandaged, and one of the Sarros servants (for the ex-dictator's retinue still occupied the palace) had, at Doctor Pacheco's command, prepared a guest-chamber upstairs and furnished a nightgown of ample proportions to cover Mr. Webster's bebandaged but otherwise naked person. A stretcher had just arrived, and the wounded man was about to be carried upstairs. The late financial backer of the revolution was looking very pale and dispirited; for once in his life his whimsical, bantering nature was subdued. His eyes were closed, and he did not open them when Ricardo entered.

“Well, I have Sarros,” the latter declared. Webster paid not the slightest attention to this announcement. Ricardo bent over him. “Jack, old boy,” he queried, “do you know a person of feminine persuasion who calls you Caliph?”

John Stuart Webster's eyes and mouth flew wide open. “What the devil!” he tried to roar. “You haven't been speaking to her, have you? If you have, I'll never forgive you, because you've spoiled my little surprise party.”

“No, I haven't been speaking to her, but she's in the next room crying fit to break her heart because she thinks you've been killed.”

“You scoundrel! Aren't you human? Go tell her it's only a couple of punctures, not a blowout.” He sighed. “Isn't it sweet of her to weep over an old hunks like me!” he added softly. “Bless her tender heart!”

“Who is she?” Ricardo was very curious.

“That's none of your business. You wait and I'll tell you. She's the guest I told you I was going to bring to dinner, and that's enough for you to know for the present. Vaya, you idiot, and bring her in here, so I can assure her my head is bloody but unbowed. Doctor, throw that rug over my shanks and make me look pretty. I'm going to receive company.”

His glance, bent steadily on the door, had in it some of the alert, bright wistfulness frequently to be observed in the eyes of a terrier standing expectantly before a rat-hole. The instant the door opened and Dolores's tear-stained face appeared, he called to her with the old-time camaraderie, for he had erased from his mind, for the nonce, the memory of the tragedy of poor Don Juan CafetÉro and was concerned solely with the task of banishing the tears from those brown eyes and bringing the joy of life back to that sweet face.

“Hello, Seeress,” he called weakly. “Little Johnny's been fighting again, and the bad boys gave him an all-fired walloping.”

There was a swift rustle of skirts, and she was bending over him, her hot little palms clasping eagerly his pale, rough cheeks. “Oh, my dear, my dear!” she whispered, and then her voice choked with the happy tears and she was sobbing on his wounded shoulder. Ricardo stooped to draw her away, but John Stuart bent upon him a look of such frightfulness that he drew back abashed. After all, the past twenty-four hours had been quite exciting, and Ricardo reflected that John's inamorata was tired and frightened and probably hadn't eaten anything all day long, so there was ample excuse for her hysteria.

“Come, come, buck up,” Webster soothed her, and helped himself to a long whiff of her fragrant hair. “Old man Webster had one leg in the grave, but they've pulled it out again.”

Still she sobbed.

“Now, listen to me, lady,” he commanded with mock severity. “You just stop that. You're wasting your sympathy; and while, of course, I enjoy your sympathy a heap, just pause to reflect on the result if those salt tears should happen to drop into one of my numerous wounds.”

“I'm so sorry for you, Caliph,” she murmured brokenly. “You poor, harmless boy! I don't see how any one could be so fiendish as to hurt you when you were so distinctly a non-combatant.”

“Thank you. Let us forget the Hague Conference for the present, however. Have you met your brother?” he whispered.

“No, Caliph.”

“Ricardo.”

“Yes, Jack.”

“Come here. Rick, you scheming, unscrupulous, bloodthirsty adventurer, I have a tremendous surprise in store for you. The sweetest girl in the world—and she's right here——”

Ricardo laughingly held up his hand. “Jack, my friend,” he interrupted, “you're too weak to make a speech. Don't do it. Besides, you do not have to.” He turned and bowed gracefully to Dolores. “I can see for myself she's the sweetest girl in the world, and that she's right here.” He held out his hand to her. “Jack thinks he's going to spring a surprise,” he continued maliciously, “quite forgetting that a good soldier never permits himself to be taken by surprise. I know all about his little secret, because I heard you mourning for him when you thought he was dead.” Ricardo favoured her with a knowing wink. “I am delighted to meet the future Mrs. Webster. I quite understand why you fell in love with him, because, you see, I love him myself and do does everybody else.”

With typical Castilian courtliness he took her hand, bowed low over it, and kissed it. “I am Ricardo Luiz Ruey,” he said, anxious to spare his friend the task of further exhausting conversation. “And you are——”

“You're a consummate jackass!” groaned Webster. “I'm only a dear old family friend, and Dolores is going to marry Billy Geary. You impetuous idiot! She's your own sister Dolores Ruey. She, Mark Twain, and I have ample cause for common complaint against the world because the reports of our death have been grossly exaggerated. She didn't perish when your father's administration crumbled. Miss Ruey, this is your brother Ricardo. Kiss her you damn' fool—forgive me, Miss Ruey—oh, Lord, nothing matters any more. He's gummed everything up and ruined my party. I wish I were dead.”

Ricardo stared from the outraged Webster to his sister and back again.

“Jack Webster,” he declared, “you aren't crazy, are you?”

“Of course he is—the old dear,” Dolores cried happily, “but I'm not.” She stepped up to her brother, and her arms went around his neck. “Oh, Rick,” she cried, “I'm your sister. Truly, I am.”

“Dolores. My little lost sister Dolores? Why, I can't believe it!”

“Well, you'd better believe it,” John Stuart Webster growled feebly. “Of course, you can doubt my word and get away with it, now that I'm flat on my back, but if you dare cast aspersions on that girl's veracity, I'll murder you a month from now.”

He closed his eyes, feeling instinctively that he ought not spy on such a sacred family scene. When, however, the affecting meeting was over and Dolores was ruffling the Websterian foretop while her brother pressed the Websterian hand and tried to say all the things he felt but couldn't express, John Stuart Webster brought them both back to a realization of present conditions.

“Don't thank me, sir,” he piped in pathetic imitation of the small boy of melodrama. “I have only done me duty, and for that I cannot accept this purse of gold, even though my father and mother are starving.”

“Oh, Caliph, do be serious,” Dolores pleaded.

He looked up at her fondly. “Take your brother out to Mother Jenks and prove your case, Miss Ruey,” he advised her. “And while you're at it, I certainly hope somebody will remember I'm not accustomed to reposing on a centre table. Rick, if you can persuade some citizen of this conquered commonwealth to put me to bed, I'd be obliged. I'm dead tired, old horse. I'm—ah—sleepy——”

His head rolled weakly to one side, for he had been playing a part and had nerved himself to finish it gracefully, even in his weakened condition. He sighed, moaned slightly, and slipped into unconsciousness.