“It was Corba who put me wise to that resemblance,” Don told the astonished group after Borg had left. “That radioman is a born traitor, and he’s figuring every possible way to cross up his old pals in hope of getting in right with us. He suggested that I might use my likeness to Count Borg as a means of spying on Scorpia’s activities. It certainly looks like a hot idea; but I’d want your opinion of it, Mr. Splendor, before going farther with any plans.”

“It will take a bit of study, I can see that,” replied the veteran Intelligence man. “But first of all, Commander, why ye think Count Borg is not planning a clever trap for ye? He’s too bright a man to be a common double-crosser like Corba. Mind ye, he has been one of the Scorpion’s most trusted agents. Considerin’ that, it strikes me he fell in with your impersonation scheme a bit too quickly. It’s not like him to play traitor to his chief.”

“Which is the very reason I believe he will be loyal to our cause now!” retorted Don, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “You see, Mr. Splendor, our man has been a victim of amnesia. The bullet wound he received this morning restored his memory of everything that happened until the night of April fourteenth, nineteen thirty-three. At that time his skull was fractured by a thug’s blackjack. Of the seven years between then and now he has not the slightest recollection.”

“Amazin’, if true!” muttered the cripple, meeting Don’s level look. “Are ye sure, Commander, that this is amnesia, and not another clever piece of actin’? Count Borg is no ordinary man, remember. He’d be quite capable of plannin’ a trick like that from the moment he found himself aboard ship!”

“He couldn’t fake amnesia well enough to fool an expert,” Don pointed out. “Our medical officer happens to have made a special study of brain disorders, and he says this is a genuine case. Doc thinks that Borg’s first injury changed his whole character. Recalling little except his name, the man became an obedient tool of Scorpia. He remembered no other friends, no other life; and his naturally keen brain was completely at the service of his criminal master. Now, of course, he is horrified at the idea of having been one of that crowd. He wants to make up in some way for the damage he has done as a Scorpion agent.”

“But what luck it would be, Don,” put in Mercedes, “if Count Borg should start to remember his life as one of Scorpia’s aces! He might give us enough information to clean up the entire organization in one swoop. Of course that sort of luck is too good to be real!”

“I’m afraid it is, my dear,” said Splendor. “However, I think we have a chance of getting most, if not all, of the evidence we need, thanks to this resemblance between Don Winslow and his captive. Do ye recall the code message we discovered at the submarine base—the one which Corba later stole from your stateroom, Commander? Well, I had the master-at-arms search all five of our new prisoners before ye were on deck this mornin’. And every last one of them had the same code message tucked away in his clothing! Ye see what that means?”

“Hmmm! It looks as if the Scorpion were calling all his forces together at San Francisco for some big job, if you ask me,” Don answered soberly. “That would be the very thing to get in on—a general conference of Scorpia’s operatives. If I got out of it alive, we’d have enough evidence to hamstring the organization’s power for years to come!”

“That’s all very well, gentlemen,” growled Captain Riggs, picking up his hat, “but I believe you’re going to find some pretty big difficulties in the way. Unless Borg recovers his memory and gives you the Scorpia passwords, not to mention a lot of other information, I fear your disguise won’t get you very far, Commander. You’ll excuse me if I leave you now to take my watch on deck!”

With a brusque nod the Gatoon’s master closed the cabin door behind him. Mercedes looked across at Don, her eyes dark with anxiety.

“I’m afraid Captain Riggs is right about that,” she said. “Oh, Don, I hope you’ll not attempt anything so risky as to pass yourself off for the count! There are a thousand details on which your ignorance would trip you!”

“There’s a way out of that difficulty, Skipper,” spoke up Red Pennington. “Suppose we give out a story that Borg has escaped. Actually of course, he’ll stay in plain sight dressed in your uniform. You’ll be the one who disappears and shows up in San Francisco as Count Borg. You’ll pretend that your memory is partly blacked out by your head wound and that will account for any slips you make, like forgetting people and passwords that Borg used to know.”

“Great stuff, sailor!” cried Don Winslow, leaping up to pound Red enthusiastically on the back. “That story will have enough truth in it to convince the most suspicious Scorpion operatives. What do you think of it, Mr. Splendor?”

The man in the wheel chair wagged his gray head.

“'Tis a clever plan—very clever indeed,” he admitted. “As a matter of fact, I can think of only one person in Scorpia’s ranks whom it would not fool. When I was stationed in San Francisco it was reported that a certain beautiful young girl was in love with Count Borg....”

“A woman!” cried Mercedes Colby. “That tears it, Don! Remember, I was the only one of us who knew that Count Borg was not you? A woman’s instinct will tell her the truth, in spite of the most perfect disguise. If you meet this girl, as you surely will, she’ll know you’re not her lover. By the way, what is her name, Mr. Splendor?”

“They call her the Lotus,” chuckled the gray-haired cripple. “Some say that she is part Chinese, others that she is of pure white blood, brought up by Chinese who kidnapped her in infancy. All agree that she is very lovely and very clever having been trained by Cho-San himself.”

“Then she is all the more dangerous!” Mercedes protested. “Please, Don! Give up this wild notion of putting yourself into Scorpia’s power, for that is just what you would be doing! You might be able to disguise your identity from men, but never from a woman in love!”

“Maybe,” suggested Red Pennington, “this gal Lotus isn’t in love with Count Borg any more. A lot of things have happened since you were stationed in 'Frisco, Mr. Splendor. And a dame like that could change her mind, you know.”

“Sure, 'tis entirely possible, Lieutenant,” the older man agreed. “I’ll think over the whole proposition between now and the time we drop anchor in Port-au-Prince. On the way to my villa in the mountains we can talk again, me friends. Will that suit you?”

“It ought to, Mr. Splendor!” smiled Mercedes rising from her chair. “In the meantime, Don and Red are going to rest undisturbed, if I have to stand guard at the door. After swimming all night and fighting all morning, they’ve got to get some sleep!”

With sleepy grins, the two young officers steered obediently for their stateroom. Tumbling into their berths, clothes and all, they knew nothing more until the cabin steward called them for mess that evening.

The ship had already dropped anchor in the harbor of Port-au-Prince, and Don and his friends were eager to go ashore at the first possible moment. After a hastily eaten meal, they shook hands with the Gatoon’s officers, and stepped into the gunboat’s launch.

At the dock Splendor’s pilot, Panama, met them with a powerful car. For ten minutes they dodged and twisted through the city’s quaint old streets, then struck into a fine, smooth road leading toward the hills.

“Ah, me friends,” sighed Michael Splendor, as the big twelve cylinder car picked up speed, “'tis great to be gettin’ home again after the last few days of excitement! I’m well along in years now, and risks are not so thrilling as they used to be. I’d rather be sittin’ by me own fireplace in peace and comfort.”

Panama’s amused chuckle drifted back from the front seat.

“You didn’t act that way, sir, when you were slamming bullets into those two Scorpion bombers!” he observed. “And when some of their slugs ripped into us, it just made you all the happier—to judge by what I heard!”

“Whisht, lad!” growled the veteran, scowling ferociously. “'Twas naught but the Irish blood of me enjoyin’ the scrap. A true son of Erin always howls when he fights; but me brain was tellin’ me all the while that war is a horrible business, even when you’re fightin’ to stop it. And that reminds me, Commander! I’ve made certain arrangements to further your scheme for impersonatin’ Count Borg!”