Constance looked out of the window of her sitting room.  This was a business proposition, not to be influenced by any sentiment.

She watched the lights moving up and down the river and bay.  There were craft from the ends of the earth.  She speculated on the romantic secrets hidden in liner and tramp.  Surely they could scarcely be more romantic than the appeal Santos was making.

“Will you help us?” urged Santos, leaning further over the map to read her averted face.

In her loneliness after she had given up Murray Dodge, life in New York had seemed even more bitter to Constance than before.  Yet the great city cast a spell over her, with its countless opportunities for adventure.  She could not leave it, but had taken a suite in a quiet boarding house overlooking the bay from the Heights in Brooklyn.

One guest in particular had interested her.  He was a Latin American, Ramon Santos.  She noticed that he seldom appeared at breakfast or luncheon.  But at dinner he often, ordered much as if it were seven o’clock in the morning instead of the evening.  He was a mystery and mysteries interested her.  Did he work all night and sleep all day?  What was he doing?

She was astonished a few nights after her arrival to receive a call from the mysterious evening breakfaster.

“Pardon—­I intrude,” he began gracefully, presenting his card.  “But I have heard how clever you are, Senora Dunlap.  A friend, in an importing firm, has told me of you, a Mr. Dodge.”

Constance was startled at the name.  Murray had indeed written a little note expressing his entire confidence in Mr. Santos.  Formal as it was, Constance thought she could read between the lines the same feeling toward her that he had expressed at their parting.

Santos gave her no time to live over the past.

“You see, Mrs. Dunlap,” he explained, as he led up to the object of his visit, “the time has come to overthrow the regime in Central America—­for a revolution which will bring together all the countries in a union like the old United States of Central America.”

He had spread out the map on the table.

“Only,” he added, “we would call the new state, Vespuccia.”

“We?” queried Constance.

“Yes—­my—­colleagues-you call it in English!  We have already a Junta with headquarters in an old loft on South Street, in New York.”

Santos indicated the plan of campaign on the map.

“We shall strike a blow,” he cried, bringing his fist down on the table as if the blow had already fallen, “that will paralyze the enemy at the very start!”

He paused.

“Will you help us raise the money?” he repeated earnestly.

Constance had been inactive long enough.  The appeal was romantic, almost irresistible.  Besides—­no, at the outset she put out of consideration any thought of the fascinating young soldier of fortune himself.