“I am informed,” he went on coolly ignoring her curtness, “that there is a guest in this house named Santos—­Ramon Santos.”

He said it in a half insinuating, half questioning tone.

“You might inquire of the landlady,” replied Constance, now perfectly composed.

“Mrs. Dunlap,” he burst forth, exasperated, “what is the use of beating about?  Do you know the real character of this Santos!”

“It is a matter of perfect indifference,” she returned.

“Then you do not think a warning from me worth troubling about?” demanded the detective.

Constance continued to stand as if to terminate the interview.

“I came here,” continued the detective showing no evidence of taking the hint, “to make a proposition to you.  Mrs. Dunlap, you are in bad again.  But this time there is a chance for you to get out without risk.  I—­I think I may talk plainly?  We understand each other!”

His manner had changed.  Constance could not have described to herself the loathing she felt for the man as it suddenly flashed over her what he was after.  If she had resented his familiarity before, it brought the stinging blood to her cheeks now to realize that he was actually seeking to persuade her to betray her friends.

“Do you want to know what I think?” she scorned, then without waiting added, “I think you are a crook—­a blackmailer,—­that’s what I think of a private detective like you.”

The defiance of the little woman amazed even Drummond.  Instead of fear as of the pursued, Constance Dunlap showed all the boldness of the pursuer.

“You have got to stop this swindling,” the detective raged, taking a step closer to her.  “I know the bankers you have fooled.  I know how much you have worked them for.”

“Swindling?” she repeated coolly, in assumed surprise.  “Who says I am swindling?”

“You know well enough what I mean—­this revolution that is being planned to bring about the new state of Vespuccia, as your friends Santos and Gordon call it.”

“Vespuccia—­Santos—­Gordon?”

“Yes,” he shouted, “Vespuccia—­Santos—­Gordon.  And I’ll go further.  I’ll tell you something you may not care to hear.”

Drummond leaned over closer to her in his favorite bulldozing manner when he dealt with a woman.  All the malevolence of the human bloodhound seemed concentrated in his look.

“Who forged those Carlton Realty checks?” he hissed.  “Who played off the weakness of Dumont and Beverley against the clever thefts of Murray Dodge!  Who is using a counterfeiter and a soldier of fortune and swindling honest American bankers and business men as no man crook—­you seem to like that word—­crook—­could ever do?”

Constance met him calmly.  “Oh,” she laughed airily, “I suppose you mean to imply that it is I.”

“I don’t imply,” he ground out, “I assert—­accuse.”

Constance shrugged her pretty shoulders.