“I want to tell you that I am employed by the Central American consulates in this city,” blustered Drummond.  “And I am waiting only for one thing.  The moment an order is given for the withdrawal of that stuff from the little shop in South Street—­you know what I mean—­I am ready.  I shall not be alone, then.  You will have the power of the United States Secret Service to deal with, this time, my clever lady.”

“Well, what of that?”

“There is this much of it.  I warn you now against working with this Santos.  He—­you—­can make no move that we do not know.”

Why had Drummond come to see her?  Constance was asking herself.  The very insolence of the man seemed to arouse all the combativeness of her nature.  The detective had thought to “throw a scare into” her.  She turned suddenly and swept out of the room.

“I thank you for your kindness,” she said icily.  “It is unnecessary.  Good-night.”

In her own room she paced the floor nervously, now that the strain was off.  Should she desert Santos and save herself?  He had more need of her help now than ever before.  She did not stop to analyze her own feelings.  She knew he had been making love to her during the past week as only a Spaniard could.  It fascinated her without blinding her.  Yes, she would match her wits against this detective, clever though she knew he was.  But Santos must be warned.

Santos and Gordon were alone when she burst in on them, breathlessly, an hour later at the Junta.

“What is the matter?” inquired Ramon quickly, placing a chair for her.

Gordon looked his admiration for the little woman, though he did not speak it.  She saw him cast a sidewise glance at Santos and herself.

Though the three were friends, it was evident to her that Gordon did not trust Santos any further than the suspicious Anglo-Saxon trusts a foreigner usually when there is a woman in the case.

“The Secret Service!” exclaimed Constance.  “I have just had a visit from a private detective employed by one of the consulates.  They know too much.  He has threatened to tell all to the Secret Service, has even had the effrontery to ask me to betray you.”

“The scoundrel,” burst out Santos impulsively.

“You are not frightened?” Gordon asked quickly.

“On the contrary, I expected something of the sort soon, but not from this man.  I can meet him!”

“Good,” exclaimed the Captain.

There was that in his voice that caused her to look at him quickly.  Santos had noticed it, too, and a sullen scowl spread over his face.

Intuitively Constance read the two men before her.  She had fled from one problem to a greater.  Both Santos and Gordon were in love with her.

In the whirl of this new discovery, two things alone crowded all else from her mind.  She must contrive to hold off Drummond until that part of the expedition which was ready could be got off.  And she must play the jealous rivals against each other with such finesse as to keep them separated.