“Well, she’s half American,” said Kirk.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean the game isn’t over.  I carried the ball forty yards once for a touchdown in the last ten seconds of play, and Yale won.  I had good ‘interference’ then, and I need it now.  Somebody’ll have to run ahead of me.”

Runnels smiled.  “I guess you can count on me.  What is the plan?”

For the next half-hour the two talked earnestly, their heads together, their voices low.

“I don’t believe it will work, my boy,” Runnels said at last.  “I know these people better than you, and yet—­Lord! if it does come off!” He whistled softly.  “Well, they may kick the political props out from under us, but there will be an awful crash when we hit.  Now, don’t mention this rumor about Blakeley.  I want to see Steve Cortlandt first.”

“Cortlandt!  By-the-way, do you happen to remember that he’s to be our guest for supper to-morrow night?  Kind of a joke now, trying to thank him for what he’s done, isn’t it?”

“Not at all.  It may be our one chance of salvation; he may be the one person who can help us.”

“Well,” Kirk reflected, “I have a good deal to thank him for, I suppose, outside of this, and I’ll go through with my part.”

He proceeded at once to put his plan into execution, his first step being to rent a room at the Tivoli, taking particular care to select one on the first floor in the north wing.  That evening he and Allan moved.  It was a simple process, yet he felt that he was engaged in the most momentous act of his Hie.  As to its outcome much depended upon Runnels and much more upon himself—­so much, in fact, that when he came to look at the matter coldly he confessed the hope of success was slender.  But such as it was he clung to it desperately.

Runnels telephoned during the evening that he had been equal to his part of the task, so there remained nothing to do but wait for the hour of the dance.

Over and over Anthony asked himself if he were not foolish to pin his faith to so slight a chance, but he could find no answer.  He slept little amid his new surroundings that night, and awoke Saturday morning thrilled with the certainty that his life’s crisis was but a few hours away.

It was considerably after dark on Saturday evening that John Weeks, American Consul at Colon, received a caller who came to him direct from the Royal Mail steamer just docked.  At first sight the stranger did not impress Mr. Weeks as a man of particular importance.  His face was insignificant, and his pale-blue eyes showed little force.  His only noticeable feature was displayed when he removed his hat.  Then it could be seen that a wide, white scar ran from just over his temple to a point back of his right ear.

He made his name known as Williams, which, of course, meant nothing to the consul, and while drinking one of Weeks’ high-balls, inquired idly about the country, the climate, and the people, as if in no hurry to come to his point.  Weeks watched him shrewdly, convinced at last by his visitor’s excessive caution that his first judgment had been wrong, and that the man was more knowing than he seemed.  Mr. Williams was likewise studying the fat man, and when he had satisfied himself, came out openly with these words: