“Then we get the whole business,” added Ballou. “I know plenty about matters down in Santander,
Legira. You're too wise to put any stock in that tinhorn government you call official. I figure you're out for
what you can grab.
“You've pulled a neat one here in New York. Pulled it to the tune of ten million dollars. Divide it by two,
and you'll be about right. Santander's the only place where you can jump.
“Your official government”—Ballou's words were sarcastic—“will be a joke alongside of the unofficial
when it comes to a pinch.
“I'm laying the cards on the table. We want five million. We'll let you have five if we get five. If you try to
take all ten, we'll tip off the tough boys in Santander. There'll be a revolution, pronto. Five million for us,
five million for the revolutionists.
“So take your choice, Legira. If you want five million—for yourself or your official government—you've
got your chance for it now. Otherwise, it will be ciphers for you. That's final!”
“It is very late, Mr. Ballou,” said Legira wearily. “I suggest that you leave now, so that you may report to
the persons who sent you.”
“No one will know who sent me,” growled Ballou. “You're not going to play with us, eh?”
“I am spending my life in work—not in play.”
Ballou was momentarily disconcerted. Then he shook his forefinger angrily at the quiet, leisurely man who
faced him.
“Ten days,” he said. “That's the limit!”
Francisco was coming up the stairs; Ballou turned away and met the servant, who escorted him down to
the ground floor. Legira could hear the gruff voice mumbling from below.
Lopez came slinking from the closet. He looked at Legira in both admiration and concern. The consul
paid no attention to his secretary's expression. He was smiling grimly, and now a soft, scheming chuckle
came from his lips. He pointed to the telephone. Lopez brought it to him.
Legira held one finger on the hook; the other hand kept the receiver close to his ear. There was a dull
sound of the front door closing.
Softly, Legira called a number. A voice responded after a few moments. The consul appeared to
recognize its tones.
“This is Legira,” he said. “We will try our plan to-morrow. Proceed immediately.”
RISING, Legira stood before a mirror, surveying his own countenance. Lopez was peering over his
shoulder. Legira smiled as he noted the contrast. His own face, despite its suave expression, was
scarcely an unusual one, like that of Lopez. The consul continued to stare, while Lopez looked on,
wondering.
Legira motioned, and Lopez followed him into a dark front room. Together, they peered from the
window. Pete Ballou was standing on the sidewalk, looking up and down the street. A late cab swung
into view. The ex-visitor hailed it, and rode away.
A moment later, Legira nudged Lopez as the form of a man showed on the sidewalk opposite.
“Martin Powell,” said Legira, in a low voice.
The investigator stalked away into the darkness. Both men watched. They saw no one else. A short
exclamation came from Lopez as he gripped Legira's arm. Then the secretary laughed sheepishly.
“I thought that was some person,” he said. “A person that was walking there from over the street. It is
not one.”
Legira, looking, observed a fleeting shadow as it flickered beneath the glare of the lamp outside. Then he
