se. His point of debarkation would be some secluded
coast village where fellow conspirators could hide him. His advent
into the capital itself would not be made at all unless made at the
head of an invading army, and, if so made, he would remain as minister
of foreign affairs in the cabinet of General Vegas, to whom just now,
as to himself, the city gates were closed.

But Senor Miraflores had selected a more cautious means of entry than
the ship, which might bear travelers who knew him. Rodman spent an
hour on the downward steamer. He managed to see the face of every
passenger, and even investigated the swarthy visages in the steerage.
He asked of some tourists casual questions as to destination, and
chatted artlessly, then went over the side again, and was rowed back
across the intervening strip of sea. Immediately upon his departure
overside, the _Amazon_ proceeded on her course, and five minutes later
the _City of Rio_ was also under way.

The next morning, after a late breakfast, Saxon was lounging at the
rail amidship. He had ceased looking backward, and all his gaze was
for the front. Ahead of him, the white superstructure, the white-duck
uniform of the officer pacing the bridge, the whiteness of the
holystoned deck, all stood boldly out against the deep cobalt of the
gently swelling sea. Saxon was satisfied with life, and, when he saw
Rodman sauntering toward him, he looked up with a welcoming nod.

"Hello, Carter--I mean Saxon." The gun-smuggler corrected his form of
address with a laugh.

The breezy American was a changed and improved man. The wrinkled gray
flannels had given way to natty white duck. His Panama hat was new and
of such quality that it could be rolled and drawn through a ring as
large as a half-dollar. He was shaven to an extreme pinkness of face.
As Saxon glanced up, his eyes wearing tell-tale recognition of the
transformation, the thin man laughed afresh.

"Notice the difference, don't you?" he genially inquired, rolling a
cigarette. "The gray grub is splendidly changed into the snow-white
butterfly. I'm a very flossy bug, eh, Saxon?"

The painter admitted the soft self-impeachment with a qualification.

"I begin to think you are a very destructive one."

"I am," announced Rodman, calmly. "I could spin you many a yarn of
intrigue, but for the fact that, since you began wearing a halo
instead of a hat, you have become too sanctified to listen."

"Inasmuch," smilingly suggested the pai