get to Drummond that
there was any change in the activities of the Junta. As for the Junta
itself, there was no one of those who believed implicitly in Santos
whom Constance need fear, except Gordon. Gordon was the bete noire.

Two days passed and she was able to guard the secret, as well as to act
as though nothing had happened. Santos had left a short note for the
Junta telling them that he would be away for a short time putting the
finishing touches on the purchase of the arms. The arrival of a
cartload of cases at the Junta, which Constance arranged for herself,
bore out the letter. Still, she waited anxiously for word from him.

The day set for the sailing of the _Arroyo_ arrived and with it at last
a telegram: "Buy corn, oats, wheat. Sell cotton."

It was the code, telling of the safe arrival of the rifles, cartridges
and the counterfeiting plant in New Orleans, a little late, but safe.
"Sell cotton," meant "I sail to-night."

On the way over to the Junta, she had noticed one of Drummond's shadows
dogging her. She must do anything to keep the secret until that night.

She hurried into the dusty ship chandlery. There was Gordon.

"Good morning, Mrs. Dunlap," he cried. "You are just the person I am
looking for. Where is Santos? Has the plan been changed?"

Constance thought she detected a shade of jealousy in the tone. At any
rate, Gordon was more attentive than ever.

"I think he is in Bridgeport," she replied as casually as she could.
"Your ship, you know, sails to-night. He has sent word to me to give
orders that all the goods here at the Junta be ready to cart over by
truck to Brooklyn. There has been no change. The papers are to be
signed during the day and she is to be scheduled to sail late in the
afternoon with the tide. Only, as you know, some pretext must delay
you. You will hold her at the pier for us. He trusts all that to you as
a master hand at framing such excuses that seem plausible."

Gordon leaned over closer to her. He was positively revolting to her in
the role of admirer. But she must not offend him--yet.

"And my answer!" he asked.

There was something about him that made Constance almost draw away
involuntarily.

"To-night--at the pier," she murmured forcing a smile.

Shortly after dark the teams started their lumbering way across the
city and the bridge. Messengers, stationed on the way, were to report
the safe progress of the trucks to Brooklyn.

Constance slipped away from