tes are made.
Then, too, there will be dies for the coins. Coined silver will be
worth, twice the cost of the bullion to us. Why," he added eagerly, "a
few more successful days, Senora, and we shall have even arms and
ammunition."

A key turned in the door. Santos sprang to his feet. It was Gordon.

"Ah, good evening," the Captain greeted them. The fact that they had
been talking so earnestly alone was not lost on him. "May I join the
conspiracy?" he smiled. "What luck to-day? By the way, I have just
heard of a consignment of a thousand rifles as good as new that can be
bought for a song."

Santos, elated at the progress so far, told hastily of Constance's
success. "Let us get an option on them for a few days," he cried.

"Good," agreed Gordon, "only," he added, shaking his finger playfully
at Constance, as the three left the headquarters, "don't let the
commander-in-chief monopolize ALL your time, Remember, we all need you
now. Santos, that was an inspiration to get Mrs. Dunlap on our side."

Somehow she felt uncomfortable. She half imagined that a frown had
flitted over Santos' face.

"Are you going to Brooklyn?" she asked him.

"No, we shall be working at the Junta late to-night," he replied, as
they parted at the subway, he and Gordon to secure the option on the
guns, she to plan for the morrow.

"I have made a good beginning," she congratulated herself, when, later
in her rooms, she was going over the list of names of commission
merchants who handled produce of South American countries.

There was a tap on the door.

Quickly, she shoved the list into the drawer of the table.

"A gentleman to see you, downstairs, ma'am," announced the maid.

As she pushed aside the portieres, her heart gave a leap--it was
Drummond.

"Mrs. Dunlap," began the wily detective, seeming to observe everything
with eyes that seldom had the appearance of looking at anything, "I
think you will recall that we have met before."

Constance bit her lip. "And why again?" she queried curtly.

"I am informed," he went on coolly ignoring her curtness, "that there
is a guest in this house named Santos--Ramon Santos."

He said it in a half insinuating, half questioning tone.

"You might inquire of the landlady," replied Constance, now perfectly
composed.

"Mrs. Dunlap," he burst forth, exasperated, "what is the use of beating
about? Do you know the real character of this Santos!"

"It is a matter of perfect indifference," she re