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In front of Marshall, on his desk, was the little iron stamp of the consulate. Protectingly, almost caressingly, he laid his hand upon it.

“I refuse,” he corrected, “to place the seal of this consulate on a lie.”

There was a moment’s pause. Miss Cairns, unwilling to remain, and unable to withdraw, clasped her hands unhappily and stared at the floor. Livingstone exclaimed in indignant protest. Hanley moved a step nearer and, to emphasize what he said, tapped his knuckles on the desk. With the air of one confident of his advantage, he spoke slowly and softly.

“Do you appreciate,” he asked, “that, while you may be of some importance down here in this fever swamp, in Washington I am supposed to carry some weight? Do you appreciate that I am a senator from a State that numbers four millions of people, and that you are preventing me from serving those people?” Marshall inclined his head gravely and politely.

“And I want you to appreciate,” he said, “that while I have no weight at Washington, in this fever swamp I have the honor to represent eighty millions of people, and as long as that consular sign is over my door I don’t intend to prostitute it for YOU, or the President of the United States, or any one of those eighty millions.”

Of the two men, the first to lower his eyes was Hanley. He laughed shortly, and walked to the door. There he turned, and indifferently, as though the incident no longer interested him, drew out his watch.

“Mr. Marshall,” he said, “if the cable is working, I’ll take your tin sign away from you by sunset.”

For one of Marshall’s traditions, to such a speech there was no answer save silence. He bowed, and, apparently serene and undismayed, resumed his seat. From the contest, judging from the manner of each, it was Marshall, not Hanley, who had emerged victorious.

But Miss Cairns was not deceived. Under the unexpected blow, Marshall had turned older. His clear blue eyes had grown less alert, his broad shoulders seemed to stoop. In sympathy, her own eyes filled with sudden tears.

“What will you do?” she whispered.

“I don’t know what I shall do,” said Marshall simply. “I should have liked to have resigned. It’s a prettier finish. After forty years–to be dismissed by cable is–it’s a poor way of ending it.”

Miss Cairns rose and walked to the door. There she turned and looked back.

“I am sorry,” she said. And both understood that in saying no more than that she had best shown her sympathy.

An hour later the sympathy of Admiral Hardy was expressed more directly.

“If he comes on board my ship,” roared that gentleman, “I’ll push him down an ammunition hoist and break his damned neck!”

Marshall laughed delightedly. The loyalty of his old friend was never so welcome.

“You’ll treat him with every courtesy,” he said. “The only satisfaction he gets out of this is to see that he has hurt me. We will not give him that satisfaction.”

But Marshall found that to conceal his wound was more difficult than he had anticipated. When, at tea time, on the deck of the war-ship, he again met Senator Hanley and the guests of the SERAPIS, he could not forget that his career had come to an end. There was much to remind him that this was so. He was made aware of it by the sad, sympathetic glances of the women; by their tactful courtesies; by the fact that Livingstone, anxious to propitiate Hanley, treated him rudely; by the sight of the young officers, each just starting upon a career of honor, and possible glory, as his career ended in humiliation; and by the big war-ship herself, that recalled certain crises when he had only to press a button and war-ships had come at his bidding.

At five o’clock there was an awkward moment. The Royal Mail boat, having taken on her cargo, passed out of the harbor on her way to Jamaica, and dipped her colors. Senator Hanley, abandoned to his fate, observed her departure in silence.