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He could hear them say in London, “We know your first secretary, but who is Mrs. Everett?” And the American visitor would explain: “She is the sister of ‘Inky Dink,’ the forger. He is bookkeeping in Sing Sing.”

Certainly it would be a handicap. He tried to persuade himself that Monica so entirely filled his thoughts because in Camaguay there was no one else; it was a case of propinquity; her loneliness and the fact that she lay under a shadow for which she was not to blame appealed to his chivalry. So, he told himself, in thinking of Monica except as a charming companion, he was an ass. And then, arguing that in calling himself an ass he had shown his saneness and impartiality, he felt justified in seeing her daily.

One morning Garland came to the legation to tell Everett that Peabody was in danger of bringing about international complications by having himself thrust into the cartel.

“If he qualifies for this local jail,” said Garland, “you will have a lot of trouble setting him free. You’d better warn him it’s easier to keep out than to get out.”

“What has he been doing?” asked the minister.

“Poaching on Ward’s ruins,” said the consul. “He certainly is a hustler. He pretends to go to Copan, but really goes to Cobre. Ward had him followed and threatened to have him arrested. Peabody claims any tourist has a right to visit the ruins so long as he does no excavating. Ward accused him of exploring the place by night and taking photographs by flash-light of the hieroglyphs. He’s put an armed guard at the ruins, and he told Peabody they are to shoot on sight. So Peabody went to Mendoza and said if anybody took a shot at him he’d bring warships down here and blow Amapala off the map.”

“A militant archaeologist,” said Everett, “is something new. Peabody is too enthusiastic. He and his hieroglyphs are becoming a bore.”

He sent for Peabody and told him unless he curbed his spirit his minister could not promise to keep him out of a very damp and dirty dungeon.

“I am too enthusiastic,” Peabody admitted, “but to me this fellow Ward is like a red flag to the bull. His private graft is holding up the whole scientific world. He won’t let us learn the truth, and he’s too ignorant to learn it himself. Why, he told me Cobre dated from 1578, when Palacio wrote of it to Philip the Second, not knowing that in that very letter Palacio states that he found Cobre in ruins. Is it right a man as ignorant–“

Everett interrupted by levelling his finger.

“You,” he commanded, “keep out of those ruins! My dear professor,” he continued reproachfully, “you are a student, a man of peace. Don’t try to wage war on these Amapalans. They’re lawless, they’re unscrupulous. So is Ward. Besides, you are in the wrong, and if they turn ugly, your minister cannot help you.” He shook his head and smiled doubtfully. “I can’t understand,” he exclaimed, “why you’re so keen. It’s only a heap of broken pottery. Sometimes I wonder if your interest in Cobre is that only of the archaeologist.”

“What other interest–” demanded Peabody.

“Doesn’t Ward’s buried treasure appeal at all?” asked the minister. “I mean, of course, to your imagination. It does to mine.”

The young professor laughed tolerantly.

“Buried treasure!” he exclaimed. “If Ward has found treasure, and I think he has, he’s welcome to it. What we want is what you call the broken pottery. It means nothing to you, but to men like myself, who live eight hundred years behind the times, it is much more precious than gold.”

A few moments later Professor Peabody took his leave, and it was not until he had turned the corner of the Calle Morazan that he halted and, like a man emerging from water, drew a deep breath.