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“Tell him to come and talk to me,” said the minister.

“He rode over to the ruins of Copan last week,” explained Garland, “where the Harvard expedition is. But he’s coming back to-morrow on purpose to see you.”

The consul had started toward the door when he suddenly returned.

“And there’s some one else coming to see you,” he said. “Some one,” he added anxiously, “you want to treat right. That’s Monica Ward. She’s Chester Ward’s sister, and you mustn’t get her mixed up with anything I told you about her brother. She’s coming to ask you to help start a Red Cross Society. She was a volunteer nurse in the hospital in the last two revolutions, and what she saw makes her want to be sure she won’t see it again. She’s taught the native ladies the ‘first aid’ drill, and they expect you to be honorary president of the society. You’d better accept.”

Shaking his head, Garland smiled pityingly upon the new minister.

“You’ve got a swell chance to get your treaty,” he declared. “Monica is another one who will prevent it.”

Everett sighed patiently.

“What,” he demanded, “might her particular crime be; murder, shoplifting, treason–“

“If her brother had to leave this country,” interrupted Garland, “she’d leave with him. And the people don’t want that. Her pull is the same as old man Goddard’s. Everybody loves him and everybody loves her. I love her,” exclaimed the consul cheerfully; “the President loves her, the sisters in the hospital, the chain-gang in the street, the washerwomen in the river, the palace guard, everybody in this flea-bitten, God-forsaken country loves Monica Ward–and when you meet her you will, too.”

Garland had again reached the door to the outer hall before Everett called him back.

“If it is not a leading question,” asked the minister, “what little indiscretion in your life brought you to Amapala?”

Garland grinned appreciatively.

“I know they sound a queer lot,” he assented, “but when you get to know ’em, you like ’em. My own trouble,” he added, “was a horse. I never could see why they made such a fuss about him. He was lame when I took him.”

Disregarding Garland’s pleasantry, for some time His Excellency sat with his hands clasped behind his head, frowning up from the open patio into the hot, cloudless sky. On the ridge of his tiled roof a foul buzzard blinked at him from red-rimmed eyes, across the yellow wall a lizard ran for shelter, at his elbow a macaw compassing the circle of its tin prison muttered dreadful oaths. Outside, as the washerwomen beat their linen clubs upon the flat rocks of the river, the hot, stale air was spanked with sharp reports. In Camaguay theirs was the only industry, the only sign of cleanliness; and recognizing that another shirt had been thrashed into subjection and rags, Everett winced. No less visibly did his own thoughts cause him to wince. Garland he had forgotten, and he was sunk deep in self-pity. His thoughts were of London, with its world politics, its splendid traditions, its great and gracious ladies; of Paris in the spring sunshine, when he cantered through the Bois; of Madrid, with its pomp and royalty, and the gray walls of its galleries proclaiming Murillo and Velasquez. These things he had forsaken because he believed he was ambitious; and behold into what a cul-de-sac his ambition had led him! A comic-opera country that was not comic, but dead and buried from the world; a savage people, unread, unenlightened, unclean; and for society of his countrymen, pitiful derelicts in hiding from the law. In his soul he rebelled. In words he exploded bitterly.

“This is one hell of a hole, Garland,” cried the diplomat. His jaws and his eyes hardened. “I’m going back to Europe. And the only way I can go is to get that treaty. I was sent here to get it. Those were my orders. And I’ll get it if I have to bribe them out of my own pocket; if I have to outbid Mr. Ward, and send him and your good Colonel Goddard and all the rest of the crew to the jails where they belong!”