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“Do you want to know what I think?” she scorned, then without waiting added, “I think you are a crook–a blackmailer,–that’s what I think of a private detective like you.”

The defiance of the little woman amazed even Drummond. Instead of fear as of the pursued, Constance Dunlap showed all the boldness of the pursuer.

“You have got to stop this swindling,” the detective raged, taking a step closer to her. “I know the bankers you have fooled. I know how much you have worked them for.”

“Swindling?” she repeated coolly, in assumed surprise. “Who says I am swindling?”

“You know well enough what I mean–this revolution that is being planned to bring about the new state of Vespuccia, as your friends Santos and Gordon call it.”

“Vespuccia–Santos–Gordon?”

“Yes,” he shouted, “Vespuccia–Santos–Gordon. And I’ll go further. I’ll tell you something you may not care to hear.”

Drummond leaned over closer to her in his favorite bulldozing manner when he dealt with a woman. All the malevolence of the human bloodhound seemed concentrated in his look.

“Who forged those Carlton Realty checks?” he hissed. “Who played off the weakness of Dumont and Beverley against the clever thefts of Murray Dodge! Who is using a counterfeiter and a soldier of fortune and swindling honest American bankers and business men as no man crook–you seem to like that word–crook–could ever do?”

Constance met him calmly. “Oh,” she laughed airily, “I suppose you mean to imply that it is I.”

“I don’t imply,” he ground out, “I assert–accuse.”

Constance shrugged her pretty shoulders.

“I want to tell you that I am employed by the Central American consulates in this city,” blustered Drummond. “And I am waiting only for one thing. The moment an order is given for the withdrawal of that stuff from the little shop in South Street–you know what I mean–I am ready. I shall not be alone, then. You will have the power of the United States Secret Service to deal with, this time, my clever lady.”

“Well, what of that?”

“There is this much of it. I warn you now against working with this Santos. He–you–can make no move that we do not know.”

Why had Drummond come to see her? Constance was asking herself. The very insolence of the man seemed to arouse all the combativeness of her nature. The detective had thought to “throw a scare into” her. She turned suddenly and swept out of the room.

“I thank you for your kindness,” she said icily. “It is unnecessary. Good-night.”

In her own room she paced the floor nervously, now that the strain was off. Should she desert Santos and save herself? He had more need of her help now than ever before. She did not stop to analyze her own feelings. She knew he had been making love to her during the past week as only a Spaniard could. It fascinated her without blinding her. Yes, she would match her wits against this detective, clever though she knew he was. But Santos must be warned.

Santos and Gordon were alone when she burst in on them, breathlessly, an hour later at the Junta.

“What is the matter?” inquired Ramon quickly, placing a chair for her.

Gordon looked his admiration for the little woman, though he did not speak it. She saw him cast a sidewise glance at Santos and herself.

Though the three were friends, it was evident to her that Gordon did not trust Santos any further than the suspicious Anglo-Saxon trusts a foreigner usually when there is a woman in the case.

“The Secret Service!” exclaimed Constance. “I have just had a visit from a private detective employed by one of the consulates. They know too much. He has threatened to tell all to the Secret Service, has even had the effrontery to ask me to betray you.”

“The scoundrel,” burst out Santos impulsively.

“You are not frightened?” Gordon asked quickly.

“On the contrary, I expected something of the sort soon, but not from this man. I can meet him!”