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“But–Gordon?” His voice was hoarse.

She looked at Santos long and earnestly. “I will take care of him,” she said in a tone that Santos could not mistake. “No–Ramon, no. After the revolution–perhaps–who shall say? But now–to work!”

It was with a sigh of relief that she sank to rest at last when he had gone. For the moment she had won.

Piece by piece, Santos and she secretly carried out the goods that had already been collected at the Junta, during the next few days. Without a word to a soul they were shipped south. The boxes and barrels remained in the musty shop, apparently undisturbed.

Next the order for the arms and ammunition was quietly diverted so that they, too, were on their way to New Orleans. Instead, cases resembling them were sent to the Junta headquarters. Drummond, least of all, must be allowed to think that there was any change in their plans.

While Santos was at work gathering the parts, the stamping machine, the press, the dies, the plates, and the rest of the counterfeiting plant which had not yet been delivered, Constance, during the hours that she was not collecting money from the concession-grabbers, haunted the Junta. There was every evidence of activity there as the week advanced.

She was between two fires, yet never had she enjoyed the tang of adventure more than now. It was a keen pleasure to feel that she was outwitting Drummond when, as some apparently insurmountable difficulty arose, she would overcome it. More delicate was it, however, to preserve the balance between Santos and Gordon. In fact it seemed that the more she sought to avoid Gordon, the more jealously did he pursue her. It was a tangled skein of romance and intrigue that Constance was weaving.

At last all was ready. It was the night before the departure of Santos for the south. Constance had decided on the last interview in her own rooms where the first had been.

“I shall go ahead preparing as if to ship the things on the Arroyo,” she said. “Let me know by the code the moment you are ready.”

Santos was looking at her, oblivious of everything else.

He reached over and took her hand. She knew this was the moment against which she had steeled herself.

“Come with me,” he asked suddenly.

She could feel his breath, hotly, on her cheek.

It was the final struggle. If she let go of herself, all would be lost.

“No, Ramon,” she said softly, but without withdrawing her hand. “It can never be–listen.”

It was terrific, to hold in cheek a nature such as his.

“I went into this scheme for–for money. I have it. We have raised nearly forty thousand dollars. Twenty thousand you have given me as my share.”

She paused. He was paying no attention to her words. His whole self was centered on her face.

“With me,” she continued, half wearily withdrawing her hand as she assumed the part she had decided on for herself, “with me, Ramon, love is dead–dead. I have seen too much of the world. Nothing has any fascination for me now except excitement, money–“

He gently leaned over and recovered the hand that she had withdrawn. Quickly he raised it to his lips as he had done that first night.

“You are mine,” he whispered, “not his.”

She did not withdraw the hand this time.

“No–not his–nobody’s.”

For a moment the adventurers understood each other.

“Not his,” he muttered fiercely as he threw his arms about her wildly, passionately.

“Nobody’s,” she panted as she gave one answering caress, then struggled from him.

She had conquered not only Ramon Santos but Constance Dunlap.

Early the next morning he was speeding southward over the clicking rails.

Every energy must be bent toward keeping the new scheme secret until it was carried out successfully. Not a hint must get to Drummond that there was any change in the activities of the Junta. As for the Junta itself, there was no one of those who believed implicitly in Santos whom Constance need fear, except Gordon. Gordon was the bete noire.