“Ah, you are overdone,” said I. “Leave it all to me, Jones.”
And this I persuaded him to do. In fact, he was so relieved at seeing the money back that he was easy to deal with; and if he suspected anything, he was overawed by my present exalted position. He appeared to forget what I could not, that the President, no doubt, still possessed that fatal cable!
After lunch I remembered my engagement with the signorina, and, putting on my hat, was bidding farewell to business, when Jones said:
“There’s a note just come for you, sir. A little boy brought it while you were out at lunch.”
He gave it me—a little dirty envelope, with an illiterate scrawl. I opened it carelessly, but as my eye fell on the President’s hand, I started in amazement. The note was dated “Saturday—From on board The Songstress,” and ran as follows:
“Dear Mr. Martin: I must confess
to having underrated your courage
and abilities. If you care to put them
at my disposal now, I will accept them.
In the other event, I must refer you to
my public announcement. In any case
it may be useful to you to know that
McGregor designs to marry Signorina
Nugent. I fear that on my return it
will be hardly consistent with my public
duties to spare your life (unless you
accept my present offer), but I shall
always look back to your acquaintance
with pleasure. I have, if you will allow
me to say so, seldom met a young man
with such natural gifts for finance and
politics. I shall anchor five miles out
from Whittingham to-night (for I know
you have no ships), and if you join me,
well and good. If not, I shall consider
your decision irrevocable.
“Believe me, dear Mr. Martin, faithfully
yours,
“MARCUS W. WHITTINGHAM,
“President of the Republic of Aureataland.”
It is a pleasant thing, as has been remarked, laudari a laudato viro, and the President’s praise was grateful to me. But I did not see my way to fall in with his views. He said nothing about the money, but I knew well that its return would be a condition of any alliance between us. Again, I was sure that he also “designed to marry the signorina,” and, if I must have a rival on the spot, I preferred McGregor in that capacity. Lastly, I thought that, after all, there is a decency in things, and I had better stick to my party. I did not, however, tell McGregor about the letter, merely sending him a line to say I had heard that The Songstress was hovering a few miles off, and he had better look out.
This done, I resumed my interrupted progress to the signorina’s. When I was shown in, she greeted me kindly.
“I have had a letter from the President,” I said.
“Yes,” said she, “he told me he had written to you.”