“Not at all. What they would like is my little friend Poritol’s secret.”
“But why Japanese?” Orme was puzzled.
“Why, indeed? A cunning Japanese might as easily have got wind of it as anyone else.”
“But why did you say, ‘I thought so’?” persisted Orme.
“Did I say that? It must have been because I suspected that only a Japanese could be so agile as my assailant. But all this is immaterial. I should have warned you that Poritol’s secret is dangerous. You should not have left your apartments.”
“Well, this certainly is a queer kettle of fish,” muttered Orme. He was beginning to feel disgusted with the situation. He did not like Alcatrante’s oily smoothness, and he wondered whether it would not have been better to hand the bill over to Poritol at the first demand. But it came to his mind that in a certain degree he stood committed to continue the policy he had adopted. He had sought adventure; it was coming to him in full measure.
Together they walked back toward the park entrance. The minister seemingly exerted himself to regain the ground he had lost with Orme. He proved an interesting conversationalist—keen, slightly cynical, but not without an under-note of earnestness.
“You have seen me much abused by your press, Mr. Orme,” he said. “That is natural. I have the interests of my own country to protect, and those interests are of necessity sometimes opposed to the interests of other countries. But if your people would be even more patient with us—all we need is time. There is reason for our persistent to-morrow; for we are young, and it is a slow process to realize on our resources. That is why we do not pay our debts more promptly.”
Orme said nothing, but he thought of looted South American treasuries, of exiled presidents squandering their official stealings at Paris and Monte Carlo, of concessions sold and sold again to rival foreign companies.
They had now reached the park entrance. “There is a cab,” said Alcatrante. “You will ride with me as far as your hotel?”