“Before he could be fired on a second time,” concluded the diplomat with a shrug, “a new presidente was on his way to the palace. Your countryman was saved.”
If the hero of Ribero’s narrative was a malefactor, at least he was a malefactor with the sympathy of Mr. Bellton’s dinner-party, as was attested by a distinctly audible sigh of relief at the end of the story. But Señor Ribero was not quite through.
“It is not, after all, the story that discredits your countryman,” he explained, “but the sequel. Of course, he became powerful in the new régime. It was when he was lauded as a national hero that his high fortunes intoxicated him, and success rotted his moral fiber. Eventually, he embezzled a fortune from the government which he had assisted to establish. There was also a matter of—how shall I say?—of a lady. Then, a duel which was really an assassination. He escaped with blood on his conscience, presumably to enjoy his stolen wealth in his own land.”
“I have often wondered,” pursued Ribero, “whether, if that man and I should ever be thrown together again, he would know me ... and I have often wished I could remember him only as the brave adventurer—not also as the criminal.”
As he finished, the speaker was holding Saxon with his eyes, and had a question in his glance that seemed to call for some expression from the other. Saxon bowed with a smile.
“It is an engrossing story.”
“I think,” said Duska suddenly, almost critically, “the first part was so good that it was a pity to spoil it with the rest.”
Señor Ribero smiled enigmatically into his wine-glass.
“I fear, señorita, that is the sad difference between fiction and history. My tale is a true one.”
“At all events,” continued the girl with vigor, “he was a brave man. That is enough to remember. I think it is better to forget the rest.”