“You see,” explained Mr. Pendleton, “there is only one ground upon which any charge against you can be reinstated—an impeachment of your evidence as to how you have put in the past five years. And,” he smilingly summarized, “since the case comes before this court solely on your self-accusation, since you have journeyed some thousands of miles merely to prosecute yourself, I regard your evidence on that point as conclusive.”
Later, the envoy, with his arm through that of the liberated prisoner, walked out past deferential sentries into the Plaza.
“And, now, the blockade being run,” he amiably inquired, “what are your plans?”
“Plans!” exclaimed Saxon scornfully; “plans, sir, is plural. I have only one: to catch the next boat that’s headed north. Why,” he explained, “there is soon going to be an autumn in the Kentucky hills with all the woods a blaze of color.”
The minister’s eyes took on a touch of nostalgia.
“I guess there’s nothing much the matter with the autumn in Indiana, either,” he affirmed.
They walked on together at a slow gait, for the morning sun was already beginning to beat down as if it were focused through a burning-glass.
“And say,” suggested Mr. Pendleton at last, “if you ever get to a certain town in Indiana called Vevay, which is on some of the more complete maps, walk around for me and look at the Davis building. You won’t see much—only a hideous two-story brick, with a metal roof and dusty windows, but my shingle used to hang out there—and it’s in God’s country!”
Before they had reached the legation, Saxon remembered that his plans involved another detail, and with some secrecy he sought the cable office, and wrote a message to Duska. Its composition consumed a half-hour, yet he felt it was not quite the masterpiece the occasion demanded. It read:
“Arrived yesterday. Slept in jail. Out to-day. Am not he.”