The man let him pass, and he saw that he was expected when a dusky steward met him at the door. Since the despatch-carrier was known to be a foreigner, it was easy to enter the presidio, but he wondered what would happen before he left. Now that the dangerous game was about to begin, he clearly recognized the risk he ran. For all that, it looked as if he held the trump cards, and he hoped that he had nerve enough to play them well. Pulling himself together, he followed his guide across the patio and up an outer stair, until the man stopped and knocked at a door.
"The messenger, señor," he announced.
Walthew held his breath until he heard the door shut behind him; then he turned to Gomez, who had risen from his seat at a table. It was a small room and the table stood between the men. Walthew felt his nerves tingle and his skin grow damp with perspiration as Gomez looked at him. There was surprise in the secretary's face and he seemed puzzled, as if he were trying to revive a memory.
"You are not the man we were told would come, but I think I have seen you somewhere," he said.
Walthew stood still, his hand in his jacket pocket, as if about to take the despatches from it.
"The other messenger was detained, but we have met. I once dined at your table at the International, in Havana."
Gomez gave him a quick, suspicious glance.
"Then there is something I do not understand, but it is not important now. You bring the President's orders?"
"No; I bring this."
He took his hand from his pocket and the barrel of an automatic pistol glinted in the light.