The officer was a young man, in neat-fitting blue uniform, and he had keen, sharp features. He wore a little black mustache, like that of the villain from a melodrama. He was suavely polite.
MEXICAN POLICEMEN IN WHITE SPATS
“Mario Sanchez, aide to his excellency, Venustiano Carranza, President of the Republic of Mexico, at your service, señores!”
We bowed. There was a cool reserve about him that told us he did not expect to be kissed.
“You are the Señores Foster and Eustace, I believe, the authors of these newspaper articles that I here display?”
We stared in amazement at a sheaf of clippings which he held before us. Our writings had been published! The news of our death, followed by a letter describing our heroic escape from Pedro Zamorra, had brought us fame! We were headlined on front pages! And our articles about Mexico had all found a market! We were successful free-lance newspaper correspondents!
“But where on earth did you get them?” demanded Eustace, incredulously.
The officer smiled.
“My government keeps a careful check upon writers who discuss our administration in the United States. And you have honored us with a request for an interview. It is customary, of course, that such requests come through the American Embassy, but in this case, we are very pleased that it has not. President Carranza will grant the interview on one condition—that you tell not the Embassy you are coming. To-morrow evening, I shall call for you, but you must come with me, very quietly, to the Palace, telling no one. I can not now explain. But it is very important that you tell no one. Until to-morrow evening, at the eight o’clock. Adios, señores. I am your humble servant.”