Curious and interested now, the concealed man cautiously stepped forth from his hiding-place and peered round the corner of the building. The machine had come to a stop at the door of the Brown bungalow. Straining his eyes, O’Hara was able to make out several blank shapes that descended from the tonneau and noiselessly entered the house. A fraction of a minute later the chugging recommenced as the car was driven over the quarter-mile that lay between the house and the garage.
As O’Hara stood in the shadow, reflecting on the import of what he had seen, a strange feeling came over him—a sense that important events were impending in which he was somehow involved. He was about to dismiss the thought as an idle fancy when he noticed a tiny flicker of light which same through a slit in the drawn curtains of the ranch-house. Suddenly a daring thought gave him pause. Should he attempt to carry out the hare-brained plan that had gripped him so suddenly? Dare he do so?
For several moments he stood lost in reflection. Then, James O’Hara did a curious thing—a thing that might well have aroused a spectator’s curiosity, had a spectator been there to observe it. Though already lightly clad, he noiselessly entered the room where the giant Tom Whalen still lay breathing heavily. Hastily disrobing, he garbed himself in khaki shirt and trousers, which were almost mustard-color from many washings, and left the room again as quietly as he came in. Softly but swiftly, he made his way to the rear of the building, keeping in shadow as much as possible. Then, striking out on hands and knees in a direction at right angles from the beckoning gleam of light, he stopped when he had put a distance of about a hundred yards between himself and his starting-point. The moon continued to beat down on the yellow sands as the creeping figure, visible only as a dark retreating mass against an amber background, suddenly dropped flat on the ground and was lost to view. The khaki costume was now no longer distinguishable, but blended perfectly with the sand, which stretched out for miles on every side in little flats and hillocks.
Resting in this position a few moments, and raising his head now and then to ascertain whether he had been observed, O’Hara started to crawl slowly through the sand in the direction of the bungalow. Fifteen minutes later he had gained the side of the building whence the flicker of light had come.
A thrill of satisfaction gripped him for a moment as he realized that thus far his plan had been successful. And now, as he was considering what further measures to take, the sound of voices engaged in earnest conversation floated out from a window just above him.
A deep voice that quavered with suppressed emotion came to his ears, and a tremor passed down O’Hara’s spine as he realized that his employer was speaking.
“Listen to me, Schwartz,” the commanding voice was saying. “I tell you, this thing must be done. Understand? It must. The Mexican government is friendly to Germany, and would like nothing better than kicking the hated Yankees out. Villa is with us, and will do what we say. But he must be paid. It will take money—lots of it. But later on we will get it back with interest—yes, double interest, and triple interest. Germany must line her pockets, too. The time to do it is now. Later, we will not have so good a chance. Why, man,” and here the voice held a confidential note, “the Fatherland is interested in our success. We are simply carrying out instructions!”
“Ach!” ejaculated the awed listener. “Ve must all help der Vaterland. Ve must all be good Chermans.”
These sentiments must have fallen on grateful ears, for Brown’s next words were uttered in a friendly tone that warmed the heart of his confederate:
“Schwartz, you are a true son of Deutschland. It is men like you who must again make the Fatherland great!”