“Perfectly,” said Roddy.
Caldwell surveyed him grimly.
“You are more out of hand than we thought,” he commented. “I have heard some pretty strange tales about you this afternoon. Are they true?”
“You have your own methods of finding out,” returned Roddy. He waved his hand toward the table. “If you wish to join these gentlemen I am delighted to withdraw.”
Caldwell retreated a few steps and then turned back angrily.
“I’ll have a talk with you to-morrow,” he said, “and to-night I’ll cable your father what you are doing here.”
Roddy bowed and slightly raised his voice, so that it reached to every part of the room.
“If you can interest my father,” he said, “in anything that concerns his son I shall be grateful.”
As Caldwell made his way to the door, and Roddy, frowning gravely, sank back into his chair, the long silence was broken by a babble of whispered questions and rapid answers. Even to those who understood no English the pantomime had been sufficiently enlightening. Unobtrusively the secret agents of Alvarez rose from the tables and stole into the night. A half-hour later it was known in Caracas that the son of Mr. Forrester had publicly insulted the representative of his father, the arch-enemy of the government, and had apparently ranged himself on the side of Alvarez. Hitherto the Dos Hermanos had been free from politics, but as Roddy made his exit from the café, the officers of the army chose the moment for a demonstration. Revolution was in the air, and they desired to declare their loyalty. Rising to their feet and raising their glasses to Roddy they cried, “Bravo, bravo! Viva Alvarez!”
Bowing and nodding to them and wishing them good-night, Roddy hurried to the street.