“You know what I mean,” he explained. “Credentials, something he will know came from her—a ring or a piece of paper saying, ‘These are friends. Go with them.’ Or a lock of her hair, or—or—you know,” urged Roddy in embarrassment—“credentials.”
“Are you jesting?” asked the older man coldly.
Roddy felt genuinely uncomfortable. He was conscious he was blushing. “Certainly not,” he protested. “It is serious enough, isn’t it?”
The voice of the Consul dropped to a whisper.
“Who sent you here?” he demanded. Without waiting for an answer he suddenly rose. Moving with surprising lightness to the door, he jerked it open. But if by this manœuvre he expected to precipitate the spy into the room, he was disappointed, for the outer office was empty. The Consul crossed it quickly to the window. He saw the spy disappearing into a neighboring wine-shop.
When Captain Codman again entered the inner office he did not return to his seat, but, after closing the door, as though to shut Roddy from the only means of escape, he stood with his back against it. He was very much excited.
“Mr. Forrester,” he began angrily, “I don’t know who is back of you, and,” he cried violently, “I don’t mean to know. I have been American Consul in these Central American countries for fifteen years, and I have never mixed myself up with what doesn’t concern me. I represent the United States government. I don’t represent anything else. I am not down here to assist any corporation, no matter how rich, any junta, any revolutionary party——”
“Here! Wait!” cried Roddy anxiously. “You don’t understand! I am not a revolution. There is only me and Peter.”
“What is that?” snapped the Consul savagely. The exclamation was like the crack of a flapping jib.
“You see, it’s this way,” began Roddy. He started to explain elaborately. “Peter and I belong to the Secret Order——”