“Stick.”
“Pins through scarabs,” she laughed, “while beneath you Caracuña riots and revolutes and massacres foreigners. Nero with his fiddle was nothing to you.”
“Miss Brewster, I’m afraid you are suffering from a misplaced sense of humor. Will you believe me when I tell you that I have certain sources of information in local matters both serviceable and reliable?”
“You seem to have bet on a certainty in the Dutch blockade matter.”
“Well, it’s equally certain that there is bubonic plague here.”
“A bola. You told me so yourself.”
“Perhaps there was nothing to be gained then by letting you know, as you were bottled up, with no way out. Now, through the good offices of a foreign official, who, of course, couldn’t afford to appear, this opportunity to reach the mainland is open to you.”
“Had you anything to do with that?” she inquired suspiciously.
“Oh, the official is a friend of mine,” he answered carelessly.
“And you really believe that there is an epidemic of plague here? Don’t you think that I’d make a good Red Cross nurse?”