“That suits me,” declared the magnate. “We don’t want to have to run Dutch and quarantine blockade both.”
“Meantime, there are two or three cheap but dangerous demagogues who have been making anti-‘Yanki,’ as they call us, speeches in the slums. Sir Willet doesn’t like the looks of it. If there were any way in which you could get through, and to sea, it would be well to take it at once. Am I correct in supposing that you’ve taken steps to clear the yacht, Mr. Brewster?”
“Yes. That is, I’ve sent a message. Or, at least, so my daughter, to whose management I left it, believes.”
“Don’t tell me how,” said Sherwen quickly. “There is reason to believe that it has been dispatched.”
“You’ve heard something?”
“I have a message from our consul at Puerto del Norte, Mr. Wisner.”
“For me?” asked the concessionaire.
“Why, no,” was the hesitant reply. “It isn’t quite clear, but it seems to be for Miss Brewster.”
“Why not?” inquired that young lady coolly. “What is it?”
“The best I could make of it over the phone—Wisner had to be guarded—was that people planning to take Dutch leave would better pay their parting calls by to-morrow at the latest.”