Loring jumped up and laid his hand on O'Rane's shoulder.
"This is all rot, Raney," he said. "You can't go. She's at Innspruck—or will be shortly. Well, that's in Austria, and you've made Austria a bit too hot to be comfortable."
O'Rane picked up a cigar from the box on the table and began to chew one end with lazy deliberation. Never have I met a grown man who so loved to play a part.
"Say, I reckon you're mistaking me for my partner O'Rane—David B. O'Rane," he remarked. "My name's Morris—James Morris of Newtown, Tennessee. Lord Loring? Pleased to meet you, Lord Loring. I'm travelling Europe for a piece of business. The Austrians just love me. I've an oil proposition down Carinthia way and I guess I got the whole durned country in my vest pocket."
"You can't go," Loring repeated, quite unmoved by manner or twang.
"And who'll stop me, Lord Loring? See here, you haven't figured out the proposition. I start away as an American citizen talking good United States, and my name stencilled all six sides of my baggage. Well, I don't anticipate dropping across Vienna, and any blamed customs-officer will do a sight of head-scratching before he measures my finger-prints or hitches me out o' my pants to see if I've a bowie-knife scar in the small of my back. They got their war to keep 'em occupied first of all. And, if that ain't enough, they can look at my passport for a piece. And, when they're tired of that, they can wrap 'emselves up and go off to sleep in my naturalization papers. Guess there's nothing much wrong with them anyway." He turned and spat scientifically into the fireplace, warming to his work. "I've thought this up some. If you'll come forward with a better stunt, why! start in to do it and take all of my blessing you can use. Getting quit of Austria's about as easy as going through hell without singeing your pants. For you, that is. You don't speak decent German, you've no more hustle to you than a maggot in a melon-patch, the rankest breed of blind beggar on a side walk couldn't take you for anything but a Britisher. I've told you what the Embassy's been saying to old man Dainton. If you think you've filed a patent for catching the American Eagle by the tail feathers, cut in and test it: there's not a dime to pay for entrance. Otherwise, keep your head shut for a piece while James Morris gets to work. I been most kinds of fool in my time, but not the sort that goes out of his way to hunt big game with a can of flea-powder. I'm not out for that brand of heroism. I'm going now 'cos I can't find much use for any other way. If I haven't delivered the goods inside of a fortnight, you can picture me leaning graceful and easy 'gainst a wall and handing round prizes for the best show of fixed target fancy shooting. And, if the United States don't declare war inside of twenty-four hours after that, you'll know I been wasting my time and getting all I deserve."
He ended abruptly and regarded us with a provocative smile. I am far from claiming an exhaustive knowledge of O'Rane's character, but both Loring and I were familiar with a certain outthrust of the lower jaw which meant that further argument was superfluous.
"When d'you start?" I asked.
"Morris ought to be here any minute. He's lending me an approved Saratoga trunk covered with most convincing labels. I rang him up last night after you left the Club. And a complete set of papers with all the signs and countersigns and visas you can imagine. Morris really is an American citizen. He had to get naturalized when we moved out of Mexico into the States and floated some of our concessions as an American company. You won't forget about the money, Jim?"
"Raney, you're an awful fool to go," said Loring uneasily.