“We’ll have the squadron at anchor in Ramona Bay two days before Henriquez is ready to spring his coup. We’ll have a division of destroyers searching for those gun-running expeditions. And when it’s all over, Don Rafael, I’ll tell why I came to Santander. If you’ll give me your hand at the end of that story, it will be all the reward I shall ask.”
“God bless you, señor!” Don Rafael’s voice was husky.
From Dixon’s bag Stanley Graydon brought a sheaf of official message blanks. He framed his dispatch in convincing naval terms, explicit and shipshape, and signed Dixon’s name to it. Behind him Don Rafael’s lined face was creased with a smile of beatific joy.
Stubbornly Dixon held to the faith that death could come to him only at sea, but he was weakening fast. Another day passed before the message seemed to have penetrated to his indomitable soul that he might not outlive the day. His mind was clear as the tone of a ship’s bell. His voice, despite its weakness, held the cold quality that was the index to the man.
“Graydon,” he gasped, “they’ll be piping me over the side soon. Listen to me for a moment, old man. When I’ve finished, bring Don Rafael here. You’ll need a witness to the last part of my yarn.” He choked for a moment and then went grimly on:
“I’ve always been crooked, Graydon. I ‘gouged’ my way through Annapolis on the one subject I was weak in. Steered a lone course. Never a messmate, I wouldn’t have sacrificed my lone hand if it meant a step toward flag command.”
A flicker of pain played over the masklike face.
“Needed money to make my ambitions come true. Played the stock market from the day I drew my first pay check. Bottom fell out of the market last fall. Wiped me out. Needed money desperately.” The thin lips pressed tightly against his bared teeth. “Sold the only thing that would get the price I needed—copy of the secret plans for the defense of Panama Canal. Final payment the day I delivered them.”
The cold gray eyes bored straight at Stanley Graydon and read in his eyes incredulous disbelief.
“Two weeks from to-day, Graydon,” the dogged whisper went on. “the Franklin will be off Balboa. Draft from Mare Island to replace the sick and short-time men. Mess attendants in draft. Filipino boys—all but one. He looks like a Filipino. Officer of general staff in his own navy.”