“Ah, señor, there have been more of those far-off nationals in Santander in the last six months than usually venture here in as many years. They have come in the guise of scientists, interested in the phenomena of subterranean rivers that abound in the valleys to the west of here; as business men, and as tourists. We have been blind dolts. There has not been a revolution here in fourteen years,” and the old man’s eyes shone with pride. “That has been due in the main to the laws that forbid aliens to acquire land. It has barred out the great concessions. You see how it is being circumvented. Tell me, señor, what must we do?”
“The first thing is to warn some powerful and loyal man in the government,” came the quick answer. “He must move with caution, or he will bungle it. As for the rest, I have thought of a plan; but first you must take this step.”
As they strode back to the hacienda, framing the dispatch that must be sent to the capital, Stanley Graydon saw a rider dismounting there. There was something disquietingly familiar about the man’s carriage. As recognition flashed over him, he was torn by conflicting emotions. Dixon! The man who had driven him from the service by lying charges. Dixon! The one man in a thousand who could set in motion the nebulous plan he had framed for the salvation of Ramona Bay.
Dixon greeted him with the old inscrutable smile. There was nothing in his manner or speech, as he explained the reason for his unexpected visit, to suggest that they had ever been shipmates.
“Just ran down, after a conference with the admiral, for a ‘look-see’ at Ramona Bay and the general conditions down here,” he said coolly. “Yes, I called at the legation, but I rarely bother with those diplomat chaps. They told me everything was peaceful. Also, that Señor Navarro,” and he bowed politely, “was the chief landowner out here and friendly toward us. So I took the liberty of riding out.”
With a quick smile, Don Rafael insisted that he spend the night, and then checked himself.
“Thanks, señor,” replied Dixon, as Don Rafael outlined the situation. “I shan’t let thoughts of cholera disturb my sleep. I’ve been shipmates with it at Rio and on the Isthmus, when they were pest holes. Quarantined in half a dozen fever ports.”
Through Don Rafael’s story, however, he had turned his battery of cold, gray eyes on Stanley Graydon. He fancied once that he had caught in them a glimmer of admiration, for the old don had been eloquent in his praise.
With scarcely a pause, Don Rafael plunged into the revelations made by Juan. His long fingers forked through his white beard. His eyes were afire with the startling import of them. Dixon listened, imperturbable, emotionless.
“Your story is very interesting, señor,” he commented. His voice, stripped of feeling, was in sharp contrast to the appeal for help.