ing and were
listening intently. One of them stepped out and stood beside the
carriage door looking down at the shivering figure before him with a
close and curious scrutiny.

"Eight months in prison!" echoed the police sergeant with a note of
triumph; "what did I tell you?"

"Hold your tongue!" said the young man at the carriage door. There was
silence for a moment, while the men looked at the senator, as though
waiting for him to speak.

"Where were you in prison, Mr. Arkwright?" he asked.

"First in the calaboose at Santa Clara for two months, and then
in Cabanas. The Cubans who were taken when I was, were shot by the
fusillade on different days during this last month. Two of them, the
Ezetas, were father and son, and the Volunteer band played all the time
the execution was going on, so that the other prisoners might not hear
them cry 'Cuba Libre' when the order came to fire. But we heard them."

The senator shivered slightly and pulled his fur collar up farther
around his face. "I'd like to talk with you," he said, "if you have
nothing to do to-morrow. I'd like to go into this thing thoroughly.
Congress must be made to take some action."

The young man clasped his hands eagerly. "Ah, Mr. Stanton, if you
would," he cried, "if you would only give me an hour! I could tell you
so much that you could use. And you can believe what I say, sir--it is
not necessary to lie--God knows the truth is bad enough. I can give you
names and dates for everything I say. Or I can do better than that, sir.
I can take you there yourself--in three months I can show you all you
need to see, without danger to you in any way. And they would not know
me, now that I have grown a beard, and I am a skeleton to what I was.
I can speak the language well, and I know just what you should see, and
then you could come back as one speaking with authority and not have to
say, 'I have read,' or 'have been told,' but you can say, 'These are the
things I have seen'--and you could free Cuba."

The senator coughed and put the question aside for the moment with a
wave of the hand that held his cigar. "We will talk of that to-morrow
also. Come to lunch with me at one. My apartments are in the Berkeley
on Fifth Avenue. But aren't you afraid to go back there?" he asked
curiously. "I should think you'd had enough of it. And you've got a
touch of fever, haven't you?" He leaned forward and peered into the
other's eyes.

"It is only the prison fever," the y