a note, he either would have
at once dismissed it as a hoax or turned it over to the precinct
station-house. But as the darkness changed to gray, and the black bulk
of the Cafe Ducrot came into view, his interest quickened. He
encouraged himself with the thought that while in New York the
wording of the note would be improbable, hysterical, melodramatic, in
hot, turbulent Venezuela it was in keeping with the country and with
the people.

Since setting forth from the hotel a half hour had passed, and as he
left the Cafe Ducrot behind him the night faded into the gray-blue
mist of dawn. Out of the mist, riding slowly toward him, mounted on
one pony and leading another, Roddy saw the man who on the night
before had brought him the letter. He was leaning forward, peering
through the uncertain light. When he recognized Roddy he galloped to
him, and with evident pleasure but without speaking, handed him the
reins of the led pony. Then motioning to Roddy to wait, he rode
rapidly down the road over which the American had just come. Roddy
settled himself in the saddle, and with a smile of satisfaction beamed
upon the ghostlike world around him. So far, at least, the adventure
promised to be genuine. Certainly, he argued, Peter could not have
prepared a joke so elaborate.

Apparently satisfied that Roddy had brought no one with him, the
messenger now rejoined him, and with a gesture of apology took the
lead, and at a smart trot started in the same direction in which Roddy
had been walking.

Roddy gave his guide a start of fifty feet, and followed. With the
idea of a possible ambush still in his mind, he held the pony well in
hand, and in front of him, in his belt, stuck one of the revolvers. He
now was fully awake. No longer in the darkness was he stumbling on
foot over the stones and ruts of the road. Instead, the day was
breaking and he had under him a good horse, on which, if necessary, he
could run away. The thought was comforting, and the sense of possible
danger excited him delightfully. When he remembered Peter, sleeping
stolidly and missing what was to come, he felt a touch of remorse. But
he had been warned to bring no one with him, and of the letter to
speak to no one. He would tell Peter later. But, he considered, what
if there should be nothing to tell, or, if there were, what if he
should not be alive to tell it? If the men who had planned to
assassinate Colonel Vega intended to punish him for his interference,