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  "What did you say was the name of this man you are looking for?" he inquired.

  "To the Seńor Shannet, whom he attacked," said the officer, "he gave his name as Benito Mussolini."

  He was at a loss to understand Kelly's sudden earthquaking roar of laughter. At last he gave up the effort, and put it down to another manifestation of the well-known madness of all ingleses. But the fact remains that the joke largely compensated Kelly for the indignity of the search to which his house was subjected.

  The officer and half a dozen of his men went through the bungalow with a small-toothed comb, and not a cubic inch of it, from floor to rafters, escaped their attention. But they did not find Archie Sheridan, who was sitting out on the roof, on the opposite side to that from which the soldiers had approached.

  At last the search party allowed themselves to be shepherded out, for barely an hour's daylight was left to them, and they had already fruitlessly wasted much valuable time.

  "But remember, Seńor Kelly," said the officer, as his horse was led up, "that both Sheridan and Mussolini have been declared outlaws for resisting arrest and assaulting and threatening the lives of the guardia civiles sent to apprehend them. In the morning they will be proclaimed; and the Seńor Shannet, who has heard of the insolence offered to the Law, has himself offered to double the reward for their capture, dead or alive."

  The troopers rode off on their quest, but in those latitudes the twilight is short. They scoured the countryside for an hour, until the fall of night put an end to the search, and five miles away they found the horses of the two comisarios grazing in a field, but of the man Mussolini there was no trace. The Saint had had a good start; and what he did not know about the art of taking cover in the open country wasn't worth knowing.

  He was stretched out on a branch of a tall tree a mile away from where the horses were found when the troop of cavalry reined in only twelve feet beneath him.

  "We can do no more now," said the officer. "In the morning we shall find him. Without horses he cannot travel far. Let us go home."

  The Saint laughed noiselessly in the darkness.

  5

  That night there came into Santa Miranda a peón.

  He was dirty and disreputable to look upon. His clothes were dusty, patched in many places, and threadbare where they were not patched; and his hair was long, and matted into a permanent thatch, as is the slovenly custom of the labourers of that country.

  Had he wished to do so, he might have passed unnoticed among many other similarly down-at-heel and poverty-stricken people; but this he did not seem to want. In fact, he went out of his way to draw attention to himself; and this he found easy enough, for his poverty-stricken appearance was belied by the depth of his pocket.

  He made a fairly comprehensive round of the inferior cafes in the town, and in each he bought wine and aguardiente for all who cared to join him. Naturally, it was not long before he acquired a large following; and, since he seemed to account for two drinks to everybody else's one, there was no surprise when he became more and more drunk as the evening wore on.

  It was not to be expected that such display of affluence on the part of one whose outward aspect argued against the probability that he would have more than a few centavos to his name could escape comment, and it was not long before the tongues that devoured the liquor which he bought were busy with rumour. It was whispered, as with authority, that he was a bandit from the Sierra Maduro, over the border beyond Esperanza, who had crossed into Pasala to spend his money and rest until the rurales of Maduro tired of seeking him and he could return to his old hunting grounds with safety. Then it was remarked that on his little finger was a signet ring bearing a heraldic device, and with equal authority it was said that he was the heir to a noble Mexican family indulging his hobby of moving among the peones as one of themselves and distributing charity where he found it merited. Against this, an other school of thought affirmed that he was a peón who had murdered his master and stolen his ring and his money.

  The peón heard these whisperings and laughingly ignored them. His manner lent more support, however, to either of the two former theories than to the third. He was tall for a peón, and a man of great strength, as was seen when he bought a whole keg of wine and lifted it in his hands to fill his goblet as if it had weighed nothing at all. His eyes were blue, which argued that he was of noble descent, for the true peón stock is so mixed with the native that the eyes of that sea-blue colour are rare. And again, the bandit theory was made more plausible by the man's boisterous and reckless manner, as though he held life cheap and the intense enjoyment of the day the only thing of moment, and would as soon be fighting as drinking. He had, too, a repertoire of strange and barbarous songs which no one could understand.

  "Drink up, amigos!" he roared from time to time, "for this is the beginning of great days for Pasala!"

  But when they asked him what they might mean, he turned away their questions with a jest, and called for more wine.

  Few of his following had seen such a night for many years.

  From house to house he went, singing his strange songs, and bearing his keg of wine on his shoulder. One or two guardias would have barred his way, or, hearing the rumours which were gossiped about him, would have stopped and questioned him; but the peón poured them wine or flung them money, and they stood aside.

  Towards midnight, still singing, the man led his procession up the Calle del Palacio. The crowd followed, not sure where they were going, and not caring, for they had drunk much.

  Now, the Calle del Palacio forms the upright of the T which has been described, and halfway down it, as has been stated, is the palace from which it takes its name.

  In the street opposite the palace gates the peón halted, set down his keg, and mounted unsteadily upon it. He stood there, swaying slightly, and his following gathered round him. .. "Viva! Viva!" they shouted thickly.

  The peón raised his hands for silence.

  "Citizens!" he cried, "I have told you that this is the beginning of great days for Pasala, and now I will tell you why. It is because at last we are going to suffer no more under this Manuel Conception de Villega. May worms devour him alive, for he is a thief and a tyrant and the son of a dog! His taxes bear you down, and you receive nothing in return. The President is his servant, that strutting nincompoop, and they are both in the pay of the traitor Shannet, who is planning to betray you to Maduro. Now I say that we will end this to-night."

  "Viva!" responded a few doubtful voices.

  "Let us finish this slavery," cried the peón again. "Let us storm this palace, which was built with money wrung from the poor, where your puppet of a President and this pig of a De Villega sleep in luxury for which you have been tortured! Let us tear them from their beds and slay them, and cast them back into the gutter from which they came!"

  This time there were no "Vivas!" The awfulness of the stranger's blasphemy had sobered the mob as nothing else could have done. It was unprecedented-incredible. No one had ever dared to speak in such terms of the President and his minister-or, if they had, it was reported by spies to the comisarios, and guardias came swiftly and took the blasphemers away to a place where their treason should not offend the ears of the faithful. Of course the peon had spoken nothing but the truth. But to tear down the palace and kill the President! It was unheard of. It could not be done without much discussion.

  The stranger, after his first speech, had seen the sentries at the palace gates creep stealthily away; and now, over the heads of the awestruck crowd, he saw a little knot of guardias coming down the street at the double. Whistles shrilled, and the mob huddled together in sudden terror.

  "Amigos," said the stranger urgently, in a lower voice, "the hour of liberation will not be long coming. To-night you have heard me sing many strange songs, which are the songs of freedom. Now, when you hear those songs again, and you have thought upon the words I have said to-night, follow the man who sings such songs as I sang, for he will be sent to
lead you to victory. But now go quickly, or you will be taken and punished."

  The mob needed no encouragement for that. Even while the peón spoke many of them had sneaked away into the dark side streets. As he spoke his last sentence, it was as if a cord had been snapped which held them, and they fled incontinently.

  The peón straightened up and shook his fists at their backs.

  "Fools!" he screamed. "Cowards! Curs! Is it thus that ye fight? Is it thus that ye overthrow tyrants?"

  But his audience was gone, and from either side the guardias were closing in on him with drawn sabres.

  "Guarro!" challenged one of them. "What is this raving?"

  "I speak for liberty!" bawled the peón, reeling drunkenly on his pedestal. "I speak against the President, who does not know the name of his father, and against the Minister of the Interior, Manuel Concepcion de Villega, whom I call Seńor Jugo Procedente del Estercolero, the spawn of a dunghill- guarros, perruelos, hijos de la puta adiva . . ."

  He let loose a stream of the vilest profanity and abuse in the language, so that even the hardened guardias were horrified.

  They dragged him down and hustled him ungently to the police station, where they locked him up in a verminous cell for the night; but even then he cursed and rayed against the President and the Minister of the Interior, mingling his maledictions with snatches of unintelligible songs, until the jailer threatened to beat him unless he held his tongue. Then he was silent, and presently went to sleep.

  In the morning they brought him before the magistrate. He was sober, but still rebellious. They asked him his name.

  "Don Fulano de Tal," he replied, which is the Spanish equivalent of saying "Mr. So-and-So, Such-and-Such."

  "If you are impertinent," said the magistrate, "I shall order you to receive a hundred lashes."

  "My name is Sancho Quijote," said the peón sullenly.

  He was charged, and the sentries from the palace testified to the treason of his speeches. So also did the guardias who had broken up his meeting. They admitted, in extenuation of his offense, that he had been very drunk.

  He was asked if he had anything to say.

  "I have nothing to say," he answered, "except that, drunk or not, I shall spit upon the names of the President and the Minister Of the Interior till the end of my days. As for you, seńor juez, you are no better than the guindillas who arrested me-you are all the miserable hirelings of the oppressors, paid to persecute those who dare speak for justice. But it will not be long before your pride is turned to humiliation."

  "He is mad," whispered one guardia to another.

  The peón was sentenced to seven years' imprisonment with hard labour, for there are no limits to the powers of summary jurisdiction in Pasala. He heard the verdict without emotion.

  "It does not matter," he said. "I shall not stay in prison seven days. It will not be long before you know why."

  When he reached the prison he asked to be allowed to send a message by telegraph to Ondia, the capital of Maduro.

  "I am of Maduro," he confessed. "I should have returned to Ondia to-morrow, and I must tell my wife that I am detained."

  He had money to pay for the telegram, but it was evening before permission was received for the message to be sent, for nothing is done hurriedly in Spanish America.

  Twenty-four hours later there came from Ondia a telegram addressed to Manuel Concepcion de Villega, and it was signed with the name and titles of the President of Maduro. A free translation would have read: I am informed that a citizen of Maduro, giving the name of Sancho Quijote, has been imprisoned in Santa Miranda. If he is not delivered to the frontier by Wednesday noon my armies will advance into Pasala.

  Shannet was closeted with De Villega when the message arrived, and for the moment he was no better able to account for it than was the Minister.

  "Who is this man Quijote?" he asked. "It's a ridiculous name. Here is a book called Don Quijote, Quixote in English, and there is a man in it called Sancho Panza."

  "I know that," said Don Manuel, and sent for the judge.

  He heard the story of the peón's crime and sentence and was not enlightened. But he had enough presence of mind to accuse the magistrate of inefficiency for not having suspected that the name Sancho Quijote was a false one.

  "It is impossible," said De Villega helplessly, when the magistrate had been dismissed. "By Wednesday noon-that hardly gives us enough time to get him to the frontier even if we release him immediately. And who is this man? A labourer, a stranger, of whom nobody knows anything, who suddenly appears in Santa Miranda with more money than he could have ever come by honestly, and preaches a revolution to a mob that he has first made drunk, He deserves his punishment, and yet the President of Maduro, without any inquiry, demands his release. It means war."

  "He knew this would happen," said Shannet. "The judge told us-he boasted that he would not stay in prison seven days."

  They both saw the light at the same instant.

  "An agent provocateur--"

  "A trap!" snarled De Villega. "And we have fallen into it. It is only an excuse that Maduro was seeking. They sent him here, with money, for no other purpose than to get himself arrested. And then this preposterous ultimatum, which they give us no time even to consider. ..."

  "But why make such an intrigue?" demanded Shannet. "This is a poor country. They are rich. They have nothing to gain."

  Don Manuel tugged nervously at his mustachios.

  "And we cannot even buy them off," he said. "Unless we appeal to the Estados Unidos--"

  Shannet sneered.

  "And before their help can arrive the war is over," he said. "New Orleans is five days away. But they will charge a high price for burying the hatchet for us."

  Dan Manuel suddenly sat still. His shifty little dark eyes came to rest on Shannet.

  "I see it!" he exclaimed savagely. "It is the oil! You, and your accursed oil! I see it all! It is because of the oil that this country is always embroiled in a dozen wars and fears of wars. So far Pasala has escaped, but now we are like the rest. My ministry will be overthrown. Who knows what Great Power has paid Maduro to attack us? Then the Great Power steps in and takes our oil from us. I shall be exiled. Just now it is England, through you, who has control of the oil. Perhaps it is now America who tries to capture it, or another English company. I am ruined!"

  "For God's sake stop whining!" snapped Shannet. "If you're ruined, so am I. We've got to see what can be done about it."

  De Villega shook his head.

  "There is nothing to do. They are ten to one. We shall be beaten. But I have some money, and there is a steamer in two days. If we can hold off their armies so long I can escape."

  It was some time before the more brutally vigorous Shannet could bring the minister to reason. Shannet had the courage of the wild beast that he was. At bay, faced with the wrecking of his tainted fortunes, he had no other idea but to fight back with the desperate ferocity of a cornered animal.

  But even when Don Manuel's moaning had been temporarily quietened they were little better off. It was useless to appeal to the President, for he was no more than a tool in De Villega's hands. Likewise, the rest of the Council were nothing but figureheads, the mere instruments of De Villega's policy, and appointed by himself for no other reason than their willingness, for a consideration, to oppose nothing that he put forward.

  "There is but one chance," said De Villega. "A radiografo must be sent to New Orleans. America will send a warship to keep the peace. Then we will try to make out to Maduro that the warship is here to fight for us, and their armies will retire. To the Estados Unidos, then, we will say that we had made peace before their warship arrived; we are sorry to have troubled them, but there is nothing to do."

  It seemed a flimsy suggestion to Shannet, but it was typical of De Villega's crafty and tortuous statesmanship. Shannet doubted if America, having once been asked to intervene, would be so easily put off, but he had no more practicable scheme to suggest him
self, and he let it go.

  He could not support it with enthusiasm, for an American occupation would mean the coming of American justice, and Shannet had no wish for that while there were still tongues wagging with charges against himself. But he could see no way out. He was in a cleft stick.

  "Why not let this peón go?" he asked.

  "And will that help us?" demanded Don Manuel scornfully. "If we sent him away now he would hardly have time to reach the border by noon to-morrow, and they would certainly say that they had not received him. Is it not plain that they are determined to fight? When they have taken such pains to trump up an excuse, will they be so quickly appeased?"

  A purely selfish train of thought led to Shannet's next question.

  "This man Sheridan and his friend-has nothing been heard of them yet? They have been at large two days."

  "At a time like this, can I be bothered with such trifles?" replied De Villega shortly. "The squadron of Captain Tomare has been looking for them, but they are not found."

  This was not surprising, for the searchers had worked out wards from Santa Miranda. Had they been inspired to work inwards they might have found Simon Templar, unwashed and unshaven, breaking stones in their own prison yard, chained by his ankles in a line of other unwashed and unshaven desperadoes, his identity lost in his official designation of Convicto Sancho Quijote, No. 475.

  It was the Saint's first experience of imprisonment with hard labour, and he would have been enjoying the novel ad venture if it had not been for various forms of microscopic animal life with which the prison abounded.

  6

  There came one morning to the London offices of Pasala Oil Products, Ltd. (Managing Director, Hugo Campard), a cable in code. He decoded it himself, for it was not a code in general use; and his pink face went paler as the transliteration proceeded.

  By the time the complete translation had been written in between the lines Hugo Campard was a very frightened man. He read the message again and again, incredulous of the catastrophe it foreboded.