“How?” asked the signorina.

“By love, if possible!” said the colonel, with a grin—­“that is, by drink.  Failing that, by force.  It’s essential that the old man shouldn’t get wind of anything being up; and if Carr told him about last night he’d prick up his wicked old ears.  No, Master Johnny is better quiet.”

“Suppose he turns nasty,” I suggested again.

“He may turn as nasty as he likes,” said the colonel.  “He don’t leave my house unless he puts a bullet into me first.  That’s settled.  Leave it to me.  If he behaves nicely, he’ll be all right.  If not—­”

“What shall you do to him?” asked the signorina.

I foresaw another outburst of conscience, and though I liked Johnny, I liked myself better.  So I said: 

“Oh, leave it to the colonel; he’ll manage all right.”

“Now I’m off,” said the latter, “back to my friend Johnny.  Good-night, signorina.  Write to the President to-morrow.  Good-night, Martin.  Make that speech of yours pretty long. Au revoir till next Friday.”

I prepared to go, for the colonel lingered till I came with him.  Even then we so distrusted one another that neither would leave the other alone with the signorina.

We parted at the door, he going off up the road to get his horse and ride to his “ranch,” I turning down toward the Piazza.

We left the signorina at the door, looking pale and weary, and for once bereft of her high spirits.  Poor girl!  She found conspiracy rather trying work.

I was a little troubled myself.  I began to see more clearly that it doesn’t do for a man of scruples to dabble in politics.  I had a great regard for poor Johnny, and I felt no confidence in the colonel treating him with any consideration.  In fact, I would not have insured Johnny’s life for the next week at any conceivable premium.  Again I thought it unlikely that, if we succeeded, the President would survive his downfall.  I had to repeat to myself all the story of his treachery to me, lashing myself into a fury against him, before I could bring myself to think with resignation of the imminent extinction of that shining light.  What a loss he would be to the world!  So many delightful stories, so great a gift of manner, so immense a personal charm—­all to disappear into the pit!  And for what?  To put into his place a ruffian without redeeming qualities.  Was it worth while to put down Lucifer only to enthrone Beelzebub?  I could only check this doleful strain of reflection by sternly recalling myself to the real question—­the state of the fortunes of me, John Martin.  And to me the revolution was necessary.  I might get the money; at least I should gain time.  And I might satisfy my love.  I was animated by the honorable motive of saving my employers from loss and by the overwhelming motive of my own passion.  If the continued existence of Johnny and the President was incompatible with these legitimate objects, so much the worse for Johnny and the President.