“I may as well say at the start, Mr. Jameson, that although my father is a large land-owner, he has very liberal political views and is deeply in sympathy with the revolution that is now going on in Vespuccia.  In fact, we were forced to flee very early in the trouble, and as there seemed to be more need of his services here in New York than in any of the neighbouring countries, we came here.  So you see that if the revolution is not successful his estate will probably be confiscated and we shall be penniless.  He is the agent—­the head of the junta, I suppose you would call it—­here in New York.”

“Engaged in purchasing arms and ammunition,” put in Kennedy, as she paused, “and seeing that they are shipped safely to New Orleans as agricultural machinery, where another agent receives them and attends to their safe transit across the Gulf.”

She nodded and after a moment resumed

“There is quite a little colony of Vespuccians here in New York, both revolutionists and government supporters.  I suppose that neither of you has any idea of the intriguing that is going on under the peaceful surface right here in your own city.  But there is much of it, more than even I know or can tell you.  Well, my father lately has been acting very queerly.  There is a group who meet frequently at the home of a Senora Mendez—­an insurrecto group, of course.  I do not go, for they are all much older people than I. I know the senora well, but I prefer a different kind of person.  My friends are younger and perhaps more radical, more in earnest about the future of Vespuccia.

“For some weeks it has seemed to me that this Senora Mendez has had too much influence over my father.  He does not seem like the same man he used to be.  Indeed, some of the junta who do not frequent the house of the senora have remarked it.  He seems moody, works by starts, then will neglect his work entirely.  Often I see him with his eyes closed, apparently sitting quietly, oblivious to the progress of the cause—­the only cause now which can restore us our estate.

“The other day we lost an entire shipment of arms—­the Secret Service captured them on the way from the warehouse on South Street to the steamer which was to take them to New Orleans.  Only once before had it happened, when my father did not understand all the things to conceal.  Then he was frantic for a week.  But this time he seems not to care.  Ah, senores,” she said, dropping her voice, “I fear there was some treachery there.”

“Treachery?” I asked.  “And have you any suspicions who might have played informer?”

She hesitated.  “I may as well tell you just what I suspect.  I fear that the hold of Senora Mendez is somehow or other concerned with it all.  I even have suspected that somehow she may be working in the pay of the government that she is a vampire, living on the secrets of the group who so trust her.  I suspect anything, everybody—­that she is poisoning his mind, perhaps even whispering into his ear some siren proposal of amnesty and his estate again, if he will but do what she asks.  My poor father—­I must save him from himself if it is necessary.  Argument has no effect with him.  He merely answers that the senora is a talented and accomplished woman, and laughs a vacant laugh when I hint to him to beware.  I hate her.”