“Thought you were,” said Mr. Brewster.

“Officially, I have no existence.  The United States of America is wiped off the map, so far as the sovereign Republic of Caracuna is concerned.  Some of its politicians wouldn’t be over-grieved if the local Americans underwent the same process.  The British Minister would, I’m sure, sleep easier if you were all a thousand miles away from here.”

“Tell Sir Willet that he’s very ungallant,” pouted Miss Polly.  “When I sat next to him at dinner last week he offered to establish woman suffrage here and elect me next president if I’d stay.”

Sherwen hardly paid this the tribute of a smile.

“That was before he found out certain things.  The Hochwald Legation”—­he lowered his voice—­“is undoubtedly stirring up anti-American sentiment.”

“But why?” inquired Mr. Brewster.  “There’s enough trade for them and for us?”

“For one thing, they don’t like your concessions, Mr. Brewster.  Then they have heard that Dr. Pruyn is on his way, and they want to make all the trouble they can for him, and make it impossible for him to get actual information of the presence of plague.  I happen to know that their consul is officially declaring fake all the plague rumors.”

“That suits me,” declared the magnate.  “We don’t want to have to run Dutch and quarantine blockade both.”

“Meantime, there are two or three cheap but dangerous demagogues who have been making anti-’Yanki,’ as they call us, speeches in the slums.  Sir Willet doesn’t like the looks of it.  If there were any way in which you could get through, and to sea, it would be well to take it at once.  Am I correct in supposing that you’ve taken steps to clear the yacht, Mr. Brewster?”

“Yes.  That is, I’ve sent a message.  Or, at least, so my daughter, to whose management I left it, believes.”

“Don’t tell me how,” said Sherwen quickly.  “There is reason to believe that it has been dispatched.”

“You’ve heard something?”

“I have a message from our consul at Puerto del Norte, Mr. Wisner.”

“For me?” asked the concessionaire.

“Why, no,” was the hesitant reply.  “It isn’t quite clear, but it seems to be for Miss Brewster.”

“Why not?” inquired that young lady coolly.  “What is it?”

“The best I could make of it over the phone—­Wisner had to be guarded—­was that people planning to take Dutch leave would better pay their parting calls by to-morrow at the latest.”

“That would mean day after to-morrow, wouldn’t it?” mused the girl.

“If it means anything at all,” substituted her father testily.

“Meantime, how do you like the Gran Hotel Kast, Miss Brewster?” asked Sherwen.

“It’s awful beyond words!  I’ve done nothing but wish for a brigade of Biddies, with good stout mops, and a government permit to clean up.  I’d give it a bath!”

“Yes, it’s pretty bad.  I’m glad you don’t like it.”