She rose and laid her hand on his arm.  As quickly the look changed.  There was only one way to do it; she must make this man think they understood each other without saying so.

“You must get the counterfeiting plant down on the island—­ immediately—­alone.  Don’t tell any of the others until it is there safely.  You were going to send it down on the Arroyo next week.  It must not go from New York at all.  It must be shipped by rail, and then from New Orleans.  You must—­”

“But—­Gordon?” His voice was hoarse.

She looked at Santos long and earnestly.  “I will take care of him,” she said in a tone that Santos could not mistake.  “No—­Ramon, no.  After the revolution—­perhaps—­who shall say?  But now—­to work!”

It was with a sigh of relief that she sank to rest at last when he had gone.  For the moment she had won.

Piece by piece, Santos and she secretly carried out the goods that had already been collected at the Junta, during the next few days.  Without a word to a soul they were shipped south.  The boxes and barrels remained in the musty shop, apparently undisturbed.

Next the order for the arms and ammunition was quietly diverted so that they, too, were on their way to New Orleans.  Instead, cases resembling them were sent to the Junta headquarters.  Drummond, least of all, must be allowed to think that there was any change in their plans.

While Santos was at work gathering the parts, the stamping machine, the press, the dies, the plates, and the rest of the counterfeiting plant which had not yet been delivered, Constance, during the hours that she was not collecting money from the concession-grabbers, haunted the Junta.  There was every evidence of activity there as the week advanced.

She was between two fires, yet never had she enjoyed the tang of adventure more than now.  It was a keen pleasure to feel that she was outwitting Drummond when, as some apparently insurmountable difficulty arose, she would overcome it.  More delicate was it, however, to preserve the balance between Santos and Gordon.  In fact it seemed that the more she sought to avoid Gordon, the more jealously did he pursue her.  It was a tangled skein of romance and intrigue that Constance was weaving.

At last all was ready.  It was the night before the departure of Santos for the south.  Constance had decided on the last interview in her own rooms where the first had been.

“I shall go ahead preparing as if to ship the things on the Arroyo,” she said.  “Let me know by the code the moment you are ready.”

Santos was looking at her, oblivious of everything else.

He reached over and took her hand.  She knew this was the moment against which she had steeled herself.

“Come with me,” he asked suddenly.

She could feel his breath, hotly, on her cheek.

It was the final struggle.  If she let go of herself, all would be lost.