that night.

She hurried into the dusty ship chandlery. There was Gordon.

"Good morning, Mrs. Dunlap," he cried. "You are just the person I am
looking for. Where is Santos? Has the plan been changed?"

Constance thought she detected a shade of jealousy in the tone. At
any rate, Gordon was more attentive than ever.

"I think he is in Bridgeport," she replied as casually as she could.
"Your ship, you know, sails to-night. He has sent word to me to give
orders that all the goods here at the Junta be ready to cart over by
truck to Brooklyn. There has been no change. The papers are to be
signed during the day and she is to be scheduled to sail late in the
afternoon with the tide. Only, as you know, some pretext must delay
you. You will hold her at the pier for us. He trusts all that to you
as a master hand at framing such excuses that seem plausible."

Gordon leaned over closer to her. He was positively revolting to her
in the role of admirer. But she must not offend him--yet.

"And my answer!" he asked.

There was something about him that made Constance almost draw away
involuntarily.

"To-night--at the pier," she murmured forcing a smile.

Shortly after dark the teams started their lumbering way across the