in the Chinese shops, or drove beneath the stately royal palms of
Ancon; evenings, they loitered about the cool verandas of the
Tivoli or strolled down into the town to watch the crowds in the
plazas. Once in a while Cortlandt went with them, but he was
usually uncommunicative, and they scarcely felt his presence. On
the few occasions when he gave himself rein, Kirk was compelled to
feel for him a surprised and half-grudging respect. Unlike most
silent men, when he did talk he talked easily and well.

Several days passed thus, during which Anthony fully recovered
from his experience at Colon. Then a ship arrived from New York,
but before he had summoned courage to ask his friends for a loan
he received, a letter forwarded from Colon by the American consul,
a perusal of which not only dumfounded him, but entirely altered
his plans.

It was typewritten, on plain stationery; there was neither heading
nor signature, yet he knew quite well from whom it came. It read
as follows:

Don't cable again, or the stupidity of the police may fail to
protect you. The others got away safely and you would be mad
to return alone. I can't and won't help you now. This time
you went too far. You have made your bed, now lie in it. I
don't believe in miracles, but if you can straighten up and
make a man of yourself, I'll help you face this trouble;
otherwise don't call on me for anything. I'm through.

Kirk reread this amazing epistle several times before its full
significance struck him; then, when he realized what it meant, he