Accused of the most dishonorable conduct, cast off from the navy and the life he loved, Graydon still found opportunity to serve his country and erase the stain on his honor.

The echoes of the ship’s bugle, calling away the second whaleboat, died softly in the still harbor of San Juan de Gracias. The boat crew ran out on the boom, down its swinging rope ladder to the thwarts beneath, and pulled out to the gangway. At the head of the gangway stood a man in blue civilian serge and wide-brimmed panama hat. The brim half hid the eyes that were held to the seam of the cruiser’s deck. His shoulders sagged like those of a fighter waiting the knock-out blow.

The curt announcement of the ensign on watch, “Your boat is alongside,” brought the man’s head up with a jerk. His shoulders braced and his heels met. Mechanically his hand went in salute to the brim of the panama. In the old formula of the quarter-deck he answered: “I have your permission to leave the ship, sir?”

There was no answer. For a moment he faced aft to where the colors rippled over the taffrail. Then, with head down, shoulders drooping, he turned and ran down the ladder to the waiting whaleboat. The ensign stepped to the rail.

“In the whaleboat there. Land Mr. Graydon on the beach and return to the ship!”

“Aye, aye, sir! Shove off for’ard! Out oars! Way together!”

Swirls of phosphorescence leaped away from the driving ash blades, to trail like ropes of pearl in the wake. On the low-lying beach to which they raced, slender palm trees, silver lances in the blazing sun, stabbed upward through the heat mirage that ran like white fire. The thatched roofs of the native village sprawled in untidy array before the blurred eyes of the man in blue serge.

The next stage by which Stanley Graydon, ex-captain of marines, severed his ties with the service was a schooner that warped alongside a wharf at Santander, capital of the Republic of Santander, three days later. To the beauty of those sea leagues and to the bizarre life on the schooner he was blind. His thoughts were elsewhere.

One picture, that of the unforgettable night in the wardroom of the U. S. S. Franklin, flagship of the Special Service Squadron, haunted him like a nightmare. There was Dixon, squadron intelligence officer, face white as the cloth on the poker table, voice shaking with cold passion, denouncing him as a card sharp. He had dashed the undealt pack full into Dixon’s face. Only the restraining arms of his shipmates had kept him from driving his fist full into that sneering countenance. Then, like the ever-changing picture on a screen, Dixon coolly searched through the scattered cards until he had separated an even dozen.

Held against the light, while their breathless shipmates crowded closer, Dixon pointed out the tiny pin-prick points in their upper corner. A swift manipulation. Five of the marked cards lay face up on the table. The ace-high full on which Graydon had won the last pot. A sharp, curt order by Dixon. The surgeon returning from his cabin with a pack of cards—a pack that was an exact duplicate in pattern and color to the marked pack. The deft fingers of Dixon weaving through them, now and then holding one to the light. In the corner the tiny telltale points.

That same night—the vision followed swiftly—a corporal of marines, one of his own crack detachment, pacing slowly before the closed door of his cabin. The morning, with the admiral’s orderly, one of that gallant platoon he had led into the Bois de Belleau, at his door.

“The admiral’s compliments, sir, and he would like to see the captain in his cabin.”

The picture came clear. Kelly’s gloved hand falling away smartly from the visor of his cap. The strained face relaxed, and the haunted look in Stanley Graydon’s face softened. He would never forget Kelly, blessed old leatherneck, with his hand outstretched, and his husky voice.

“It’s a damn, dirty shame, captain. We’re with you, every marine in the outfit. You’ll come clean out of this barrage.”

The measured toll of the schooner’s bell sounded midnight. Stanley Graydon, leaning over the rail, hands gripping the shrouds, went on with the reconstruction of his hell.

 
For a full hour they had talked it over, and every word of the white-haired admiral had burned into his memory. His ten years of clean service. His brilliant record overseas. His taut performance of duty in the squadron. His heavy poker losses for two straight months, and then his phenomenal change of luck. At its end, the admiral had delivered his edict.

“Here is my verdict, Graydon: Trial by general court-martial, or your resignation for the good of the service. I may have no right to offer you that alternative, but your record merits it. With all my heart I wish that you may be able to disprove these damnable charges. I will give you a fortnight and the assistance of any officer you may name.”

His fine old face was twitching, and his voice a bit shaky.

The fortnight had expired, a space of veritable exile. At its end the net of circumstantial evidence had tightened slowly and inexorably. He had dully accepted the alternative of resignation, for he had to find sanctuary for a while, some place where he would have time to think more clearly. But the thought rankled in his mind that his choice would be construed as a tacit admission of his guilt.

It was the admiral himself who had suggested Santander as a temporary anchorage in which he might have time to plan his course. Santander was in the vicinity, and its rich coffee and sugar plantations and its forests of hardwoods might lead to some business opening, while he fought for vindication.

The schooner tied up alongside the wharf at Santander, with disorderly tumult. Its very antithesis of the orderly man-of-war discipline that was steeped in his blood brought a wry smile to his lips. He made his way to the Hotel Grande Centrale, a rambling white hostelry facing the Plaza Concepcion.

The inevitable statue of a general, with cocked hat and brandished sword, astride of a fiery rocking-horse, dominated the sleepy plaza. At its sight Stanley Graydon’s native optimism was beating back to full tide. He raised his hat in mock salute.

“Greetings, old-timer!” he said softly. “I knew you when you were masquerading as Dessalines, in the Champ de Mars, at Port-au-Prince. I ran across your bows in Caracas, as Simon Bolivar. The day we hit the beach in Guatemala last March, you were holding the spotlight of a dusty old square as Carrera. Some day I’ll set up a little banana republic of my own. Then I’ll write out a treasury warrant for the price of ‘One (1) statue, imitation bronze. Model AA, Series 2408,’ and the big mail-order house in Chicago will ship me your twin brother. Wait until I get into the café, my dear general, and I’ll drink your health.”

A barefooted waiter placed a green “swizzle” on his marble-topped table. As he raised it to his lips, he was aware that a group of officers at a near-by table was watching him with undisguised interest. One was a swaggering, swarthy giant of a man, with a sweeping black mustache and the rank devices of a colonel on his shoulders and cuffs. The others were, with one exception, conventional tyes of Central American soldiery. The exception was a youngster, barely out of his teens, but with a captain’s devices on the freshly starched khaki, with its red piping. His face was oval, and his features were clearly cut. Stanley Graydon appraised him as far superior in birth and breeding to his mates.

The swarthy colonel returned his casual glance with an ill-favored scowl. He turned to the others, and a ripple of laughter swept over them at his remark. It was clear to Stanley Graydon that they were in the mood for sport with a gringo. He paid his score, and, as he passed their table, a roar of derisive, raucous laughter followed.

“Damned ‘spigs!’” he muttered contemptuously. “Probably had as much as two drinks, and feeling them.”

Out he went, blissfully unconscious that his straight, flat back, trim shoulders, and precise stride marked him indelibly in a caste strikingly at variance with the business men, generous of girth, careless of bearing, who ventured into Santander.

 
Early the next morning he started for a ride into the savannas. His mount was a spirited stallion, and his spirits rose, as he cleared the cobbled streets and cantered briskly on. Ahead lay the panorama of the rolling savannas. For miles the lush acres, pale green with sugar cane, rippled like an inland sea. Here and there showed irregular patches of varied crops. The red roofs of haciendas loomed above their blotched huddles of outbuildings. Above them tossed the silhouetted feathers of giant palms against the pale blue of the tropical sky.

To the south the sun danced on a broad expanse of water, where a great bay, with a bottle-neck entrance between bold headlands, lay like a silver mirror in the frame of dark-green shores.

“Ramona Bay! Lord, what a picture!”

His mind raced back to the charts and maps over which he and Dixon had worked out maneuver problems for the admiral. With his background of overseas service, he had been detailed as Dixon’s assistant. All the plans of naval action on the West coast had stressed the overwhelming importance of a base on Ramona Bay. Its seizure by a hostile force would have exposed the fleet’s line of communications to a deadly menace; the home coast to dangerous raids; the diversion of naval units that would be vitally needed in the main theater of operations.

The sudden thunder of hoofs and boisterous laughter broke into his reflective mood. Out from the cover of a patch of woods came the riders. The distance narrowed, and he saw the red piping on khaki uniforms and recognized the riders as the group in the café. There was studied insolence in their faces, and Stanley Graydon reined to one side to give them a wide berth.

The horseman on the near flank, the swarthy colonel, deliberately moved toward him at a lively canter. His own mount, crowded uncomfortably close to the cactus hedge, wheeled and lashed out with his heels. The unshod hoofs drummed viciously into the flank of the colonel’s mount. A riding crop slashed across the rump of Stanley Graydon’s stallion, and a burst of derisive glee greeted the animal’s frenzied leap.

His crop lashed back with retaliatory slash across the colonel’s hands. His stallion, now panicky, bolted. A pistol shot whistled overhead. Furious at his apparent flight, he was unable to check his racing animal until he had covered a full half mile beyond the wooded stretch.

The rest of the day passed without incident, while he gathered information about Santander’s commercial life from the loquacious manager of the hotel. By deft questioning he also learned that the bellicose colonel was Henriquez, commandant of the Palace Guard. The youngster was Captain Juan Navarro, whose father, Don Rafael, was a wealthy landowner on the shores of Ramona Bay, and highly esteemed throughout Santander.

All this, however, held no clew to the patent hostility of the Henriquez faction. At all events, he was determined not to let it disturb his plans for a second ride into the interior, the following day.

Noon had passed before he wheeled his stallion homeward. He was trotting regretfully out of the cover of woods into the heat of the savanna lands. The drum of fast-flying hoofs and an exultant cry warned him that treachery was afoot. He had purposely gone unarmed, but now how he longed to close his fingers over the butt of a service pistol. Out from their ambush rushed a squad of horsemen, Henriquez at their head. With horses rearing and kicking, pistols barking, the unequal fight was on. The butt of a pistol fell with solid thud on the back of his head, as they milled about him.

When Stanley Graydon recovered his senses he was trussed in his saddle like a pack of coffee. Ahead of him he saw Captain Navarro, limp in his saddle, supported by one of the party. A crimson splotch was staining the youngster’s side. Beyond loomed the gates of a hacienda. Through a grove of mango trees water gleamed. At the end of a row of flame trees, scarlet with blossom, the troop halted.

The gates swung open, and they moved at a walk to the steps of a wide veranda. The agitated cries of a woman, the stern bass of a man’s excited queries, were enough to tell him that it was the hacienda of Don Rafael Navarro, on the shores of Ramona Bay.

The coolness of the interior into which he was hurried was grateful after that trussed-up ride in the blazing sun. His wrists and ankles were swollen from their bonds. His head ached frightfully from the pistol-butt’s blow. It left him lethargic to the hostile looks of the group that faced him. He listened with a mocking smile, while Henriquez told his fantastic tale of a fight in which Graydon was made the aggressor. There was no flinching from the steel-blue eyes of Don Rafael.

He was tempted to protest that he had been unarmed; that the wound of young Captain Navarro could only have been inflicted by a wild pistol shot from one of his own friends, but at his first words Don Rafael silenced him.

“Enough! It shall be as you advise, Colonel Henriquez. He will remain a prisoner here. On the outcome of my son’s wound shall await the final decision. If the good God wills that my son shall die——” He halted. The silence was significant.

“José!”

A forbidding mozo, barefooted and clad in blue denim, stepped forward. The orders were too swift for Stanley Graydon to follow, but they awoke an evil grin on José’s face.

“Your hands and feet will no longer be bound, señor,” Don Rafael addressed him. “If you attempt to escape, however, José’s machete has a sharp edge, and my hounds are quick on the trail.”

A snowy-haired woman, evidently his wife, drew herself sharply against the wall, as he and José passed. Her sensitive mouth was twisted in aversion.

Outside the grilled door of his room, José squatted on his heels, smoking innumerable cigarettes from the blue packet that is a hall mark of the tropics. His naked machete hung in a rope sling at his side. In the morning José gave surly answers, Captain Navarro had been delirious—weak with fever. José ended this disquieting intelligence by drawing his blunt thumb across his wrinkled neck. Still there was no word from Don Rafael. It seemed there would be none until the fate of his son had been determined beyond doubt. Oddly enough, it was José who forced the hand of his master.

“José!” called Stanley Graydon the next morning. “José! Where is my breakfast?”

The figure curled up on the matting outside did not answer. Stirred by an uneasy premonition, Graydon stepped to the locked grill door and stooped to look at José’s face. It was bluish and livid. The lips were pressed tightly against the yellow teeth. There were great dark circles about the eyes. He stooped lower. The body was taut as a bowstring. The eyes stared at him in the fixity of death. The legs were drawn sharply up against the stomach, where the last agonizing cramp had shot them.

“Cholera!” he muttered. “Poor devil!”

 
Graydon’s calls for Don Rafael rang insistently. The maid who finally came gave one affrighted look and bolted, shrieking her terror. Then came the old don, who listened, with troubled eyes, to his prisoner’s startling proposal.

“Put me in charge of your men, Don Rafael. I know how to handle men, white or brown. I know how to fight cholera. Learned those tricks in the Philippines, and I’ve never forgot them. Escape?” He laughed tolerantly. “I wouldn’t leave you and your wife to fight this scourge if you threatened to whip me off the place.”

Don Rafael bent his head in grave thought. There was a tribute in the steel-blue eyes when he lifted them.

“I thank you, señor. I need you.”

Day and night, Stanley Graydon carried on his grim fight. Under his unsparing leadership, his peon laborers learned to police their grounds and huts as though the god of kitchen police was their patron saint. They fought the mosquitoes in their breeding spots, as though they were chastising the devil in person. They fought with oil and lime and shovels to drive the plague from their borders. They held to his laws without a murmur.

For a week the hacienda stood isolated from a world that knew nothing of its plight. Then Colonel Henriquez rode debonairly up the scarlet-flanked avenue. He was scornful of the agitated peon at the gates; blind to the sinister yellow flag that hung above the hacienda’s veranda. It was Don Rafael who broke the news to him. Henriquez wheeled his horse, drove his spurs into its flanks, and rode away as though the devil of the old patrician followed his incontinent flight. That night Don Rafael unbosomed himself to his prisoner.

“You came to us the potential murderer of our first-born, Señor Graydon. In my heart your sentence to death had been passed. Colonel Henriquez, the black-hearted craven, has wiped that out. He had been my honored guest for years. We differed in politics, but I thought him a brave and honest man. When I told Juan of his cowardly desertion, I learned the truth of the fight in which he was wounded.”

“And that, señor?”

“Henriquez thought you a spy from the United States. There was something on foot, and they determined to kidnap you so that you could not thwart their plans. Ah, señor, something evil is marching on, but Juan has not yet the courage to tell me all. When he was delirious he babbled of secret plans, of strange foreign agents, of Ramona Bay. They have given me troubled nights. Perhaps, when Juan is himself again, he will tell me all.”

“Ramona Bay!” exclaimed Stanley Graydon.

“Whatever concerns Ramona Bay, señor, is of vital import to your country as well as mine,” and the old don’s voice was grave. “We will be allies, you and I, as we have been since the day you cast your fate with an old man and his wife.”

He caught up a decanter, filled two glasses with golden wine, and they drank to their compact, standing.

Ramona Bay! If there was hidden intrigue on foot in Santander, it could mean but one thing. If he and Don Rafael could unmask it, he would be striding far in his hope for rehabilitation.

At noon the following day Don Rafael, visibly perturbed, sought him out. His first words came with a rush of Spanish that Stanley Graydon found difficult to follow. Juan, now clearly on the road to recovery, roused by bitter contempt for Henriquez, had made a clean breast of it. Through mock marriages of native women to foreign agents, the groundwork for titles to land bordering on Ramona Bay had already been accomplished by the Henriquez faction. A revolution, headed by Henriquez, was scheduled to break out in the capital on the first of the month.

 
Ten days was the slender interval—days that would see gun running at its peak; the corruption of troops by gold, and lavish promises of increased pay. The old patrician’s face was haggard.

“These foreign agents, Don Rafael—how have they worked under cover and betrayed your government?”

“Ah, señor, there have been more of those far-off nationals in Santander in the last six months than usually venture here in as many years. They have come in the guise of scientists, interested in the phenomena of subterranean rivers that abound in the valleys to the west of here; as business men, and as tourists. We have been blind dolts. There has not been a revolution here in fourteen years,” and the old man’s eyes shone with pride. “That has been due in the main to the laws that forbid aliens to acquire land. It has barred out the great concessions. You see how it is being circumvented. Tell me, señor, what must we do?”

“The first thing is to warn some powerful and loyal man in the government,” came the quick answer. “He must move with caution, or he will bungle it. As for the rest, I have thought of a plan; but first you must take this step.”

As they strode back to the hacienda, framing the dispatch that must be sent to the capital, Stanley Graydon saw a rider dismounting there. There was something disquietingly familiar about the man’s carriage. As recognition flashed over him, he was torn by conflicting emotions. Dixon! The man who had driven him from the service by lying charges. Dixon! The one man in a thousand who could set in motion the nebulous plan he had framed for the salvation of Ramona Bay.

Dixon greeted him with the old inscrutable smile. There was nothing in his manner or speech, as he explained the reason for his unexpected visit, to suggest that they had ever been shipmates.

“Just ran down, after a conference with the admiral, for a ‘look-see’ at Ramona Bay and the general conditions down here,” he said coolly. “Yes, I called at the legation, but I rarely bother with those diplomat chaps. They told me everything was peaceful. Also, that Señor Navarro,” and he bowed politely, “was the chief landowner out here and friendly toward us. So I took the liberty of riding out.”

With a quick smile, Don Rafael insisted that he spend the night, and then checked himself.

“Thanks, señor,” replied Dixon, as Don Rafael outlined the situation. “I shan’t let thoughts of cholera disturb my sleep. I’ve been shipmates with it at Rio and on the Isthmus, when they were pest holes. Quarantined in half a dozen fever ports.”

Through Don Rafael’s story, however, he had turned his battery of cold, gray eyes on Stanley Graydon. He fancied once that he had caught in them a glimmer of admiration, for the old don had been eloquent in his praise.

With scarcely a pause, Don Rafael plunged into the revelations made by Juan. His long fingers forked through his white beard. His eyes were afire with the startling import of them. Dixon listened, imperturbable, emotionless.

“Your story is very interesting, señor,” he commented. His voice, stripped of feeling, was in sharp contrast to the appeal for help.

“Fortunately,” he went on, “in my capacity as the squadron intelligence officer, I have come here well informed of the general situation. Neither Washington nor the legation has even hinted at what you tell me. I am afraid your son has been imposed upon, or that his mind is not yet clear. You must also remember that Colonel Henriquez’s conduct would contribute to your son’s sensational denunciations.”

“Then you would not consent to send a radio through to the admiral, outlining these reports?” Stanley Graydon broke in impulsively. “It would be of untold value if the squadron should cruise down this way and be on hand for any developments.”

“I would hardly care to endanger my reputation in the service by any such ill-timed action,” came the curt reply. “A man’s reputation in the service means a great deal more to him, Mr. Graydon, than a civilian could possibly comprehend.”

There was unmistakable menace in that blunt ultimatum. It would have been a lethal blow to Stanley Graydon’s pride should Dixon choose to denounce him to the old don who had learned to lean so heavily upon him. His eyes flashed, but he took the rebuke standing up.

Through the dinner Dixon carried the difficult situation with an aplomb that wrested grudging admiration from him. Dixon had always been an enigma to him. Gifted far beyond the average, reticent and cold-blooded to a degree, he had held aloof from the heated discussions of the wardroom. This evening, despite the rebuff he had administered, he chose to talk of out-of-the-way ports, of international affairs, of his destroyer duty in the North Sea, and he held them under his charm.

Behind it all, however, the brusque rejection of their impassioned pleas rankled deeply. It seemed beyond belief that he could dismiss so lightly the menace to Ramona Bay.

 
In the morning Dixon joined him on his daily inspection. His questions were to the point, his approval free and ungrudging, as Stanley Graydon showed him the precautions that had been carried out with an iron hand. Through it all he held a fatalistic scorn for the menace of cholera, so far as he was concerned. For the first time he referred to their service on the flagship.

“Sorry, Graydon, about that row we had aboard ship. Personally I am no purist, but I am a fatalist. Seen many a fine chap make a damaging slip in his career. That was due to something beyond his control. I’ve got over the angry resentment that swept over me that night. I should perhaps have let it go. Talked it over frankly, brutally, with you afterward.”

“So you still think I cheated at cards!”

“I may have treated you unjustly, Graydon. Still, the admiral gave you every chance to clear yourself. Let’s try another tack. I always admired your professional ability. I admire the way you’re handling this tough job down here, and the way you hold your head up. I am willing to admit that, in spite of the most damning evidence, you may be innocent. Here’s hoping you can prove it.”

Stanley Graydon’s impulse to blurt out in savage, unsparing retaliation was checked by but one factor. That was his earnest desire to convince Dixon of the seriousness of Juan’s revelations. In the face of these revelations, he had no wish to incur further enmity.

On their way back to the hacienda, Dixon summed up his observations.

“You’re dead right, Graydon, in laying down the law for those ignorant peons.” He smiled tolerantly as he went on. “I’m destined to die at sea, just as I was destined to follow the sea. So don’t mind if I allow myself a little latitude on your rules.”

True to his tenets, Dixon steered his fatalistic course, eating mangoes with relish, drinking unboiled spring water. He was missing at breakfast the third day. Stanley Graydon, a prey to misgivings, found him in bed with the unmistakable marks of cholera on him. They were there in the faint livid tinge of his face; in the spasms of pain that raced through his body.

With the discovery, the last trace of bitter resentment on Graydon’s part fled. The iron will of the man, his serene fatalism, his stubborn fight for life, where a peon would have succumbed without a struggle, enlisted Graydon’s admiration.

Don Rafael heard the news with an air of deep abstraction. It was apparent that something of greater import had him in its grasp.

“Ah, if only Señor Dixon had acted as we begged him to! Now, if he recovers and relents, it may be too late.” His face was drawn.

The bitterness of it brought inspiration to Stanley Graydon.

“That radio is going, Don Rafael!” he cried. “I’ll write the message, sign Dixon’s name to it, and the legation will have it coded and on the air before night falls!”

Don Rafael’s voice boomed out exultantly for a mounted messenger.

“We’ll have the squadron at anchor in Ramona Bay two days before Henriquez is ready to spring his coup. We’ll have a division of destroyers searching for those gun-running expeditions. And when it’s all over, Don Rafael, I’ll tell why I came to Santander. If you’ll give me your hand at the end of that story, it will be all the reward I shall ask.”

“God bless you, señor!” Don Rafael’s voice was husky.

From Dixon’s bag Stanley Graydon brought a sheaf of official message blanks. He framed his dispatch in convincing naval terms, explicit and shipshape, and signed Dixon’s name to it. Behind him Don Rafael’s lined face was creased with a smile of beatific joy.

Stubbornly Dixon held to the faith that death could come to him only at sea, but he was weakening fast. Another day passed before the message seemed to have penetrated to his indomitable soul that he might not outlive the day. His mind was clear as the tone of a ship’s bell. His voice, despite its weakness, held the cold quality that was the index to the man.

“Graydon,” he gasped, “they’ll be piping me over the side soon. Listen to me for a moment, old man. When I’ve finished, bring Don Rafael here. You’ll need a witness to the last part of my yarn.” He choked for a moment and then went grimly on:

“I’ve always been crooked, Graydon. I ‘gouged’ my way through Annapolis on the one subject I was weak in. Steered a lone course. Never a messmate, I wouldn’t have sacrificed my lone hand if it meant a step toward flag command.”

A flicker of pain played over the masklike face.

“Needed money to make my ambitions come true. Played the stock market from the day I drew my first pay check. Bottom fell out of the market last fall. Wiped me out. Needed money desperately.” The thin lips pressed tightly against his bared teeth. “Sold the only thing that would get the price I needed—copy of the secret plans for the defense of Panama Canal. Final payment the day I delivered them.”

 
The cold gray eyes bored straight at Stanley Graydon and read in his eyes incredulous disbelief.

“Two weeks from to-day, Graydon,” the dogged whisper went on. “the Franklin will be off Balboa. Draft from Mare Island to replace the sick and short-time men. Mess attendants in draft. Filipino boys—all but one. He looks like a Filipino. Officer of general staff in his own navy.”

“And the copy of the secret plans?” Stanley Graydon asked breathlessly.

“Secret drawer, at bottom of my clothes locker. He’ll slip into my cabin first day aboard. Get papers.”

Weakened by the compelling strain, the cold, measured whispers died away. Stanley Graydon’s tense face was twisted in mingled aversion and sympathy.

“Here, old man,” he snapped, “you’ve got to get this story off your chest. I’m going to give you a shot of strychnine. You’ve got to go on!”

He bent over with the hypodermic, and Dixon grinned sardonically.

“Be damned to the cholera!” he muttered. “Hasn’t downed me yet. Graydon, you’ve got to get back to the old ship. I don’t want those devils to get the plans at any price. To hell with their dirty money. I’m not going out with the guilt of a traitor on my soul.”

“They’d never let me over the gangway,” Stanley Graydon protested.

“Send for Don Rafael!”

From his closed teeth a groan escaped, but he had regained the mastery of himself when Don Rafael tiptoed into the room. Dixon’s eyes were dull, but the old authority of the quarter-deck was in his faint voice.

“My anchor chain is running out, Graydon. You, Don Rafael, swear me to the truth by the most sacred oath you know. Graydon, take down every word. I’ll sign it if it takes my last breath of strength.”

With uplifted hand, Don Rafael gave the oath. In Dixon’s dim eyes there still flickered the iron will of the man who had always gone crooked. Slowly, with infinite effort, came the confession:

“I, James Harkness Dixon, commander, United States navy, being in full possession of my faculties, do hereby solemnly swear that Stanley Graydon, captain, United States marine corps, is guiltless of cheating at cards on the U. S. S. Franklin, on the night of Friday, January 3rd.”

His emotionless voice trailed away. Only the racing of Stanley Graydon’s pen across the paper broke the acute silence of the room.

“I, James Harkness Dixon, did falsely and maliciously,” the weak voice persisted, “bring that charge to cover my own guilt. I do further swear that I brought this accusation to throw suspicion later on Captain Graydon for reasons that he has sworn not to reveal.”

He turned his head with an effort. There was a trace of the old peremptoriness in his whispered order:

“Now, Graydon, as soon as Don Rafael has witnessed it, I want to talk to you alone.”

 
The old don left them, and Dixon began. He was speaking quickly, as though the wings of death were beating over him.

“I marked the cards. Planted duplicate deck in your room. Dealt you that ace-high full off the bottom. If the sale of those plans ever got out, you’d have been the culprit. My assistant. Combination to the safe.”

Stanley Graydon leaned forward. The knuckles of his hands showed white under their tan. Full comprehension of it all was in his steady eyes.

“Same crowd at bottom—Ramona Bay. Knew you and Don Rafael were right. You’re too fine a lad to sacrifice.” He tried to raise himself on one elbow, but Stanley Graydon caught him tenderly. “Steady, old man, steady!” he said softly. “They had you in a devilish fix. I understand. Steady!”

There was a world of gratitude in Dixon’s staring eyes. A faint smile played over the pain-worn face.

“You’ve got to make knots to get back. Graydon. Get that copy. Destroy it.”

“I’ll tear it to bits within a few hours, Dixon. Sent a radio to the admiral through the legation. Signed your name,” he hastened to reassure him.

Approval, sheer and complete, shone through the dulled eyes of the dying man.

“Good lad!” he whispered. His hand sought Stanley Graydon’s.

He fell into a heavy stupor. At his side Stanley Graydon waited. The weak fingers relaxed. The sun was low over Ramona Bay. The thunder of guns came into the still room.

Stanley Graydon stepped lightly to the open windows. There, in the sunlit distance, the gray ships of the squadron were at anchor. The note of a bugle came faintly on the wind. He stepped back to the bed. If only Dixon could have lived long enough to grasp the significance of the flagship’s measured salute! Dixon’s eyes were fixed in the glaze of death. His tortured soul had found its anchorage.