To-night, however, that gentleman was in no mood for peaceful reflection followed by slumber. He was on the edge of a volcano, and he knew it. The question was whether he could hold the lid on without an eruption. General Valdez he dared not openly kill, on account of his fame and his popularity, but that pestilent Irishman O’Halloran could be assassinated and so could several of his allies—if they only gave him time. That was the rub. The general dissatisfaction at his rule had been no secret, of course, but the activity of the faction opposing him, the boldness and daring with which it had risked all to overthrow him, had come as so complete a surprise that he had been unprepared to meet it. Everywhere to-night his guards covered the city, ready to crush rebellion as soon as it showed its head. Carlo was in personal charge of the troops, and would remain so until after the election to-morrow, at which he would be declared formally reëlected. If he could keep his hands on the reins for twenty-four hours more the worst would be past. He would give a good deal to know what that mad Irishman, O’Halloran, was doing just now. If he could once get hold of him, the opposition would collapse like a house of cards. At that precise moment in walked the mad Irishman pat to the Mexican’s thought of him. “_Buenos noches_, excellency. I understand you have been looking for me. I am, señor, yours to command.” The big Irishman brought his heels together and gave a mocking military salute. The governor’s first thought was that he was a victim of treachery, his second that he was a dead man, his third that he would die as a Spanish gentleman ought. He was pale to the eyes, but he lost no whit of his dignity. “You have, I suppose, taken the palace,” he said quietly. “As a loan, excellency, merely as a loan. After to-morrow it will be returned you in the event you still need it,” replied O’Halloran blandly. “You expect to murder me, of course?” The big Celt looked shocked. “Not at all! The bulletins may perhaps have to report you accidentally killed or a victim of suicide. Personally I hope not.” “I understand; but before this lamentable accident happens I beg leave to assure myself that the palace really is in your hands, señor. A mere formality, of course.” The governor smiled his thin-lipped smile and touched a bell beside him. Twice Megales pressed the electric bell, but no orderly appeared in answer to it. He bowed to the inevitable. “I grant you victor, Señor O’Halloran. Would it render your victory less embarrassing if I were to give you material immediately for that bulletin on suicide?” He asked the question quite without emotion, as courteously as if he were proposing a stroll through the gardens. O’Halloran had never liked the man. The Irish in him had always boiled at his tyranny. But he had never disliked him so little as at this moment. The fellow had pluck, and that was one certain passport to the revolutionist’s favor.