“My own little house——” began Oberzohn. “Would scare her to death,” said Newton with a loud laugh. “That dog-kennel! No, it is Chester Square or nothing. I’ll get Joan or one of the girls to drop in this afternoon and chum up with her. When does the _Benguella_ arrive?” “This afternoon: the person has booked rooms by radio at the Petworth Hotel.” “Norfolk Street . . . humph! One of your men can pick him up and keep an eye on him. Lisa? So much the better. That kind of trash will talk for a woman. I don’t suppose he has seen a white woman in years. You ought to fire Villa—crude beast! Naturally the man is on his guard now.” “Villa is the best of my men on the coast,” barked Oberzohn fiercely. Nothing so quickly touched the raw places of his amazing vanity as a reflection upon his organizing qualities. “How is trade?” Captain Newton took a long ebony holder from his tail pocket, flicked out a thin platinum case and lit a cigarette in one uninterrupted motion. “Bat!” When Dr. Oberzohn was annoyed the purity of his pronunciation suffered. “There is nothing but expense!” Oberzohn & Smitts had once made an enormous income from the sale of synthetic alcohol. They were, amongst other things, coast traders. They bought rubber and ivory, paying in cloth and liquor. They sold arms secretly, organized tribal wars for their greater profit, and had financed at least two Portuguese revolutions nearer at home. And with the growth of their fortune, the activities of the firm had extended. Guns and more guns went out of Belgian and French workshops. To Kurdish insurrectionaries, to ambitious Chinese generals, to South American politicians, planning to carry their convictions into more active fields. There was no country in the world that did not act as host to an O. & S. agent—and agents can be very expensive. Just now the world was alarmingly peaceful. A revolution had failed most dismally in Venezuela, and Oberzohn & Smitts had not been paid for two ship-loads of lethal weapons ordered by a general who, two days after the armaments were landed, had been placed against an _adobe_ wall and incontinently shot to rags by the soldiers of the Government against which he was in rebellion. “But that shall not matter.” Oberzohn waved bad trade from the considerable factors of life. “This shall succeed: and then I shall be free to well punish——” “To punish well,” corrected the purist, stroking his moustache. “Don’t split your infinitives, Eruc—it’s silly. You’re thinking of Manfred and Gonsalez and Poiccart? Leave them alone. They are nothing!” “Nothing!” roared the doctor, his sallow face instantly distorted with fury. “To leave them alone, is it? Of my brother what? Of my brother in heaven, sainted martyr . . . !”