“I’d supposed he was younger,” said Sherwen. “Anyway, he’s comparatively new to the service. His rise is the more remarkable. At present, he’s not only our quarantine representative, with full powers, but unofficially he acts, while on his roving commission, for the British, the Dutch, the French, and half the South American republics. I suppose he’s really the most important figure in the Caracuña crisis—and he hasn’t even got here yet. Perhaps our Hochwaldian friends have captured him on the quiet. It would pay ’em, for if there is plague here, he’ll certainly trail it down.” “Oh, I’m tired of plague,” announced Miss Polly. “Bring the others here and let’s all go over to the plaza, where it’s cool.” To their open and obvious delight, exhibited jauntily by the Englishman, with awkward and admiring respectfulness by the ball-player, and with graceful ease by the handsome Caracuñan, the rest were invited to join the party. “Don’t let them scare you about plague, Miss Brewster,” said Cluff, as they found their chairs. “Foreigners don’t get it much.” “Oh, I’m not afraid! But, anyway, we shouldn’t have time to catch even a cold. We leave to-morrow.” The men exchanged glances. “How?” inquired Sherwen and Raimonda in a breath. “In the yacht, from Puerto del Norte.” “Not if it were a British battleship,” said Galpy. “Port’s closed.” “What? Quarantine already?” said Carroll. “Quarantine be blowed! It’s the Dutch.” “I thought you knew,” said Sherwen. “All the town is ringing with the news. It just came in to-night. Holland has declared a blockade until Caracuña apologizes for the interference with its cable.” “And nothing can pass?” asked Mr. Brewster. “Nothing but an aeroplane or a submarine.” There was a silence. Miss Polly Brewster broke it with a curious question:— “What day is day after to-morrow?” Several voices had answered her, but she paid little heed, for there had slipped over her shoulder a brown thin hand holding a cunningly woven closed basket of reedwork. A soft voice murmured something in Spanish. “What does he say?” asked the girl “For me?” “He thinks it must be for you,” translated Raimonda, “from the description.” “What description?” “He was told to go to the hotel and deliver it to the most beautiful lady. There could hardly be any mistaking such specific instructions even by an ignorant mountain peon,” he added, smiling. The girl opened the curious receptacle, and breathed a little gasp of delight. Bedded in fern, lay a mass of long sprays aquiver with bells of the purest, most lucent white, each with a great glow of gold at its heart. “Ah,” observed the young Caracuñan, “I see that you are _persona grata_ with our worthy President, Miss Brewster.” “President Fortuno?” asked the girl, surprised. “No; not that I’m aware of. Why do you say that?” “That is his special orchid—almost the official flower. They call it ‘the President’s orchid.’” “Has he a monopoly of growing them?” asked Miss Brewster.