When I had finished Guzman told me he was surrounded by men whom he either suspected or hesitated to trust. He wanted a man whom he could rely on implicitly to watch for evidences of treachery among those around him, and he was kind enough to say he thought me the man for whom he had been looking. He asked me to remain in Caracas for an indefinite time, to mix freely with his _entourage_ and become intimately acquainted with them and ascertain who could be trusted and who were doubtful. I could pose as an American who was studying the country with the idea of making investments, which would explain my interest in things and my desire to cultivate the members of his court. I spoke Spanish well and could also converse easily enough in French, though that language was little used except among the diplomats. I accepted his invitation gladly and a part of the time that I was in Caracas I spent at the Yellow House, the residence of the President, as his guest. Guzman was the handsomest man I have ever known; tall and as straight as a sword, with long black beard and dark eyes, sharp as needles, that could flash fire or friendship. He was magnetic and winning to the last degree and every inch a ruler of men, without the faintest notion as to what fear meant. During the nearly twenty years that he was absolute ruler of Venezuela his temper was the thing most dreaded through all the land. I have seen grizzled generals, descended from the best families of old Spain, turn almost white at the sign of his anger. Himself a pure Castiliano, he regarded the native Venezuelanos as a vastly inferior race, thereby furnishing another illustration of his good judgment, and there was much of contempt in his attitude toward them. Many times, when they had incurred his displeasure by a display of cowardice or some other fault, I have heard him abuse a quailing crowd of the highest officers in the Venezuelan Army in language much more vigorous and profane than an American policeman would use to a gang of hoodlums. “You are not worth a damn,” he would always tell them in conclusion, “except in proportion to the amount of foreign blood that is in you.” Yet until the day when he was treacherously overthrown, to the great loss of Venezuela, no criticism of his was ever resented nor was there ever a whisper of protest. The people knew their master. One of the first whom Guzman asked me closely to observe was a young Indian officer named Joachim Crespo, an aide attached to his household. I reported that he could be implicitly trusted, and knowledge of that fact helped me out of a scrape years later, when Crespo was President of Venezuela.