“What would be the use?” grated Hal, inwardly. “They wouldn’t be so sure of me if there was a dog’s chance to crawl out.” The spokesman went out, but the other three remained. Ting-a-ling-ling-ling! tinkled a bell in another room. “A telephone,” conjectured Hal. “Will Senor Enrique Vasquez be at the other end of the wire?” Though he listened intently, he could not hear the words spoken into the receiver. Presently the fourth man came back. As Hal had not made any effort to get up, his jailers now squatted upon the floor, lighting paper cigarettes and puffing incessantly. Minute after minute dragged by. Hal did not address a word to his captors. Neither did he shout for help, for he felt sure that he would not have been left ungagged had they feared that his voice would reach friendly ears. Nor did his captors speak, beyond an occasional word addressed to one another. “Whatever is to be done, they are merely the agents of some one else,” cogitated Hal, his mind as busy as his tongue was idle. “Vasquez bragged about his agents. Are these some of them? If so, they are not a lot to boast about!” His reflections were cut short by the sound of the wheels of an arriving carriage. Then steps sounded in a hallway, next at the door. The door opened, to give entrance to Senor Vasquez, as Hal had expected. As the Spaniard’s burning gaze fell upon the boy, his face darkened, though his lips smiled. “Good-evening, Senor Maynard,” was his greeting. “Did you think that you had seen the last of me?” “Hardly,” gritted Hal. “I have always heard that the devil is more busy than successful.” “Take a seat, senor,” urged Vasquez, pushing forward one of the few chairs in the room. “As to you, my good fellows,” turning to the four thugs who had vanquished Hal, “you may step just outside the door.” As almost anything was more comfortable than the floor, Hal availed himself of the chair. Next he turned a look of cool scrutiny upon the Spaniard. Yet, if Hal looked cool, his appearance was far from expressing his feelings. He fully realized that never before had he been in such a critical situation. In fact, with such a foe as Vasquez, who, under the circumstances could not be placated, there was little hope that the American could escape with his life. Senor Vasquez drew out a cigar, lighted it, and puffed slowly for some time before he began to speak. Yet, while thinking, his brow grew blacker. “Senor Maynard,” he finally blurted out, “are you not ashamed to be an American?” Hal turned eyes that were wide open with surprise upon the man pacing the floor before him. “Ashamed of being an American?” he repeated. “Senor Vasquez, are you training for a humorist? How can any American live without finding life one long thrill of pride that he is part and parcel of the Stars and Stripes?” “Bah!” retorted Vasquez, impatiently. “Shall I tell you what your greatest fault is?” “If you care to.”