Kelly's Ford was drawn up in the courtyard, and both Kelly and Sheridan were there. Kelly was just disposing of a sentry who had ventured to question his right of way.
"Walk right in, souls!" the Saint hailed them cheerily. "You're in tune to witness the abdication of the government"
"Have you seen Lilla?" shouted a frantic Sheridan.
The Saint grinned.
"She's safe here, son."
The report of an automatic brought him round with a jerk.
With the Saint's back turned, and the Saint's victory now an accomplished fact, Shannet had chanced everything on one mad gamble against the steadiness of nerve and aim of the girl who for a moment held the situation in her small hands.
While Lilla McAndrew's attention was distracted by the irresistible impulse to try to hear what Archie Sheridan was saying he had sidled closer . . . made one wild leaping grab . . .missed. ...
The Saint stooped over the still figure and made a swift examination. He straightened up with a shrug, picking up his revolvers again as the first of the guards burst into the room.
"Quietly, amigos," he urged; and they saw sudden death in each of his hands, and checked.
The next instant the crowd stirred again before the berserk rush of Archie Sheridan, who had heard the shot as he raced up the palace steps. A yard behind him followed Kelly, breaking through like a bull, his red head flaming above the heads of the guards.
"All clear, Archie!" called the Saint. "It was Shannet who got it."
But Lilla McAndrew was already in Archie Sheridan's arms.
"Here, Kelly," rapped the Saint. "Let's get this over. Take these guns and keep the guards in order while I dispose of the government."
Kelly took over the weapons, and the Saint stepped back and wrenched the sword out of the floor. He advanced towards the President and De Villega, who stood paralyzed by the table.
"You have written?" he asked pleasantly.
De Villega passed over a piece of paper, and the Saint read it and handed it back.
"You have omitted to nominate your successors," he said. "That will be the Seńor Kelly and those whom he appoints to help him. Write again."
"Half a minute," Kelly threw back over his shoulder, with his eyes on the shuffling guards. "I don't fancy being President myself-it's too risky. I'll be Minister of the Interior, and the President can stay on, if he behaves himself."
The President bowed.
"I am honoured, seńor," he assented with alacrity.
"Write accordingly," ordered the Saint, and it was done.
The Saint took the document and addressed the guards.
"By this," he said, "you know that the President dismisses Seńor Manuel Concepcion de Villega, the Minister of the Interior, and his government, and appoints the Seńor Kelly in his place. To celebrate his appointment, the Seńor Kelly will in a few days announce the removal of a number of taxes which have hitherto oppressed you. Now take this paper and cause it to be embodied in a proclamation to the free people of Pasala. Let to-morrow be a public holiday and a day of rejoicing for this reason, and also because it is now proved that there is no war with Maduro. That was a rumour spread by certain malicious persons for their own ends. See that a radiografo is sent to Estados Unidos, explaining that, and saying that they may recall the warship they were sending. You may go, amigos."
There was a silence of a few seconds; and then, as the full meaning of the Saint's speech was grasped, the room rang and echoed again to a great crash of Vivas!
When Kelly had driven the cheering guards out into the passage and closed the door in their faces, Simon Templar thought of something and had the door opened again to send for the governor of the prison. The man was brought quickly.
"Seńor," said the Saint, "I apologize for the way I treated you just now. It happened to be necessary. But the revolution is now completed, and you are a free man. I bear you no malice-although I am going to insist that you disinfect your prison."
He explained the circumstances, and the prison governor bowed almost to the floor.
"It is nothing, ilustrisimo seńor," he said. "But if I had known I would have seen to it that your honour was given better accommodation. Another time, perhaps. . . ."
"God forbid," said the Saint piously.
Then he turned and pointed to the now terrified De Villega.
"Take this man with you," he directed. "He is to leave Pasala by the next boat, and meantime he is to be closely guarded. He will probably attempt either to fight or to bribe his escape. My answer to that is that if he is not delivered to me when I send for him, your life and the lives of all your warders will answer for it."
"It is understood, senior."
Kelly watched the departure of the governor and his prisoner open-mouthed; and when they were gone he turned to the Saint with a blank expression.
"Look here," he said, as if the thought had just struck him -"where's all this fightin' I've been told so much about?"
The Saint smiled.
"There is no fighting," he said. "This has been what I hoped it would be-a bloodless revolution. It was undertaken in the name of a justice which the law could not administer, to ruin a man more than six thousand miles away, back in London, England. He had ruined thousands, but the law could not touch him. This was my method. Your first duty as Minister of the Interior will be to revoke the original oil concession and to make out a fresh one, assigning the rights, in perpetuity, to Miss McAndrew and her heirs." He laid a hand on Kelly's shoulder. "I'm sorry to give you such a disappointment, son; and if you must have a fight, I'll have a round or two with you myself before dinner. But I had to do it this way. Any other kind of revolution would have meant the sacrifice of many lives, and I didn't really want that."
For a moment Kelly was silent and perplexed before the Saint's sudden seriousness; then he shrugged, and laughed, and took Simon Templar's hand in a huge grip.
"I don't confess to know what yez are talkin' about," he said. "And I don't care. I suppose it's been worth it-if only to see the look on De Villega's ugly face whin yez sent him to prison. And, anyway, a laughin' devil who can run a show like yez have run this one deserves to be allowed to work things his own way."
"Good scout!" smiled the Saint. "Was Mrs. Kelly all right?"
"A bit scared, but no harm done. It was Lilla she was afraid for. They just tied the missus up in a chair and left her. An' that reminds me-there was a cable waitin' for me up at the bungalow, and I can't make head or tale of it. Maybe it's something to do with you."
Kelly rumbled in his pocket and produced the form. The Saint took it over, and one glance told him that it was meant for him.
"It's from an agent of mine in London," he explained. "He wouldn't have addressed it to Archie or me in case anything had gone wrong and it was intercepted."
He knew the code almost perfectly, and he was able to write the translation in between the lines at once.
Pops down trumped twelve thousand . . . The Saint wrote: P. O. P.'s fell heavily. Cleared twelve thousand pounds. Campard committed suicide this morning.
It was signed with the name of Roger Conway.
"Archie!" called the Saint, thoughtfully; and again: "Archie!"
"They sneaked out minutes ago," said Kelly. "She's a sweet girl, that Lilla McAndrew."
And it was so, until evening.
And at even the Saint went forth and made a tour of a number of disreputable cafes, in each of which he bought much liquor for the clientele. They did not recognize him until he started to sing-a strange and barbarous song that no one could understand. But they recognized it, having heard it sung before, with many others like it, by a certain peón: "The bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling, For you but not for me; For me the angels sing-a-ling-a-ling, They've got the goods for me, O death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling, Where, grave, thy victory . . ."