_BY THE SAME AUTHOR._


WHEN I WAS CZAR.

The _Court Circular_ says:--“There is always something supremely
audacious about Mr. Marchmont’s books. This, however, I will say, that
for a long evening’s solid enjoyment ‘When I was Czar’ would be hard to
beat.”

The _Nottingham Guardian_ says:--“The best story of political intrigue
which has been written since ‘The Prisoner of Zenda,’ with which it
compares for the irresistible buoyancy by which it is told and the
skill in which expectation is maintained on tiptoe till the last move.”

The _Freeman’s Journal_ says:--“A very brilliant work, every page in it
displays the dramatic talent of the author and his capacity for writing
smart dialogue.”


AN IMPERIAL MARRIAGE.

The _Sporting Life_ says:--“Every page is full of incident and bright
dialogue. The characters are strongly and vividly drawn, and the
development of the whole story shows the author to be a thorough master
of his craft.”

The _Scotsman_ says:--“The action never flags, the romantic element
is always paramount, so that the production is bound to appeal
successfully to all lovers of spirited fiction.”

The _Notts Guardian_ says:--“The interest is absorbing and cumulative
through every chapter, and yet the tale is never overloaded with
incident. The vigour and reality of the story does not flag to the last
page.”

The _Court Journal_ says:--“One of those intricate webs of intrigue and
incident in the weaving of which the author has no equal.”


BY SNARE OF LOVE.

The _Dundee Courier_ says:--“To say that the clever author of ‘When I
was Czar’ has eclipsed that stirring romance is to bring one within the
sphere of the incredible. But it is true. The present novel is full
to overflowing of boundless resource and enterprise, which cannot but
rouse even the most blasé of readers.”

The _Daily Mail_ says:--“The story is undoubtedly clever. Mr. Marchmont
contrives to invest his most improbable episodes with an air of
plausibility, and the net result is an exciting and entertaining tale.”

The _Birmingham Post_ says:--“Mr. Marchmont creates numerous thrilling
situations which are worked out with dramatic power, his description
of the interior of a Turkish prison, with all its horrors, being a
realistic piece of work.”


IN THE CAUSE OF FREEDOM.

The _Times_:--“Mr. Marchmont’s tales always have plenty of go. He is
well up to his standard in this busy and exciting narrative.”

The _Globe_:--“Mr. A. W. Marchmont can always write an exciting story
bristling with adventures and hazard, and incidents of all sorts. ‘In
the Cause of Freedom’ furnishes a good example of his talent. Vivid,
packed with drama, with action that never flags, this novel ought to
appeal successfully to all lovers of romantic and spirited fiction.”

The _People’s Saturday Journal_:--“It is an admirable example of the
type of exciting fiction for which Mr. Marchmont is justly famous, and
lacks nothing in the way of plot and incident.”


THE QUEEN’S ADVOCATE.

The _Daily News_ says:--“Written in a vigorous and lively manner,
adventures throng the pages, and the interest is maintained throughout.”

The _Belfast Northern Whig_ says:--“As one book follows another from
Mr. Marchmont’s pen we have increased breadth of treatment, more
cleverly constructed plots and a closer study of human life and
character. His present work affords ample evidence of this.”

_Madam_ says:--“A thrilling story, the scene of which takes us to the
heart of the terrible Servian tragedy. We are taken through a veritable
maze of adventure, even to that dreadful night of the assassination of
the Royal couple. A very readable story.”


A COURIER OF FORTUNE.

The _Daily Telegraph_ says:--“An exciting romance of the ‘cloak and
rapier.’ The fun is fast and furious; plot and counterplot, ambushes
and fightings, imprisonment and escapes follow each other with a
rapidity that holds the reader with a taste for adventure in a state
of more or less breathless excitement to the close. Mr. Marchmont
has a spirited manner in describing adventure, allowing no pause in
the doings for overdescription either of his characters or their
surroundings.”

The _Bristol Mercury_ says:--“A very striking picture of France at
a period of absolute social and political insecurity. The author’s
characters are drawn with such art as to make each a distinct
personality. ‘A Courier of Fortune’ is quite one of the liveliest books
we have read.”


BY WIT OF WOMAN.

The _Morning Leader_ says:--“A stirring tale of dramatic intensity,
and full of movement and exciting adventure. The author has evolved a
character worthy to be the wife of Sherlock Holmes. She is the heroine;
and what she did not know or could not find out about the Hungarian
Patriot Party was not worth knowing.”

The _Standard_ says:--“Mr. Marchmont is one of that small band of
authors who can always be depended upon for a distinct note, a novel
plot, an original outlook. ‘By Wit of Woman’ is marked by all the
characteristic signs of Mr. Marchmont’s work.”


THE LITTLE ANARCHIST.

The _Sheffield Telegraph_ says:--“The reader once inveigled into
starting the first chapter is unable to put the book down until he has
turned over the last page.”

_Manchester City News_ says:--“It is no whit behind its predecessors
in stirring episode, thrilling situation and dramatic power. The story
grips in the first few lines and holds the reader’s interest until
‘finis’ is written.”

The _Scotsman_ says:--“A romance, brimful of incident and arousing
in the reader a healthy interest that carries him along with never a
pause--a vigorous story with elements that fascinate. In invention and
workmanship the novel shows no falling off from the high standard of
Mr. Marchmont’s earlier books.”




IN THE NAME OF THE PEOPLE


[Illustration: “‘To whom are you going to give the papers you have just
received from M. Dagara?’” (Page 193.)]




  IN THE NAME OF
  THE PEOPLE

  By
  ARTHUR W. MARCHMONT

  _Author of “When I was Czar,” “The
  Queen’s Advocate,” etc., etc._

  _ILLUSTRATED_

  WARD, LOCK & CO., LIMITED
  LONDON, MELBOURNE AND TORONTO
  1911




CONTENTS


   CHAP.                                    PAGE

       I AN UNPROPITIOUS START                 9

      II DEVELOPMENTS                         18

     III THE RECEPTION                        28

      IV MIRALDA                              38

       V INEZ                                 49

      VI DR. BAROSA                           59

     VII SAMPAYO IS UNEASY                    70

    VIII MIRALDA’S MASK                       79

      IX THE INTERROGATION                    90

       X A DRASTIC TEST                      100

      XI POLICE METHODS                      110

     XII THE REAL “M.D.”                     121

    XIII MIRALDA’S CONFIDENCE                132

     XIV ALONE WITH SAMPAYO                  143

      XV IN THE FLUSH OF SUCCESS             151

     XVI BAROSA’S SECRET                     161

    XVII A LITTLE CHESS PROBLEM              172

   XVIII DAGARA’S STORY                      180

     XIX SPY WORK                            190

      XX A NIGHT ADVENTURE ON THE RIVER      199

     XXI PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT                207

    XXII READY                               216

   XXIII ON THE _RAMPALLO_                   226

    XXIV A TIGHT CORNER                      235

     XXV ILL NEWS                            244

    XXVI IN SIGHT OF VICTORY                 253

   XXVII DR. BAROSA SCORES                   263

  XXVIII “YOU SHALL DIE”                     272

    XXIX MIRALDA’S APPEAL                    280

     XXX JEALOUSY                            289

    XXXI A NIGHT OF TORMENT                  299

   XXXII A HUNDRED LASHES                    309

  XXXIII THE LUCK TURNS                      318

   XXXIV ON THE TRACK                        327

    XXXV THE PROBLEM OF AN EMPTY HOUSE       335

   XXXVI UNTIL LIFE’S END                    343




CHAPTER I

AN UNPROPITIOUS START


                                        “318, RUA DE PALMA,
                                            “LISBON,
                                                “_September 20, 1907_.

  “My Dear Muriel,--

  “I’m here at last, and the above is my address. The _Stella_ dropped
  her anchor in the Tagus yesterday afternoon, and within half an
  hour I was at the Visconte de Linto’s house. That will show you I
  mean my campaign to be vigorous. But the Visconte and his wife are
  at Coimbra, and Miralda is with them. I should have been off in
  pursuit of her by the first train; but I managed to find out that
  they are with friends there and will be back to-morrow for a big
  reception. As that is just the sort of place I should choose before
  all others for the meeting with Miralda, I promptly set to work to
  get an invitation. I have done it all right. I got it through that
  M. Volheno whom you and Stefan brought on a visit to us at Tapworth,
  just after I got home from South Africa. Tell Stefan, by the way,
  that Volheno is quite a big pot and high in the confidence of the
  Dictator. I told him, of course, that I had come here about the
  mining concessions in East Africa; and I shall rub that in to every
  one. I think his mouth watered a bit at the prospect of getting
  something for himself; anyway, he was awfully decent and promised me
  all sorts of a good time here. Among the introductions he mentioned
  was one to the de Lintos! I kept my face as stiff as a judge’s; but
  I could have shrieked. Imagine a formal introduction to Miralda!
  ‘Mademoiselle Dominguez. Mr. Donnington,’ and those eyes of hers wide
  with astonishment, and her lips struggling to suppress her laughter!
  I really think I must let him do it, just to see her face at the
  moment. Anyway, I shall see her to-morrow night. Ye gods! It’s over
  four months since I fell before her beauty as intuitively as a pagan
  falls before the shrine of the little tin god he worships. I hope no
  one has got in the way meanwhile; if there is any one--well, I’ll do
  my best to give him a bad time. I’m not here for my health, as the
  Yanks say; nor for the health of any other fellow. By all of which
  you will see I am in good spirits, and dead set on winning.

  “By the way, I hear that things are in the very devil of a mess in
  the city; and Volheno told me--unofficially of course--that the
  streets are positively unsafe after dark. But I was out for a couple
  of hours last night, renewing my acquaintance with the city, and
  saw no ripple of trouble. After his warning I shoved a revolver in
  my pocket; but a cigar-holder would have been just as much good. I
  should rather like a scrap with some of the Lisbon ragamuffins.

  “I’ve taken a furnished flat here; yacht too awkward to get to and
  from; and a hotel impossible--too many old women gossips.

  “Love to your hub and the kiddies.

                                         “Your affect. brother,

                                                               “RALPH.

  “PS. Think of it. To-morrow night by this time I shall have met her
  again. Don’t grin. You married a Spaniard; and for love too. And
  you’re not ashamed of being beastly happy. R. D.

  “PPS. Mind. I hold you to your promise. If there is any real trouble
  about M. and I need you, you are to come the moment I wire. Be a good
  pal, and don’t back down. But I think I shall worry through on my
  own.”

I have given this letter because it explains the circumstances of my
presence in Lisbon. A love quest. In the previous March, my sister’s
husband, Stefan Madrillo, who is on the staff of the Spanish Embassy
in Paris, had introduced me to Miralda Dominguez--the most beautiful
girl in Paris as she was generally acknowledged; and although up to
that moment I had never cared for any woman, except my sister, and the
thought of marriage had never entered my head, the whole perspective of
life was changed on the instant.

The one desire that possessed me was to win her love; the one possible
prospect which was not utterly barren and empty of everything but
wretchedness, was that she would give herself to me for life.

I had one advantage over the crowd of men whom the lodestone of her
beauty drew round her. I had lived in her country, spoke her language
as readily as my own, and could find many interests in common.
Naturally I played that for all it was worth.

From the first moment of meeting I was enslaved by her stately grace,
her ravishing smile, her soft, liquid, sympathetic voice, the subtle
but ineffable charm of her presence, and the dark lustrous eyes into
which I loved to bring the changing lights of surprise, curiosity,
interest and pleasure.

I was miserable when away from her; and should have been wholly
happy in her presence if it had not been for the despairing sense of
unworthiness which plagued and depressed me. She was a goddess to me,
and I a mere clod.

For three weeks--three crazily happy and yet crazily miserable weeks
for me--this had continued; and then I had been wired for at a moment’s
notice, owing to my dear father’s sudden illness.

I had to leave within an hour of the receipt of the telegram, without
a chance of putting the question on which my whole happiness depended,
without even a word of personal leave-taking. And for the whole of the
four months since that night I had had to remain in England.

During nearly all the time my father lay hovering between life
and death. At intervals, uncertain and transitory, he regained
consciousness; and at such moments his first question was for me. I
could not think of leaving him, of course; and even when the end came,
the settlement of the many affairs connected with the large fortune he
left delayed me a further two or three weeks.

My sister assured me that, through some friend or other, she had
contrived to let Miralda know something of the facts; but this was no
more than a cold comfort. When at length I turned the _Stella’s_ head
toward Lisbon, steaming at the top speed of her powerful engines, I
felt how feeble such a written explanation, dribbling through two or
three hands and watered down in the dribbling process, might appear to
Miralda, even assuming that she had given me a second thought as the
result of those three weeks in Paris.

But I was in Lisbon at last; and although I could not help realizing
that a hundred and fifty obstacles might have had time to grow up
between us during the long interval, I gritted my teeth in the resolve
to overcome them.

Anyway, the following night would show me how the land lay; and, as
anything was better than suspense, I gave a sigh of relief at the
thought, and having posted the letter to my sister, set off for another
prowl round the city.

I had not been there for several years--before I went out with the
Yeomanry for a fling at the Boers--and it interested me to note the
changes which had taken place. But I thought much more of Miralda than
of any changes and not at all of any possible trouble in the streets.
After a man has had a few moonlights rides reconnoitring kopjes which
are likely to be full of Boer snipers, he isn’t going to worry himself
grey about a few Portuguese rag-and-bobtail with an itch for his purse.

Besides, I felt well able to take care of myself in any street row. I
was lithe and strong and in the pink of condition, and knew fairly well
“how to stop ’em,” as Jem Whiteway, the old boxer, used to say, with a
shake of his bullet head when he tried to get through my guard and I
landed him.

But my contempt for the dangers of the streets was a little premature.
My experiences that night were destined to change my opinion entirely,
and to change a good many other things too. Before the night was many
hours older, I had every reason to be thankful that I had taken a
revolver out with me.

It came about in this way. I was skirting that district of the city
which is still frequently called the Mouraria--a nest of little,
narrow, tortuous by-ways into which I deemed it prudent not to venture
too far--and was going down a steep street toward the river front, when
the stillness was broken by the hoarse murmur of many voices. I guessed
that some sort of a row was in the making, and hurried on to see the
fun. And as I reached a turning a little farther down, I found myself
in the thick of it.

A small body of police came tearing round the corner running for their
lives with a crowd of men at their heels, whooping and yelling like a
pack of hounds in full sight of the fox.

As the police passed, one of them struck a vicious blow at me with a
club, and I only just managed to jump back and escape the blow. I drew
into the shelter of a doorway as the mob followed. The street was very
narrow and steep at this point, and the police, seeing the advantage it
gave them, rallied to make a stand some forty or fifty yards up the
hill above me.

The foremost pursuers paused a few moments to let a good number come
up; and then they went for the police for all they were worth. The
fight was very hot; but discipline told, as it will; and although the
police were tremendously outnumbered, they held their ground well
enough at first.

Meanwhile the racket kept bringing up reinforcements for the mob, and
some of them began to get disagreeably curious about me. Here was a
glorious struggle going on against the common foe, and I was standing
idly by instead of taking a hand in it.

One or two of them questioned me in a jeering tone, and presently some
fool yelled out that I was a spy. From taunts and gibing insults, those
near me proceeded to threats, fists and sticks were shaken at me, and
matters looked decidedly unpleasant.

I kept on explaining that I was a foreigner; but that was no more than
a waste of breath; and I looked about for a chance to get away.

I was very awkwardly placed, however. If I went up the street, I
should only run into the thick of the fight with the police; while the
constant arrival of freshcomers below me made escape in that direction
impossible.

Then came a crisis. One excited idiot struck at me with a stick, and
of course I had to defend myself; and for a time I was far too busy to
heed what was going on in the big row higher up the street. I tried
fists at first and, putting my back to the wall, managed to keep the
beggars at bay. Then a chance came to seize a big heavy club with
which a little brute was trying to break my head; and with that I soon
cleared quite a respectable space by laying about me indiscriminately.

But suddenly the club was knocked out of my hands, and a howl of
delight hailed my discomfiture. Then I remembered my revolver. I
whipped it out and a rather happy thought occurred to me. Shouting at
the top of my lungs that I was an Englishman and had nothing to do
with either the mob or the police, I grabbed hold of the ringleader of
my assailants, and used him as a sort of hostage. Keeping him between
myself and the rest, I shoved the barrel of the revolver against his
head and sung out that I would blow out his brains if any other man
attempted to harm me.

The ruse served me well. The crowd hung back; and my prisoner, in a
holy scare for his life, yelled at his friends to leave me alone.

Whether the trick would have really got me out of the mess I don’t
know. There was not time to tell, for another development followed
almost immediately. Some fresh arrivals came up yelling that the
soldiers were close at hand; and we soon heard them.

The mob were now caught between two fires. The police were still
holding their own above us, and the troops were hurrying up from the
other direction. Some one had the wit to see that the crowd’s only
chance was to carry the street against the police and clear that way
for flight. A fierce attack was made upon them, therefore, and they
were driven back to one side, leaving half the roadway clear.

The throng about me melted away, and I let my prisoner go, intending to
wait for the troops. But I soon abandoned that idea; for I saw they had
clubbed their muskets and were knocking down everybody they saw.

I had already had a blow aimed at me by the police, and had been
threatened by the mob; and being in about equal danger from both sides,
I was certain to get my head cracked if I remained. Their tactics were
to hit first and inquire afterwards, and I therefore adopted the only
alternative and took to my heels.

Being among the last to fly I was seen. A tally-ho was raised and
four or five of the police came dashing after me. Not knowing the
district well, I ran at top speed and bolted round corner after corner,
haphazard, keeping a sharp look-out as I ran for some place in which I
could take cover.

I had succeeded in shaking off all but two or three when, on turning
into one street, I spied the window of a house standing partly open.
To dart to it, throw it wide, clamber in, and close it after me took
only a few seconds; and as I squatted on the floor, breathing hard
from the chase and the effects of my former tussle, I had the intense
satisfaction of hearing my pursuers go clattering past the house.

That I might be taken for a burglar and handed over to the police by
the occupants of the house, did not bother me in the least. I could
very easily explain matters. It was the virtual certainty of a cracked
pate, not the fear of arrest from which I had bolted; and that I had
escaped with a sound skull was enough for me for the present.

But no one came near me; so I stopped where I was until the row outside
had died down. It seemed to die a hard death; and I must have sat there
in the dark for over an hour before I thought of venturing out to
return to my rooms.

Naturally unwilling to leave by the window, I groped my way out into
the passage and struck a match to look for the front door. Close to
me was a staircase leading to the upper rooms; and at the end of the
passage a second flight down to the basement.

Like so many houses in Lisbon this was built on a steep hill, and
guessing that I should find a way out downstairs at the back, I decided
to use that means of leaving, as it offered less chance of my being
observed.

I had just reached the head of the stairway, when a door below was
unlocked and several people entered the house. A confused murmur of
voices followed, and among them I heard that of a woman speaking in a
tone of angry protest against some mistake which those with her were
making.

The answering voices were those of men--strident, stern, distinctly
threatening, and mingled with oaths.

Then the woman spoke again; repeating her protest in angry tones; but
her voice was now vibrant with rising alarm.

“Silence!”

The command broke her sentence in two, and her words died away in
muffled indistinctness, suggesting that force had been used to secure
obedience.

Then a light was kindled; there was some scuffling along the passage;
and they all appeared to enter a room.

I paused, undecided what to do. The thing had a very ugly look; but I
had had quite enough trouble to satisfy me for one night. I didn’t want
to go blundering into an affair which might be no more than a family
quarrel; especially as I was trespassing in the house.

A few seconds later, however, came the sound of trouble; a blow, a
groan, and the thud of a fall.

I caught my breath in fear that the woman had been struck down.

But the next instant a shrill piercing cry for help rang out in her
voice, and this also was stifled as if a hand had been clapped on her
mouth.

That decided things for me.

Whatever the consequences, I could not stop to think of them while a
woman was in such danger as that cry for help had signalled.




CHAPTER II

DEVELOPMENTS


My view of the trouble was that it was a case of robbery. The
disordered condition of the city was sure to be used by the roughs as
a cover for their operations; and I jumped to the conclusion that the
woman whose cry I was answering had been decoyed to the house to be
robbed.

But as I ran down the stairs I heard enough to show me that it was in
reality a sort of by-product of the riot in the streets. The woman was
a prisoner in the hands of some of the mob, and they were threatening
her with violence because she was, in their jargon, an enemy of the
cause of the people.

To my surprise it was against this that she was protesting so
vehemently. Her speech, in strong contrast to that of the men, was
proof of refinement and culture, while the little note of authority
which I had observed at first suggested rank. It was almost
inconceivable, therefore, that she could have anything in common with
such fellows as her captors.

The door of the room in which they all were stood slightly ajar, and as
I reached it she reiterated her protest with passionate vehemence.

“You are mad. I am your friend, not your enemy. I swear that. One of
you must know Dr. Barosa. Find him and bring him here and he will bear
out every word I have said.”

[Illustration: “Holding my revolver in readiness, I entered.”]

“That’s enough of that. Lies won’t help you,” came the reply in the
same gruff bullying tone I had heard before. “Now, Henriques,” he
added, as if ordering a comrade to finish the grim work.

Holding my revolver in readiness, I entered. There were three of the
rascals. Two had hold of the woman who knelt between them with her back
to me, while the third, also with his back to me, was just raising a
club to strike her.

They were so intent upon their job and probably so certain that no one
was in the house, that they did not notice me until I had had time to
give the fellow with the club a blow on the side of the head which sent
him staggering into a corner with an oath of surprise and rage. The
others released their hold of the woman, and as I stepped in front of
her, they fell away in healthy fear of my levelled weapon.

They were the reverse of formidable antagonists; rascals from the
gutter apparently; venomous enough in looks, but undersized, feeble
specimens; ready to attack an unarmed man or a defenceless woman, but
utterly cowed by the sight of the business end of my revolver.

They slunk back toward the door, rage, baulked malice and fear on their
ugly dirty faces.

“A spy! A spy!” exclaimed the brute who had the stick; and at the word
they felt for their knives.

“Put your hands up, you dogs,” I cried. “The man who draws a knife will
get a bullet in his head.”

Meanwhile the woman had scrambled to her feet, with a murmured word
of thanks to the Virgin for my opportune intervention, and then to
my intense surprise she put her hand on my arm and said in a tone of
entreaty: “Do not fire, monsieur. They have only acted in ignorance.”

“You hear that, you cowardly brutes,” I said, without turning to look
at her, for I couldn’t take my eyes off the men. “Clear out, or----”
and I stepped toward them as if I meant to fire.

In that I made a stupid blunder as it turned out. They hung together
a second and then at a whisper from the fellow who appeared to be the
leader, they suddenly bolted out of the room, and locked the door
behind them.

Not at all relishing the idea of being made a prisoner in this way, I
shouted to them to unlock the door, threatening to break it down and
shoot them on sight if they refused. As they did not answer I picked up
a heavy chair to smash in one of the panels, when my companion again
interposed.

But this time it was on my and her own account. “They have firearms in
the house, monsieur. If you show yourself, they will shoot you; and I
shall be again at their mercy.”

She spoke in a tone of genuine concern and, as I recognized the wisdom
of the caution, I put the chair down again and turned to her.

It was the first good square look I had had at her, and I was surprised
to find that she was both young and surpassingly handsome--an
aristocrat to her finger tips, although plainly dressed like one of
the people. Her features were finely chiselled, she had an air of
unmistakable refinement, she carried herself with the dignity of a
person of rank, and her eyes, large and of a singular greenish brown
hue, were bent upon me with the expression of one accustomed to
expect ready compliance with her wishes. She had entirely recovered
her self-possession and in some way had braided up the mass of golden
auburn hair, the dishevelled condition of which I had noticed in the
moment of my entrance.

“You are probably right, madame,” I said; “but I don’t care for the
idea of being locked in here while those rascals fetch some companions.”

I addressed her as madame; but she couldn’t be more than four or five
and twenty, and might be much younger.

“There will be no danger, monsieur,” she replied in a tone of complete
confidence.

“There appeared to be plenty of it just now; and the sooner we are out
of this place, the better I shall be pleased.” And with that I turned
to the window to see if we could get out that way. It was, however,
closely barred.

“You may accept my assurance. These men have been acting under a
complete misunderstanding. They will bring some one who will explain
everything to them.”

“Dr. Barosa, you mean?”

“What do you know of him?” The question came sharply and with a touch
of suspicion, as it seemed to me.

“Nothing, except that I heard you mention him just as I entered.”

She paused a moment, keeping her eyes on my face, and then, with a
little shrug, she turned away. “I will see if my ser--my companion is
much hurt,” she said, and bent over the man who was lying against the
wall.

I noticed the slip; but it was nothing to me if she wished to make me
think he was a companion instead of a servant.

She knew little or nothing about how to examine the man’s hurt, so I
offered to do it for her. “Will you allow me to examine him, madame? I
have been a soldier and know a little about first aid.”

She made way for me and went to the other end of the room while I
looked him over. He had had just such a crack on the head as I feared
for myself when bolting from the troops. It had knocked the senses
out of him; but that was all. He was in no danger; so I made him as
comfortable as I could and told her my opinion.

“He will be all right, no doubt,” was her reply, with about as much
feeling as I should have shown for somebody else’s dog; and despite
her handsome face and air of position, I began to doubt whether he
would not have been better worth saving than she.

“How did all this happen?”

She gave a little impatient start at the question, as if resenting it.
“He was brought here with me, monsieur, and the men struck him,” she
replied after a pause.

“Yes. But why were you brought here?”

“I have not yet thanked you for coming to my assistance, monsieur,” she
replied irrelevantly. “Believe me, I do thank you most earnestly. I owe
you my life, perhaps.”

It was an easy guess that she found the question distasteful and had
parried it intentionally; so I followed the fresh lead. “I did no more
than I hope any other man would have done, madame,” I said.

“That is the sort of reply I should look for from an Englishman,
monsieur.” Her strange eyes were fixed shrewdly upon me as she made
this guess at my nationality.

“I am English,” I replied with a smile.

“I am glad. I would rather be under an obligation to an Englishman than
to any one except a countryman of my own.” She smiled very graciously,
almost coquettishly, as if anxious to convince me of her absolute
sincerity. But she spoilt the effect directly. Lifting her eyes to
heaven and with a little toss of the hands, she exclaimed. “What a
mercy of the Virgin that you chanced to be in the house--this house of
all others in the city.”

I understood. She wished to cross-examine me. “You are glad that I
arrived in time to interrupt things just now?” I asked quietly.

“Monsieur!” Eyes, hands, lithe body, everything backed up the tone of
surprise that I should question it. “Do I not owe you my life?” I came
to the conclusion that she was as false as woman of her colour can be.
But she was an excellent actress.

“Then let me suggest that we speak quite frankly. Let me lead the way.
I am an Englishman, here in Lisbon on some important business, and not,
as the doubt underneath your question, implies--a spy. I----”

“Monsieur!” she cried again as if in almost horrified protest.

“I was caught in the thick of a street fight,” I continued, observing
that for all her energetic protest she was weighing my explanation very
closely. “And had to run for it with the police at my heels. I saw a
window of this house standing partly open and scrambled through it for
shelter.”

“What a blessed coincidence for me!”

“It would be simpler to say, madame, that you do not believe me,” I
said bluntly.

“Ah, but on my faith----”

“Let me put it to you another way,” I cut in. “I don’t know much of the
ways of spies, but if I were one I should have contented myself with
listening at that door, instead of entering, and have locked you all in
instead of letting myself be caught in this silly fashion.” Then I saw
the absurdity of losing my temper and burst out laughing.

She drew herself up. “You are amused, monsieur.”

“One may as well laugh while one can. If my laugh offends you, I beg
your pardon for it, but I am laughing at my own conversion. An hour or
two back I was ridiculing the idea of there being anything to bother
about in the condition of the Lisbon streets. Since then I have been
attacked by the police, nearly torn to pieces by the mob, had to bolt
from the troops, and now you thank me for having saved your life and in
the same breath take me for a spy. Don’t you think that is enough cause
for laughter? If you have any sense of humour you surely will.”

“I did not take you for a spy, monsieur,” she replied untruthfully.
“But you have learnt things while here. We are obliged to be cautious.”

“My good lady, how on earth can it matter? We have met by the merest
accident; there is not the slightest probability that we shall ever
meet again; and if we did--well, you suggested just now that you know
something of the ways of us English, and in that case you will feel
perfectly certain that anything I have seen or heard here to-night will
never pass my lips.”

“You have not mentioned your name, monsieur?”

“Ralph Donnington. I arrived yesterday and stayed at the Avenida. Would
you like some confirmation? My card case is here, and this cigar case
has my initials outside and my full name inside.”

“I do not need anything of that sort,” she cried quickly, waving her
hands. But she read both the name and the initials.

“What have you inferred from what you have seen here to-night?”

“That the rascals who brought you here are some of the same sort of
riff-raff I saw attacking the police and got hold of you as an enemy
of the people. I heard that bit of cant from one of them. That you are
of the class they are accustomed to regard as their oppressors was
probably as evident to them as to me; and when you expressed sympathy
with them----”

“You heard that?” she broke in earnestly.

“Certainly, when I heard you tell them to fetch this Dr. Barosa. But it
is nothing to me; nor, thank Heaven, are your Portuguese politics or
plots. But what is a good deal to me is how we are going to get out of
this.”

“And for what do you take me, monsieur?”

“For one of the most beautiful enthusiasts I ever had the pleasure of
meeting, madame,” I replied with a bow. “And a leader whom any one
should be glad indeed to follow.”

She was woman enough to relish the compliment and she smiled. “You
think I am a leader of these people, then?”

“It is my regret that I am not one of them.”

“I am afraid that is not true, Mr. Donnington.”

“At any rate I shall be delighted to follow your lead out of this
house.”

“You will not be in any danger, I assure you of that.”

As she spoke we heard the sounds of some little commotion outside the
room and I guessed that the scoundrels had brought up some more of
their kind.

“I hope so, but I think we shall soon know.”

“I have your word of honour that you will not breathe a word of
anything you have witnessed here to-night.”

“Certainly. I pledge my word of honour.”

The men outside appeared to have a good deal to chatter about and
seemed none too ready to enter. They were probably discussing who
should have the privilege of being the first to face my revolver. I did
not like the look of the thing at all.

“If they are your friends, why don’t they come in?” I asked my
companion. “Hadn’t you better speak to them?”

She crossed to the door and it occurred to me to place the head of a
chair under the handle and make it a little more difficult for them to
get in.

“You need have no fear, Mr. Donnington,” she said with a touch of
contempt as I took this precaution.

“It’s only a slight test of the mood they are in.”

As she reached the door the injured man began to show signs of
recovering his senses; and I stooped over him while she spoke to the
men.

“Is Dr. Barosa there?” she called.

Getting no reply, she repeated the question and knocked on the panel.

There was an answer this time, but not at all what she had expected.
One of the fellows fired a pistol and the bullet pierced the thin panel
and went dangerously near her head.

I pulled her across to a spot where she would be safe from a chance
shot. Only just in time, for half a dozen shots were fired in quick
succession.

She was going to speak again, but I stopped her with a gesture; and
then extinguished one of the two candles by which the room was lighted.

A long pause followed the shots, as if the scoundrels were listening to
learn the effect of the firing.

In the silence the man in the corner groaned, and I heard the key
turned in the lock as some one tried to push the door open.

I drew out my weapon.

“You will not shoot them, Mr. Donnington?” exclaimed my companion under
her breath.

“Doesn’t this man Barosa know your voice?” I whispered.

“Of course.”

“Then he isn’t there,” I said grimly.

I raised my voice and called loudly: “Don’t you dare to enter. I’ll
shoot the first man that tries to.” Then to my companion: “You’d better
crouch down in the corner here. There’ll be trouble the instant they
are inside.”

But she had no lack of pluck and shook her head disdainfully. “You must
not fire. If you shoot one of these men you will not be safe for an
hour in the city.”

“I don’t appear to be particularly safe as it is,” I answered drily.

There was another pause; then a vigorous shove broke the chair I had
placed to the door and half a dozen men rushed in.

As I raised my arm to fire, my companion caught it and stopped me.

For the space of a few seconds the scoundrels stared at us, their eyes
gleaming in vicious malice and triumph. I read murder in them.

“Throw your weapon on the table there,” ordered one of them.

Then a thought occurred to me.

I made as if to obey; but, instead of doing anything of the sort, I
extinguished the remaining candle, grabbed my companion’s arm, drew her
to the opposite side of the room and, pushing her into a corner, stood
in front of her.

And in the pitchy darkness we waited for the ruffians to make the first
move in their attack.




CHAPTER III

THE RECEPTION


The effect of my impulse to extinguish the light in the room was much
greater than I had anticipated. It proved to be the happiest thought I
had ever had; for I am convinced that it saved my life, and probably
that of my companion.

The average Portuguese of the lower class is too plugged with
superstition ever to feel very happy in the dark. He is quick to people
it with all sorts of impalpable terrors. And these fellows were soon in
a bad scare.

For a few moments the wildest confusion prevailed. Execrations,
threats, cries of anger, and prayers were mingled in about equal
proportions; and every man who had a pistol fired it off. At least,
that appeared to be the case, judging by the number of shots.

As they aimed at the corner where they had seen us, however, nothing
resulted except a waste of ammunition.

The darkness was all in my favour. I knew that any man who touched me
in the dark must be an enemy; while they could not tell, when they ran
against any one, whether it was friend or foe. More than one struggle
among them told me this, and showed me further what was of at least
equal importance--that they were afraid to advance farther into the
room.

When a lull came in the racket, therefore, I adopted another ruse. I
crept toward the corner where they had seen us, and, stamping heavily,
cried out that I would shoot the first man I touched.

Another volley of shots followed; but I was back out of range again,
and soon had very welcome proof that the trick was successful. Each man
appeared to mistake his neighbour for me, and some of them were pretty
roughly handled by their friends before the blunders were discovered.

Some one shouted for a light; and in the lull that succeeded we had
a great stroke of luck. The wounded man, who lay in a corner near to
them, began to move his feet restlessly, and they immediately jumped to
the conclusion that I was going to attack them from there.

I backed this idea promptly. Letting out a fierce yell of rage, I
fired a shot at random. This filled to overflowing the cup of their
cowardice, and in another moment they had bolted like rabbits out of
the room and locked the door again.

I lost no time in relighting the candles, and set to work to pile the
furniture against the door to prevent them taking us again by surprise,
and to give me time to see if we couldn’t get away by the window.

Opening it as quietly as possible I had a good look at the bars, and
saw that it would be possible to force them sufficiently apart with
wedges for us to squeeze through.

“We can reach the street this way, madame?” I asked my companion, who
was now very badly scared.

“It is useless,” she replied despairingly.

“Not so useless as stopping here. We can’t expect such luck a second
time as we have just had.” I spoke sharply, wishing to rouse her.

But she only shook her head and tossed up her hands. So I began to
break up some of the furniture to make some wedges, when she jumped to
her feet with a cry of surprise and delight.

“It is his voice,” she exclaimed, her eyes shining and her face
radiant with delight. Whoever “he” might be, it was easy to see what
she felt about him.

Then the key was turned once more and an attempt made to force away my
impromptu barricade.

I closed the window instantly and blew out one of the candles.

“Open the door. It is I, Barosa,” called a voice.

“Let him in, monsieur. Let him in at once. We are safe now.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, suspecting a trick.

Again the rich colour flooded her face. “Do you think I do not know his
voice, or that he would harm me? Let him in. Let him in, I say,” she
cried excitedly.

I pulled away enough of the barricade to admit one man at a time. I
reckoned that no one man of the crowd I had seen would have the pluck
to come in alone.

A dark, handsome, well-dressed man squeezed his way through the opening
with an impatient exclamation on the score of my precaution. And the
instant she saw his face, my companion sprang toward him uttering his
name impetuously.

“Manoel! Manoel! Thank the Holy Virgin you have come.”

His appearance excited me also, for I recognized him at a glance.
He had been pointed out to me in Paris some time before by my
brother-in-law as one of the chief agents of Dom Miguel, the Pretender
to the Portuguese Throne. His real name was Luis Beriardos. His
presence in Lisbon at such a time and his connexion with a section of
the revolutionaries gave me a clue to the whole business.

The two stood speaking together for a time in whispers, and then he
went out to the others. I heard him explain that they had made a
blunder in regard to madame and that he was ready to vouch for her as
one of their best friends and a leader of their movements.

Some further murmur of talk followed, and when he returned, one or two
of the rest tried to follow. But I stopped that move. One man was all I
meant to have in the room at a time; and when I told the others to get
out they went. I had managed to make them understand that it was safer
to obey.

“What does this mean, sir?” asked Barosa, indignantly.

“You need have no fear now, Mr. Donnington,” added madame.

I replied to Barosa. “Those men have been telling you that I am a spy
and you have come in to question me. This lady has assured me that I
have nothing to fear from you. You will therefore have the goodness to
get the key of that door and lock it on this side. Then we can talk,
but not till then.”

“I shall not do anything of the sort,” he replied hotly.

“Then I shall shove these things back in position;” and I began.

“Dr. Barosa will get the key, Mr. Donnington,” put in madame; and she
appealed to him with a look. “He has saved my life, doctor,” she said
in an undertone.

I noticed that she did not now call him by his Christian name as in the
first flush of her relief.

He hesitated a second or two and then with an angry shrug of the
shoulders complied.

“I’ll take the key, doctor,” I said quietly; and when he stood
irresolute, I pushed past him and drew it out of the lock. “Now we can
talk, and I’m ready to answer any questions, in reason, which you like
to ask.”

“Your conduct is very extraordinary, sir.”

“Not a bit of it. These friends of yours take me for a spy. You may
come to the same conclusion. They tried to take my life; and you
may wish to do the same. I am simply taking precautions. I have told
this lady enough about myself to satisfy her that I am no spy; but if
you are not equally satisfied, I prefer to remain here with no other
company than ourselves until a chance of getting away offers.”

He was going to reply when madame interposed. To do her justice she
took up my cause with a right good will. She repeated all I had
previously told her, gave him a graphic account of what had passed,
lauded me to the skies, and ended by declaring her absolute conviction
that every word I had spoken was the truth.

Feeling that my case was in safe hands, I let them have it out
together. He was suspicious, and at every proof of this, her anger and
indignation increased.

“I have accepted Mr. Donnington’s word, Dr. Barosa,” she said hotly,
when he declared that I ought not to be allowed to leave the house;
“and I have given him a pledge for his safety. You know me, and that I
will keep my word. Very well, I declare to you on my honour that if any
harm comes to him now, I will abandon the cause and reveal everything I
know about it and all concerned in it.”

That shook all the opposition out of him on the spot.

“You are at liberty to go, Mr. Donnington,” he said at once.

“Thank you; but what about your friends out there?”

“I will leave the house with you,” declared madame. “And we will see if
any one will dare to try and stop you.”

“It might be simpler if they were to go first,” I suggested.

“I will answer for them,” said Barosa. “We have your word that you will
not speak of anything you have learned here to-night?”

“Yes, I pledge my word,” I replied.

“Let me thank you once more, Mr. Donnington----” began madame.

But I stopped her. “We can call the account between us squared, madame.
If I helped you out of one mess you have got me out of this. And for
the rest, silence for silence. We shall not meet again.”

“Are you staying long in the city, sir?” asked Barosa with a suggestion
of eagerness in his tone.

“Not an hour longer than my business here renders necessary. I am not
so delighted with my experiences so far as to wish to remain.”

He left the room then and after a hurried conference with the fellows
outside he called to us and we left the house.

With what relief I drew the first breath of the fresh night air will
be readily understood; but I do not think I fully realized how narrow
an escape I had had until I was safe in my rooms and sat recalling the
incidents of the strange adventure.

Who was the woman I had helped? Not a hint had been dropped of her
name; but that she was a person of as much importance in the world
outside as in the ranks of the revolutionary party of which she was a
leader, I could not doubt. That the conspiracy was being carried on
in the interest of the Pretender was fairly certain, seeing that this
Beriardos, or Barosa, as he now called himself, was mixed up in it; and
I resolved to write at once to Madrillo to send me everything he knew
about him.

What had he meant, too, by that eager question as to the length of
my stay in the city? He was certainly not satisfied that I was not a
spy. Should I have to be on the look-out for further trouble from him
and the scum of the city joined with him? It was a more probable than
pleasant prospect.

As that exceedingly handsome creature had reminded me, I had gained
some information which made me dangerous to these people; and however
willing she might be to accept my promise of secrecy, it was all
Portugal to a bunch of grapes that the others would not be so content.

And the irritating part of it was that I had got into the mess
through my own blundering stupidity. If I hadn’t been ass enough to
go wandering about the city when I had been warned to stop indoors, I
shouldn’t have had this bother. But the world is full of asses; and
many of them with a heap more brains than I. And with a chuckle, as if
that silly cynicism were both an excuse and a consolation, I tossed
away my cigar and went to bed.

A night’s sound sleep put me on much better terms with myself, and I
scouted the thought of troublesome personal consequences following my
adventure. The thing was over and done with and I was well out of the
mess.

Instead of bothering to write to Madrillo for details about this Dr.
Barosa, therefore, I went off to the _Stella_ for a cruise to blow the
cobwebs away and think about Miralda and the meeting with her that
evening.

We were to meet at the house of the Marquis de Pinsara, and my friend,
Volheno, had impressed upon me the importance of the gathering.

“Affairs are in a somewhat delicate condition just at present,” he
had said; “and as there is a great deal of surface discontent here
and in Oporto--although the bulk of the country is solid in our
favour--we have to exercise some care in organizing our followers.
The Marquis de Pinsara is one of M. Franco’s firmest adherents, and
this reception will really be political in character. You may have
heard of the ‘National League of Portugal?’ No? Well, it is a powerful
loyalist association, and we are doing our utmost to make the movement
fully representative and powerful;” and being a politician and
proportionately verbose, he had first inflicted upon me a long account
of the League and its merits, and from that had launched into the
reasons why he meant to take me to the reception. Put shortly these
were simply that he wished to interest the Marquis de Pinsara and many
of his loyalist friends in the concessions at Beira which I had put
forward as the object of my visit.

What this process of “interesting” the Marquis meant, I learnt within a
few minutes of my entering his house.

As Volheno sent me a line at the last moment saying he was detained,
I had to go alone and I was very glad. Not being quite certain how
Miralda would receive me, I did not wish to have any lookers-on when
me met. Moreover, I certainly did not want to fool away the evening, a
good deal of which I hoped to spend with her, in talking a lot of rot
about these concessions which I had only used as a stalking-horse for
my visit to Lisbon.

But I soon found that in choosing them, I had invested myself with a
most inconvenient amount of importance.

The Marquis received me with as much cordiality as if I were an old
friend and benefactor of his family. He grasped my hand warmly,
expressed his delight at making my acquaintance, could not find words
to describe his admiration of England and the English, and then started
upon the concessions.

I thought he would never stop, but he came to the point. Volheno had
taken as gospel all the rubbish I had talked about the prospects of
wealth offered by the concessions, and had passed it on to the marquis
through a magnifying glass until the latter, being a comparatively
poor man, was under the impression that I could make his fortune. He
was more than willing to be “interested” in the scheme; and took great
pains to convince me that without his influence I could not succeed.
And that influence was mine for a consideration.

In the desire to get free from his button-holing I gave him promises
lavish enough to send him off to his other guests with eyes positively
glittering with greed.

Unfortunately for me, however, he began to use his influence at once,
and while I was hanging about near the entrance, waiting to catch
Miralda the moment she arrived, he kept bringing up a number of his
friends--mostly titled and all tiresome bores--whom he was also
“interesting” in the scheme.

They all said the same thing. Theirs was the only influence which
could secure the concessions for me, and they all made it plain about
the consideration. I began at length to listen for the phrase and
occasionally to anticipate it; and thus in half an hour or so I had
promised enough backsheesh to have crippled the scheme ten times over.

One of these old fellows--a marquis or visconte or something of the
sort, the biggest bore of the lot anyway--was in possession of me
in a corner when Miralda arrived, and for the life of me I couldn’t
shake him off. I was worrying how to get away when the marquis came
sailing up with another of them in tow, a tall, stiff, hawk-faced,
avaricious-looking old man, with a pompous air, and more orders on his
breast than I could count.

I groaned and wished the concessions at the bottom of the Tagus, but
the next moment had to shut down a smile. It was the Visconte de Linto,
Miralda’s stepfather.

The marquis had evidently filled him up with exaggerated stories of
my wealth and the riches I had come to pour into the pockets of those
who assisted me, and his first tactic was to get rid of the bore in
possession. He did this by carrying me off to present me to his wife
and daughter.

It was the reverse of such a meeting as I had pictured or desired; for
at that moment Miralda was besieged by a crowd of men clamouring for
dances. But I could not think of an excuse, and I had barely time
to explain that I had met Miralda and her mother in Paris, when the
old man pushed his way unceremoniously through the little throng and
introduced me, stumbling over my name which he had obviously forgotten,
and adding that Miralda must save two or three dances for me.

As he garbled my name she was just taking her dance card back from a
man who had scribbled his initials on it and she turned to me with a
little impatient movement of the shoulders which I knew well.

Our eyes met, and my fear that she might have forgotten me was
dissipated on the instant.




CHAPTER IV

MIRALDA


Although it was easy to read the look of recognition in Miralda’s
eyes, it was the reverse of easy to gather the thoughts which that
recognition prompted. After the first momentary widening of the lids,
the start of surprise, and the involuntary tightening of the fingers on
her fan, she was quick to force a smile, as she bowed to me, and the
smile served as an impenetrable mask to her real feelings.

The viscontesse gave me a very different welcome. She was pleased to
see me again and frankly expressed her pleasure. I had done my best to
ingratiate myself in her favour during those three weeks in Paris, and
had evidently been successful. She was a kind-hearted garrulous soul,
and before I could get a word in about the dances, she plunged into a
hundred and one questions about Paris and England and the beauties of
Lisbon, and why I had not let them know of my coming and so on, and
without giving me time to reply she turned to Miralda.

“You surely remember Mr. Donnington, child? We met him in Paris, last
spring.”

“Oh yes, mother. His sister is M. Madrillo’s wife,” said Miralda
indifferently.

This was not exactly how I wished to be remembered. “I am glad you
have not forgotten my sister, at any rate, mademoiselle,” I replied,
intending this to be very pointed.

“M. Madrillo showed us many kindnesses, monsieur, and did much to
make our stay in Paris pleasant; and it is not a Portuguese failing to
forget.”

This was better, for there was a distinct note of resentment in her
voice instead of mere indifference. But before I could reply, the
viscontesse interposed a very natural but extremely inconvenient
question. “And what brings you here, Mr. Donnington?”

The visconte answered this, making matters worse than ever; and there
followed a little by-play of cross purposes.

“Mr. Donnaheen is here on some very important business, my dear--very
important business indeed.”

“If I remember, Donnington is the proper pronunciation, father,”
interposed Miralda, very quietly, as if courtesy required the
correction--the courtesy that was due to a stranger, however.

“I wish you wouldn’t interrupt me, Miralda,” he replied testily. “This
gentleman will understand how difficult some English names are to
pronounce and will excuse my slip, I am sure.”

“Certainly, visconte.”

“I am only sorry I do not speak English.”

“Donnington is quite easy to pronounce, Affonso,” his wife broke in.

He gave a sigh of impatience. “Of course it is, I know that well
enough.”

“You were speaking of the reason for Mr. Donnington’s visit,” Miralda
reminded him demurely; and as she turned to him her eyes swept
impassively across my face. As if a stranger’s presence in Lisbon were
a legitimate reason for the polite assumption of curiosity.

“It is in a way Government business; Mr. Donnington”--he got the name
right this time and smiled--“is seeking some concessions in our East
African colony and he needs my influence.”

“Oh, business in East Africa?” she repeated, with a lift of the
eyebrows. “How very interesting;” and with that she turned away and
handed her programme to one of the men pestering her for a dance.

No words she could have spoken and nothing she could have done would
have been so eloquent of her appreciation of my conduct in absenting
myself for four months and then coming to Lisbon on business. Once more
I wished those infernal concessions at the bottom of the Tagus.

“I hope to be of considerable use and you may depend upon my doing my
utmost,” said the visconte, self-complacently.

“I cannot say how highly I shall value your influence, sir, not only
in that but in everything,” I replied, putting an emphasis on the
“everything” in the hope that Miralda would understand.

But she paid no heed and went on chatting with the man next her.

“And how long are you staying, Mr. Donnington?” asked her mother.

“Rather a superfluous question that, Maria,” said her husband. “Of
course it will depend upon how your business goes, eh, Mr. Donnington?”

I saw a chance there and took it. “I am afraid my object will take
longer to accomplish than I hoped,” I replied; for Miralda’s benefit
again of course.

“At any rate you will have time for some pleasure-making, I trust,”
said the viscontesse.

“Englishmen don’t let pleasure interfere with business, my dear, they
are far too strenuous,” replied her husband, who appeared to think he
was flattering me and doing me a service by insisting that I could have
no possible object beyond business. “I presume that you are only here
to-night for the one purpose. The Marquis de Pinsara told me as much.”

At that moment a partner came up to claim Miralda for a dance, and as
she rose she said: “Mr. Donnington is fortunate in finding so many to
help him in his business.”

“Wait a moment, Miralda,” exclaimed her father as she was turning away.
“Have you kept the dances for Mr. Donnington?”

Again her eyes flashed across mine with the same half-disdainful smile
of indifference. “Mr. Donnington has been so occupied discussing the
serious purpose of his visit that he has had no time to think of such
frivolity and ask for them;” and with that parting shot she went off to
the ball-room without waiting to hear my protest.

The visconte smiled and gestured. “I suppose you don’t dance, Mr.
Donnington,” he said, “I have heard that many Englishmen do not.”

“Indeed he does, Affonso,” declared his wife quickly. “I remember that
well in Paris. He and Miralda often danced together. And now, sit down
here in Miralda’s place till she comes back and let us have a chat
about Paris,” she added to me.

But the old visconte had not quite done with me. Drawing me aside--“I
want you to feel that I shall do all in my power, Mr. Donnington,” he
began.

I knew what was coming so I anticipated him. “I am sure of that, and I
have been given to understand that you can do more for me than any one
else in Portugal. And of course you’ll understand that those who assist
me in the early stages will naturally share in the after advantages and
gains. I make a strong point of that.”

“Of course that was not in my mind at all,” he protested.

“Naturally. But I should insist upon it,” I said gravely.

“I suppose it will be a very big thing?”

“Millions in it, visconte. Millions;” and I threw out my hands as if
half the riches of the earth would soon be in their grasp. “And of
course I know that without you I should be powerless.”

He appreciated this thoroughly and went off on excellent terms with
himself and with a high opinion of me as a potential source of wealth,
while I sat down by the viscontesse to explain why four months had
passed since we met.

But these miserable concessions gave me no peace. I was only beginning
my explanation when up came the marquis and dragged me off for the
first of another batch of introductions, followed by a long conference
in another room with him and Volheno who had meanwhile arrived. And
just as the marquis took my arm to lead me away, and thus prevented my
escape, Miralda returned from the dance.

A single glance showed her that I was fully occupied in the business
which I had been forced to admit in her presence was the object of my
visit to Lisbon, and the expression of her eyes and the shrug of her
shoulders were a sufficient indication of her feeling.

I was properly punished for the silly lie which I had merely intended
to conceal my real purpose, and when I saw Miralda welcome a fresh
partner with a smile which I would have given the whole of Portuguese
Africa to have won from her, I could scarcely keep my temper.

I was kept at this fool talk for an hour or more when I ought to have
been making my peace with her, and I resolved on the spot to invent a
telegram from London the next day reporting a hitch in the negotiations.

When at length I got free, Miralda was not anywhere to be seen; and I
wandered about the rooms and in and out of the conservatories looking
for her, putting up no end of couples in odd corners and getting
deservedly scowled at for my pains.

I saw her at last among the dancers; and I stood and watched her,
gritting my teeth in the resolve that no titled old bores nor even wild
horses should prevent my speaking to her as soon as the waltz was over.

I stalked her into a palm house which I had missed in my former search
and, giving her and her partner just enough time to find seats, I
followed and walked straight up to them.

She knew I was coming. I could tell that by the way she squared
her shoulders and affected the deepest interest in her partner’s
conventional nothings.

“I think the next is our dance, mademoiselle,” I said unblushingly,
as I affected to consult my card. She gave a start as if entirely
surprised by and rather indignant at the interruption; while her
partner had the decency to rise. But she glanced at her card and then
looked up with a bland smile and shook her head. “I am afraid you are
mistaken, monsieur.”

The man was going to resume his place by her side, but I stopped
that. “I have the honour of your initials here, and if to my intense
misfortune you have given the dance to two of us, perhaps this
gentleman will allow me, as an old acquaintance of yours, to enjoy the
few minutes of interval to deliver an important message entrusted to
me.”

I was under the fire of her eyes all the time I was delivering this
flowery and untruthful rigmarole; but I was as voluble and as grave as
a judge. I took the man in all right. I made him feel that under the
circumstances he was in the way and with a courteous bow to us both, he
excused himself.

Miralda was going to request him to remain, I think, so I took
possession of the vacant chair; and then of course she could not bring
him back without making too much of the incident and possibly causing a
little scene.

That I had offended her I could not fail to see; her hostility
and resentment were obvious, but whether the cause was my present
effrontery or my long neglect of her, I had yet to find out.

She did not quite know what to do. After sitting a few moments in
rather frowning indecision, she half rose as if she were going to leave
me, but with a little toss of the head she decided against that and
turned to me.

“You have a message for me, monsieur?” Her tone was one of studied
indifference and her look distinctly chilling.

“For one thing, my sister desired to be most kindly remembered to you.”

Up went the deep fringed lids and the dark eyebrows, as a comment upon
the message which I had described as important. “Please to tell Madame
Madrillo that I am obliged by her good wishes and reciprocate them.”
This ridiculously stilted phrase made it difficult for me to resist a
smile. But I played up to it.

“I feel myself deeply honoured, mademoiselle, by being made the bearer
of any communication from you. I will employ my most earnest efforts to
convey to my sister your wishes and the auspicious circumstances under
which they are so graciously expressed.”

She had to turn away before I finished, but she would not smile. There
was, however, less real chill and more effort at formality when she
replied--

“As you have delivered your message, monsieur----” she finished with a
wave of the hands, as if dismissing me.

But I was not going of course, and then I made a very gratifying little
discovery. Her dance card was turned over by her gesture and I saw that
for the next dance she had no partner.

“That is only one of the messages, mademoiselle,” I replied after a
pause in the same stilted tone. “Have I your permission to report the
second?”

I guessed she was beginning to see the absurdity of it, for she turned
slightly away from me and bowed, not trusting herself to speak.

“My brother-in-law, M. Stefan Madrillo, desired me to bring you an
assurance of his best wishes.”

“Have you any messages from the children also, monsieur?” she asked
quickly, with a swift flash of her glorious eyes.

I kept it up for another round. “I am honoured by being able to assure
you that their boy appreciated to the full the bon-bons which were the
outcome of your distinguished generosity when in Paris, and retains his
appetite for delicacies; but the little girl, not yet being able to
speak, has entrusted me with no more than some gurgles and coos. To my
profound regret I cannot reproduce them verbatim. May I have the honour
of conveying your reply?”

She kept her face turned right away from me and did not answer.

“I have yet another message, mademoiselle, if your patience is not
exhausted,” I said after a pause.

“Still another, monsieur?”

“Still another, mademoiselle.”

“From whom, monsieur?”

“From a man you knew in Paris, mademoiselle, Mr. Ralph Donnington. He
has charged me to explain----”

“I don’t wish to hear that one, thank you,” she broke in.

“But he is absolutely determined that you shall hear it.”

“Shall?” she cried warmly, throwing back her head with a lovely poise
of indignation and looking straight into my eyes.

“Yes, shall,” I replied firmly. “I have travelled over a thousand miles
to deliver it.”

“I am not interested in mining concessions, Mr. Donnington,” she cried
scornfully, thinking to wither me.

“Nor am I.”

Her intense surprise at this put all her indignation to flight, and
left nothing in her eyes but bewildered curiosity.

“Nor am I,” I repeated with a smile.

“But----”

“I know,” I said when she paused. “I had to have a pretext.”

She knew what I meant then and lowered her eyes.

“I still do not wish to hear Mr. Donnington’s message,” she said after
a pause and in a very different tone.

“I do not wish to force it upon you now, and certainly not against your
wish. I may be some months in Lisbon, and----”

“There is the band for the next dance, I must go,” she interposed.

“I have seen by your card that you have no partner; but if you wish me
to leave you I will do so, or take you back to the viscontesse--unless
you will give it to me.”

She leant back in her chair, her head bent, her brows gathered in a
frown of perplexity and her fingers playing nervously with her fan.

“I do not wish to dance, Mr. Donnington, thank you,” she murmured.

“Just as you will.”

A long silence followed. She was agitated and I perplexed.

After perhaps a minute of this silence, I rose.

“You wish to be alone, mademoiselle?”

She did not reply and I was turning to leave when she looked up
quickly. “I do not wish you to go, Mr. Donnington.” Then putting
aside the thoughts, whatever they were, which had been troubling her,
she laughed and added: “Why should I? It is pleasant to meet an old
acquaintance. You have come through Paris on your way here, of course.
Were you there long?”

I was more perplexed by the change of tone and manner than by her
former silent preoccupation.

“I did not come through Paris,” I replied, as I resumed my seat. “I
came from England in the _Stella_--my yacht.”

“You have had delightful weather for your cruise.”

“I was not cruising in that sense. The _Stella_ is a very fast boat and
I came in her because I could get here more quickly.”

“Our Portuguese railways are very slow, of course, and the Spanish
trains no better. It is a very tedious journey from Paris.”

“Very,” I agreed. Whether she wished to make small talk in order to
avoid my explanation, I did not know; but I fell in with her wish and
then tried to lead round to the old time in Paris.

She turned my references to it very skilfully however, and after my
third unsuccessful attempt, she herself referred to it in a way that
forced me to regard it as a sealed page.

“It has been very pleasant to meet you again, Mr. Donnington, and have
such a delightful chat, and I am so much obliged to you for not having
pressed me to dance. I hope we shall see a good deal of you while you
are here. You quite captured my dear mother during that time in Paris.
Of course you’ll call.”

“I ventured to leave cards immediately on my arrival.”

Then she rose. “I must really go now. Major Sampayo will be looking for
me for the next dance. Have you met the major yet?”

“I don’t think so; but I have had so many introductions this evening
that I don’t remember all the names.”

“Ah, the result of your supposed purpose in Lisbon, probably. Of course
I shall keep your secret,” she replied with a smile. Then a sudden
change came over her. She paused, the hand which held her fan trembled,
the effort to maintain the light indifference of voice and manner
became apparent, and her voice was a trifle unsteady as she added: “You
will meet Major Sampayo at our house. Ah, here he comes with my friend
the Contesse Inglesia. I suppose my mother has told you I am betrothed
to him.”

The news gripped me like a cramp in the heart, and I caught my breath
and gritted my teeth as I stared at her.

But the next instant I rallied. The pain and concern in her eyes seemed
to explain what had so perplexed me in her manner. Her agitation when
I told her the real purpose of my presence; her quick assumption of
indifference, of mere acquaintanceship, her studious evasion of my
references to our time in Paris, and her light surface talk on things
of no concern to either of us. If my new wild hope was right, all this
had been merely intended to school herself to refer lightly to the
matter of her betrothal.

I forced a smile. “Permit me to congratulate----” I began; but the
words died on my lips as I turned and saw the two people whom she had
mentioned.

The man, Major Sampayo, I knew to be one of the vilest scoundrels who
ever escaped the gallows.

And his companion was the woman whose life I had saved from her
revolutionary associates on the previous night.




CHAPTER V

INEZ


With a big effort I managed to pull myself together, and much to
Miralda’s surprise I covered my momentary confusion with a hearty laugh
and a sentence spoken for the benefit of the other two who were now
within earshot.

“I’m afraid I’ve bored you frightfully, but I couldn’t resist sparing
a few minutes from this concession-mongering business. And after your
saying that the viscontesse remembers our chats in Paris, I shall
certainly ask her to allow me to call.”

I succeeded in speaking in the tone of a quite casual acquaintance, and
I turned to find two pairs of eyes fixed intently upon me.

Whether the fellow who now called himself Major Sampayo recognized me I
could not tell, but his companion did, and I waited for her to decide
whether we were to acknowledge that we had met.

She made no sign and I made my bow to Miralda and was moving off when
the major intervened.

“Will you present me to your friend, Miralda?”

I could have kicked him for the glib use of her name. I paused and
turned with a smile, as if highly pleased by the request. If I knew
myself, the kicking would come later.

“Mr. Donnington, may I introduce Major Sampayo?” said Miralda, a little
nervously.

I bowed and smirked, but behind the entrenchment of English reserve I
made no offer to take his hand.

“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Donnington.”

“I consider myself equally fortunate, Major Sampayo.”

I saw then that he had an uneasy feeling that we had met somewhere
before, and his eyes moved from side to side as he searched his memory
to place my voice or face or name.

“Is that really Mr. Donnington?” exclaimed his companion, with a
delightful assumption of interested surprise. “My dear Miralda, please
don’t leave me out.”

“My friend the Contesse Inez Inglesia,” said Miralda.

She held out her hand and as I took it she looked straight into my
eyes with a most cordial smile. “I have heard so much about you, Mr.
Donnington, that I have been questioning every one I know to find a
mutual friend, and wandering all over the rooms to find you.”

Which meant that she knew I had been a long time with Miralda.

“I have such an implicit faith in Portuguese sincerity, contesse, that
you will turn my head if you flatter me so. The fact is I have been
making an unconscionable bore of myself with Mademoiselle Dominguez. I
met her and the viscontesse in Paris last spring, and I was so glad to
find a face I knew to-night, that I could not resist the temptation for
a chat.”

“Have you been long in Lisbon, sir?” asked Sampayo, still worrying
himself about me.

“Two days, major, that’s all. I came in my yacht.”

“Surely you’ve heard about Mr. Donnington, major,” said the contesse.
“He’s the millionaire who has come about the mining concessions in
Beira, or somewhere.”

“No, I had not heard that,” he replied, with a little start, as if this
might have suggested a clue to his problem. “Have you been in Beira,
sir?”

I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. “I suppose I ought not to own it,
but I was never there in my life.”

“Major Sampayo knows every inch of South Africa, Mr. Donnington,” said
the contesse. “He was out there at the time your country was at war
with the Boers.”

“Oh, indeed,” said I, as if in great surprise. I knew that well enough.
“Then I shall hope to get some wrinkles from him.”

“You served in that war, didn’t you, Mr. Donnington?” asked Miralda,
evidently feeling she ought to say something.

“For a few months. I was in Bloemfontein and Mafeking.” I purposely
named places as distant as possible from the spot where I had seen him.
I did not wish him to recognize me yet.

“Were you out at the finish of the campaign?” he asked at the prompting
of his uneasy fears.

“About the middle. I was sent down country after the relief of
Mafeking.” This was half truth but also half lie. I had gone up again
almost immediately. But it appeared to ease his unrest.

“I have a curious feeling that we have met somewhere,” he said; “and
was wondering whether it could have been out in South Africa. That was
the reason for my rather inquisitive questions.”

I laughed. “Oh, I should have recognized you in a moment if that had
been the case. I never forget a face.”

This made him uneasy again, but, as the band struck up, he gave his arm
to Miralda.

“Thanks for a delightful chat, mademoiselle,” I said lightly to
Miralda. “May I take you to your partner, madame?” I asked, offering my
arm to the Contesse.

Instead of accepting it she said to Miralda. “If you see Vasco tell him
I’ll give him another waltz for this. I am going to sit this out with
Mr. Donnington--that is, of course, if he is willing.”

“I’ll tell him, Inez,” replied Miralda over her shoulder as she walked
away.

Inez was silent until they were out of hearing, and then she said very
meaningly: “What an excellent actor you are, Mr. Donnington.”

“May I return the compliment? I saw that you wished it to appear that
we were complete strangers. And with your permission that is just what
we have been up to the moment of this introduction.”

Another pause followed by a surprise for me.

“So you are Miralda’s Englishman!”

But I was too well on my guard to betray myself. “Am I really?” I asked
with an easy laugh. “We had a jolly time for a week or two, but--that’s
four months ago.”

“You are fond of camelias, Mr. Donnington.”

“I am wearing one, as you see,” I replied pointing to my buttonhole.
But I had often given camelias to Miralda in those three weeks; and
this handsome, dangerous, stately creature with hazel eyes, which were
open and frank or diabolically sly at will, knew it.

Again she paused once more as the preface to a shot.

“What do you know about Major Sampayo, Mr. Donnington?” She flashed the
question at me, her eyes searchlights in their intensity.

“I think he’s quite a handsome man and looks awfully well in that
rather gorgeous uniform; and I presume those orders on his chest show
that he is as distinguished a soldier as he looks.”

“Spoken without even a shadow of hesitation. I declare that every
moment I admire your acting more.” She let her eyes rest on mine and
half closed the lids. “I think I am glad I am not Major Sampayo,” she
said slowly.

“I should imagine you have every reason to be satisfied with your own
delightfully handsome personality. But if it comes to that, I am also
glad I am not the major.”

“Not even with Miralda thrown in?”

“Not even with Miralda thrown in,” I repeated with a laugh. “She’s
a very charming girl and exceedingly pretty and all that. She was
acknowledged to be one of the prettiest girls in Paris last spring, you
know, and I admire her tremendously.”

“A frank admission of unconcerned admiration is very clever, of course,
but I am not deceived by it, Mr. Donnington.”

“No? Well then shall I confess that I worship her, that the ground her
foot touches is changed to holy soil; that when she smiles I am in
heaven, and when she frowns, in hell; and that for four months I have
only existed on the hope of seeing her again; that she fills my heart,
inspires my every thought, dominates my every action, permeates my
being, and is the end-all and be-all of my life?” I declaimed all this
with a lot of extravagant gesture; and then added in a different tone:
“And why on earth do you want to insist that I am in love with her?”

“It is necessary that I know exactly the relationship between you?”

“My relationship is precisely the same as between you and myself,
madame.”

“What do you mean?”

“Are we not all cousins in more or less remote degree--in our descent
from Adam and Eve?”

She rustled her shoulders impatiently. “Don’t you understand what I
mean? You know how we first met.”

“Oh ho, and is the fair Miralda one of you?” I laughed. “But I thought
that subject was taboo?”

“You know my secret and I can therefore talk freely to you.”

“I would very much rather that you did not, if you please.”

“I am under the deepest of all obligations to you, Mr. Donnington;
you saved my life and I wish to be your friend. If you have any such
feeling for Miralda as you have burlesqued, I owe it to you to let
you understand things and be warned in time. It is not possible for a
foreigner to know the undercurrents of life here at present.”

“My dear lady, I am only trying to swim on the surface. I find myself
to-night in the house of one of the staunchest supporters of the
Government at a gathering intended to strengthen the position of the
loyalist body--the National League of Portugal.”

“I am one of the acknowledged leaders of that League.”

I could not restrain a start of astonishment at this; and she noticed
it, of course.

“You are surprised. But many of those here are my friends--my political
friends, I mean. It was my public connexion with the League which led
me into the trouble last night. The men who threatened me knew of my
position in it, but not of my sympathies with them--that of course is
as close a secret as possible--and by a trick decoyed me to a house
where I was seized and brought to where you found me. The intention
was to kill me and then carry me into the streets to make it appear
that I had been killed in the rioting. You will understand from this
the dangerous forces that are at work. Some of those men suspect you
of being a spy and you will be well advised not to prolong your stay
in Lisbon. And your friendship with M. Volheno will not add to your
safety.”

“Cannot an Englishman come here without being taken for a spy?”

“You know that one of your best English detectives has been employed
by the Spanish Government to reorganize the detective force there.
One story I have heard is that you yourself are an English detective
engaged by M. Volheno to help in unearthing some of the conspiracies
here, and that your desire to obtain some concessions in Africa is a
mere blind.”

“It would be difficult to go much further away about me, anyway.”

“Yet those who seek concessions from a Government do not usually
advertise the fact far and wide. You are a man of courage and resource:
we have had proof of that. You have learnt some of our secrets and one
of our haunts. You have some secret knowledge about Major Sampayo that
threatens him; and you are more than clever enough to sustain the part
of an Englishman of wealth and position.”

“And do you mean that you yourself believe this preposterous story?”

“No; but I should like to know the real reason for your coming here.”

“And that Dr. Barosa, does he take me for a spy?”

“No, we have already made inquiries about you from our friends in
England. But, like myself, he wishes to know why you are here. You will
do well to give me your confidence.”

“And your other colleague--Major Sampayo?”

“I did not tell you that he was with us.”

“Not in so many words. And really I don’t care.”

“He will remember where he has met you before, and the facts may help
us to know more about you--for your benefit or otherwise.”

“My dear madame, if you mean that for a threat, it does not in the
least alarm me. Let me tell you once for all I am not a member of
the English detective force; my presence here has not the remotest
connexion with your politics or your plots; and I have no sort of
sympathy with them one way or another. I am just an average Englishman;
and as such claim the right to go where I will when I will, so long as
I mind my own business. And as an Englishman I can take care of myself
and must decline to be frightened out of doing what I wish to do either
by charming, cultured and handsome ladies, like yourself, or by such
gutter scum as I had the tussle with last night.”

“Then you refuse to give me your confidence?”

“Let me put it rather that I have really no confidence worth giving. I
shall hold absolutely secret what you have told me--that on my honour.
And now do you mind if we talk about the scenery?”

“You will have cause to regret it, Mr. Donnington.”

“My dear madam, I have arrived at the mature age of twenty-seven, and
probably twenty-six of them are full of regrets for lost chances. But
there is a question of real seriousness I should like to put to you,” I
said very gravely.

“Well?”

“What is the name of the third, no the fourth bluff, to the north of
the river mouth?”

She turned and bent those strange eyes of hers upon me with an intent
stare. “You mean me to understand that you regard everything I have
said--my warning, my questions, everything--as a mere jest.”

“I mean that, although I am by the way of being a wilful person, I am
not an ungrateful one; and that if you would do me the honour one day
of making up a little party to view that bluff from the deck of my
yacht, it would give me great pleasure and I hope promote that better
understanding between us which I should like to think you desire as
much as I.”

“I accept willingly,” she replied with a smile; but even then she could
not resist a thrust. Looking at me out of the half-veiled corners of
her eyes she asked: “May I bring Major Sampayo?”

“By all means, and Dr. Barosa and any others of your colleagues--even
the fair Miralda; and I will have cosy corners specially fitted up for
you all where you may talk politics or personalities as you prefer.”

Again her strange eyes fastened on mine, searchingly. “What do you
really mean by that?” she asked, with tense earnestness.

“Oh, please don’t let us get serious again, and read grave meanings
into mere trifling banalities,” I exclaimed with a laugh. “I mean no
more than that I should try to give you all a good time and let you
enjoy it in your own way.”

“If I am to enjoy it, Mr. Donnington, you must ask Miralda’s brother,
Lieutenant de Linto.”

“My dear lady, I’ll ask the whole regiment if you wish it.”

“Here he comes, you can ask him now. I suppose you know him?”

A young fellow in the uniform of a lieutenant had entered the palm
house and came hurrying toward us. I did not care for his looks.
Tall and slight of figure, a foppish and affected manner, anæmic and
dissipated in looks with a narrow, retreating forehead, no chin to
speak of, and prominent eyes, in one of which he had an eyeglass, I set
him down as weak, unstable, shallow, and generally undesirable. But he
was Miralda’s half-brother and thus to me a person of consideration.

“I say, Inez, this is too bad. I’ve been hunting for you everywhere and
the dance is all but over.”

She beamed on him with one of her richest smiles. “I own my fault,
Vasco, but I sent word to you by Miralda. I simply could not resist the
opportunity of a chat with the distinguished Englishman every one is
talking about. Mr. Donnington, Lieutenant de Linto.”

I had risen and shook hands cordially, expressing my pleasure at
meeting him. “I fear that unwittingly I have taken your place,
lieutenant,” I added. “Pray pardon me.”

“Here’s my card, Vasco. Take two dances for the one we have missed.”

“That’s all right then,” he said, as he took her card eagerly and
scribbled his initials on it. “I think after all I’m obliged to you,
Mr. Donnington,” he added with a vacuous smile which he intended to be
pleasant.

“Mr. Donnington has asked me to make up a little yachting party one
day, Vasco, and I was just mentioning your name as you came up.”

“Oh, I say, but I’m a rare bad sailor,” he replied doubtfully.

“We’ll choose a fine day then, Vasco. And of course I couldn’t go
without you.” She laid her hand on his arm and glanced up into his face
with a yearning look which convinced him of her perfect sincerity and
fetched a sigh out of him that told its own tale.

I excused myself promptly, and as I turned away he took the chair by
her side, feasting his big eyes on her beauty and letting his little
senses surfeit themselves in the glamour of her charms.

She had his scalp right enough. He was hers, body and soul and honour.
But why had she taken the trouble? She cared for him even less than I
cared for her; and the night before I had seen her look at Barosa with
the light which only one man can bring to a woman’s eyes. Only one at a
time, anyway.

Why then should she fool this little insignificant creature? Of course
she had a purpose. She was not the woman to waste her time and her
glances for nothing.

Was it those confounded politics again? One of the little wheels within
the big one which was to have its part to play when the whole machinery
of plot and conspiracy was set in motion.

Fools can be useful at times.

What part had this one to play?

It was nothing to me--and yet it might be much. He was Miralda’s
brother; and nothing which concerned her could be indifferent to me.




CHAPTER VI

DR. BAROSA


As I made my way through the crowded rooms with the object of finding
the viscontesse and making sure of an invitation to her house, I saw
Miralda and Sampayo sitting together. They did not see me and I stood a
moment watching them.

He appeared to be urging her to do something and his eyes were
insistent, compelling and passionate. There was no doubt that he felt
for her all the animal love of which such a man is capable.

But there was no answering light in her eyes. She was passive, cold
and indifferent; and the emotion he stirred was more like fear than
anything.

Instinctively I hated the man and felt an unholy glow of gladness at
the thought that at a word from me any hold or influence he could have
over her would snap like a rotten twig.

My thoughts slipped back to that old time in South Africa; and in
place of the swaggering major of cavalry, with his breast covered
with orders, I saw him as I had seen him there, a broken-down
tatter-de-mallion member of the hungry brigade at Koomarte Port;
general sponge, reputed spy and acknowledged rascal, passing as a
Frenchman under the name of Jean Dufoire; one of the many scamps who
infested the border between the Transvaal and the Portuguese Colony,
ripe for any scoundrelism from theft to throat-slitting.

This was the story I knew about him. When old Kruger was bundling off
his private fortune to Europe, this Dufoire managed to get hold of some
secret information about one of the consignments and joined with three
other men to steal it. They were successful. The two men in charge of
it were found murdered; and the money, said to be nearly £50,000, was
missing.

But that was not all. Not content with a share of the loot, Dufoire
first picked a quarrel with one of his companions and shot him
treacherously, and then cheated the other two of the greater part of
the money and disappeared.

The facts came out when the two men were afterwards captured. One of
them died; and just before his death confessed everything, in the
hope that the British would take the matter up and secure Dufoire’s
punishment. Many men were aware that I knew Dufoire by sight; and when
the war was over and I was leaving Capetown for home, the other scamp,
a Corsican named Lucien Prelot, sought me out to get news of him. He
swore by all the saints in the calendar that if he could ever find
Dufoire he would drive a knife between his ribs. He begged me on his
knees to let him know if I ever met Dufoire again; and vowed, Corsican
as he was, that he would go from one end of the world to the other in
his quest for revenge.

Of course I would not have anything to do with such an affair; but
he managed in some way to ferret out my address in England and wrote
me two or three letters urging the same request. And then one day he
turned up in London to tell me that he had made money on the Rand, that
he was in Europe searching for Dufoire, and that he could and would pay
me any sum I chose to ask if I would tell him where to find his enemy.

That was about a year before my father’s death; and every month had
brought me a letter from him, in the hope that I could send news.
These letters were addressed from various parts of Europe where he
was pursuing his search, with the deadly intensity of his unslaked and
unslakable thirst for revenge.

And while Prelot was hunting for a Frenchman of the name of Jean
Dufoire, the scoundrel himself had been strutting it in the Portuguese
capital as Francisco Sampayo, major of cavalry. He had purchased his
position, of course, with the fortune he had acquired by robbery,
bloodshed and treachery; and had found some means to use it to obtain
the promise of Miralda’s hand in marriage.

That some underhand means had been employed to force her consent I was
certain; as certain as that I could scare the brute out of the country
with half a dozen words. But before I spoke them I felt that I must
learn more of the facts.

“Good evening, Mr. Donnington,” The voice broke in upon my reverie, and
I turned to find Dr. Barosa at my elbow.

“Ah, good evening, Dr. Barosa,” I replied, as we shook hands.

“You were looking very thoughtful, sir; I am afraid I disturbed you.”

“I have reason to be thoughtful, doctor. I am more than a little
perplexed by the position in which I find myself.”

“I shall be delighted to be of any service, if I can. Would you care
for a chat here, or may I do myself the pleasure of calling upon you at
your rooms?”

“Both, by all means. I should like a word or two with you, and the
sooner the better; but I shall also be glad to see you at my rooms at
any time.”

He thanked me and led the way to a spot where we could talk privately.

“I’ll go straight to the point, doctor: that is our English way. I have
had a conversation with Contesse Inglesia this evening, and I wish to
disabuse your mind thoroughly of any thought that I am a spy.”

“My dear sir, I do not think it.”

“I don’t wish you only to think it, I want you to know. You’ll
appreciate the difference. I am ready to give you any proofs you can
suggest, to answer any questions you like to put, and to back every
word I say with facts. I am tremendously in earnest about this. And
when you have thoroughly convinced yourself, I wish you to convince any
one and every one associated with you, who may be inclined to suspect
me.”

“Your reasons, Mr. Donnington?”

“Must surely be obvious. Last night’s business showed me the length to
which some of your more reckless friends are prepared to carry mistakes
of the kind; and I desire to be able to walk the streets of the city
without expecting to be shot or knifed at the next corner.”

“I do not doubt you, and certainly do not presume to ask for any facts;
but if you would prefer to make any statement, I am of course ready to
listen.”

I replied to that by giving him a fairly full account of myself, and
then added: “Of course I am aware that my statement, unsupported by
evidence, could easily be made up by any one who was here as a spy. I
suggest, therefore, that you shall get evidence of my identity. The
best and simplest thing I can suggest at the moment is that I give
you the addresses of various firms who have photographed me from time
to time, and that you send your agents to them to get photographs of
Ralph Donnington which they have taken. You can then send some one to
my place at Tapworth for the photographs to be identified; you can have
them shown also to my bankers in London; and to any one of a dozen
people who know all about me.”

“I accept your word, I assure you,” he said, with a wave of the hand.

“But that is just what I do not wish you to do. You must be in a
position to say you know, and to table the evidence;” and with that I
wrote down the names and addresses and insisted upon his taking them.

“As the matter is naturally pressing you will of course use the
telegraph, and if money will expedite your inquiries I will very gladly
pay any sum that is necessary. I am, fortunately for myself, a man of
considerable means, and not likely to spare money to put an end to this
intolerable suspicion.”

“You have invited me to question you. There is one point. You are a
friend of M. Volheno?”

“That gentleman, as I have told you, was brought to our place, Tapworth
Hall, by my sister’s husband, M. Stefan Madrillo, some years ago, and
when I came over here about these concessions, Madrillo advised me to
see him. Only in that degree is he a friend of mine.”

“These concessions have been spoken about, Mr. Donnington, with unusual
freedom.”

“That is not my doing. M. Volheno gave a somewhat lurid account of them
to the Marquis de Pinsara, as a man likely to be able to help in the
matter; and the latter appears to have told all his acquaintances. I
shall not be in the least surprised to find the matter in the papers
in the morning. Of course it is very ridiculous and calculated to
frustrate my object entirely. But it is not my doing, I assure you.”

“Yet M. Volheno might have an object?”

“You mean to use them to conceal some other purpose for my visit?”

“And you give me your word that you have no other purpose except to
obtain these concessions?”

“Contesse Inglesia put much the same question, and I will answer it
as I answered her. I pledge my word that I have no sort or kind of
interest in the political affairs of your country otherwise than as
they may be incidentally connected with these concessions.”

“Is that an entirely frank answer, Mr. Donnington?”

“Any suspicion underlying that remark I have already given you the
means of dissipating. I declare to you, on my honour as an English
gentleman, that I have none but absolutely private and personal reasons
for coming to Lisbon.”

“You have discussed political matters with M. Volheno?”

“Certainly not in any detail. He told me the city was in a condition
of unrest, and that there were all sorts of more or less dangerous
combinations against the Government. But this was merely as a reason
for the warning he gave me against being in the streets alone after
dark.”

“You did not heed that warning?”

“No. I was disposed to smile at it. But I learnt my lesson last night,
and shall profit by it in the future.”

Barosa sat a few moments thinking. “I will have these inquiries made,
Mr. Donnington,” he said then; “but I have no doubt whatever of the
result. I will make it my personal affair to see that you have no
trouble. In point of fact we already have proof that you are what
you say. Mademoiselle Dominguez and her mother met you in Paris last
spring, and they of course know you to be Mr. Donnington.”

Why did he want to drag Miralda into the matter?

“I have intentionally kept her name out of our conversation, Dr.
Barosa,” I answered with a smile, “and I still wish you to make your
own investigations.”

“The Contesse Inglesia is disposed to think that your meeting with
Mademoiselle Dominguez is connected with your presence here now.”

“The contesse is a very charming and delightful woman, doctor, and
being a woman is likely to jump to conclusions.”

“You will understand, of course, that any such purpose would concern
us. She is a friend of our cause, and betrothed to a man to whom we are
under great obligations, Major Sampayo.”

“I will ask you, if you please, not to give me any information about
either your friends or your objects. For the rest, I shall be glad to
know when you have satisfied yourself about me; and afterwards, if you
wish, to see you at any time as a friend. But no politics, mind.”

He took this as a hint that the subject should be dropped, and he
switched off to a topic I was always ready to talk about, yachting
and yachts in general, and my own boat in particular. He was a keen
yachtsman, and when I suggested that he should find time to have a run
on the _Stella_, he accepted the invitation quite eagerly.

As a matter of fact, I rather liked him. He had treated me quite
candidly; and I was convinced he was satisfied that, whatever might
be my real object in coming to the city, it had no connexion with
the political situation. His politics were no concern of mine. I was
absolutely indifferent whether the King of Portugal was Dom Carlos or
Dom Miguel; and it was no part of my duty to tell Volheno or any one
else that this keen-eyed smooth-voiced, doctor, who was accepted as a
loyalist in this most loyalist of gatherings, was in reality a secret
agent of the Pretender endeavouring to exploit this National League in
the interests of his master.

The only point where the thing threatened to affect me was in regard
to Sampayo. Barosa had admitted that they were under great obligations
to him, and I read this to mean that some of old Oom Paul’s money was
finding its way into the coffers of the cause.

If, in return for the money, Sampayo had stipulated for the support of
Barosa and the rest in regard to Miralda, there might be trouble. But
I was so confident of being able to bring that scoundrel to his knees
that I could view even such an alliance without concern.

What I had to do first was to get at Miralda’s own feelings and the
reasons behind her engagement, and for that I must do my best to
secure her mother as an ally.

The viscontesse greeted me with a smile and a shake of the head.
“You’ve neglected me shamefully, Mr. Donnington. Here’s nearly the
whole evening gone and we’ve scarcely had a word together.”

“I hope we shall have many opportunities. I assure you I have not had a
minute to myself the whole evening, and after all a place like this is
not the best in the world for a real friendly talk.”

“When can you spare time to come and see us?”

“May I come?”

“May you come, indeed? Why of course you not only may, but must. Now
when?”

“Shall you be at home to-morrow?”

“I’m always at home. Come in the afternoon. I’ve such a lot to tell
you. I suppose you’ve heard about Miralda and Major Sampayo. I was just
going to tell you about it this evening when that wretched old marquis
carried you away.”

“You mean your daughter’s engagement? Yes. She herself told me of it.”

“Do you think him a handsome man? They call him one of the handsomest
men in the army. And he’s very rich, too. There were heaps of women
setting their caps at him.”

“A man who is both rich and handsome is generally labelled desirable.
At least in London and presumably in Lisbon also.”

“You will find that out before you have been here long. Do you think
our girls pretty?”

“Some of them are much more than pretty,” I agreed.

“Would you like an introduction to any of them? I’ll do it for you in a
moment.”

“I am too pleased to be where I am to wish anything of the kind.”

“Ah, you always knew how to say nice things, Mr. Donnington. I often
think of that time in Paris, and sometimes I--do you know what I used
to think?”

“If I was the subject of your thoughts I trust they were pleasant ones.”

“You know an old woman--I call myself old, but I’m offended in an
instant if any one else does--an old woman, especially the mother of a
pretty girl--you think Miralda pretty, don’t you?”

“By far the prettiest in the rooms to-night.”

“Well, a mother gets into the way of thinking that when a young man
pays her attention, it’s vicarious, you know. A woman’s never too old
to relish attentions, of course, but I suppose you know that. But in
Paris I had my suspicions.”

“Of whom, viscontesse?”

“Of you, Mr. Donnington. Perhaps I should say they were rather hopes
than suspicions. You were a great favourite of mine, I’ll admit that.
At the same time, I wasn’t quite sure that some of the nice things you
said and did were solely on my account. But that’s all over now, of
course--over and done with;” and she smiled and fanned herself slowly,
looking at me askance through half-closed lids, as if to watch the
effect of her words.

Was she warning or reproaching me? Or both? What answer did she expect?
“I trust nothing has occurred in the interval to cause me to forfeit
your good opinion, madame.”

The fan stopped a moment, as if she detected the double meaning of my
words. “Four months is a long time to take to travel a thousand miles
or so. I had hoped to see you in Lisbon.”

“I think you know that I was called from Paris suddenly by my father’s
illness. He lay for many weeks between life and death, and it was
absolutely impossible for me to leave him even for a day. I have come
here at the first possible moment.”

The fan stopped again, abruptly this time, and she lowered it slowly
until it rested upon her lap; her look was very serious and her eyes
full of concern.

“It is only these--these concessions which have brought you here
now, Mr. Donnington?” she replied after a pause, her tone and look
suggesting some degree of nervous doubt of what my reply would be.

I returned her look and framed my answer carefully. “I have been very
careful to let every one know that--every one else.”

She bit her lips and frowned, the concern in her eyes deepened, and
with a half-suppressed sigh she turned away and began to fan herself
slowly again. I think she understood my meaning, but before she
could reply Miralda came up on Major Sampayo’s arm. As she saw them
approaching, the viscontesse started and glanced quickly and nervously
at me with a look I could not read.

I rose to give my seat to Miralda, and her mother sent Sampayo to find
the visconte as she wished to go home. Then she burst into one of her
garrulous speeches and did not cease speaking until Sampayo returned
with the visconte, when she hurried both husband and Miralda away on
the plea of an overpowering headache. And Sampayo went with them.

I was both perplexed and excited as the result of that short
conversation. It was possible to read so much both in her words and
in her manner; and I was puzzling over her real meaning when Sampayo
re-entered the room, glanced round hurriedly, and then came straight
across to me.

By the heavy frown in which his brows were drawn together, his air of
decision, and the expression of his eyes when he saw me, I guessed that
he had at last succeeded in remembering me and had decided to lose no
time in finding out what I knew about him.

I had been watching him without looking up, and when I did so, his look
changed and he forced a smile: a very poor effort to appear at ease.

“You know I was puzzling where we could have met, Mr. Donnington. I
have settled it at last. It was in South Africa, and I wish to have a
word or two with you.”




CHAPTER VII

SAMPAYO IS UNEASY


Although Sampayo had obviously made up his mind to ascertain at once
whether I knew anything about those black doings of his in South
Africa, I had not the slightest intention of satisfying him.

There were many things I had to clear up before I dealt with him; and,
as matters stood, it suited me much better that Miralda should be
betrothed to him than to any one else.

Sampayo was a big brute, much bigger than I, and had once possessed
great strength; but during his years of comfort and wealth, fat had
taken the place of a good deal of his muscle. He had, however, retained
the air of bullying masterfulness and he now tried to bully me.

“You have not been frank with me, Mr. Donnington,” he said as he sat
down. “I don’t suppose you wished purposely to mislead me, but you did
so in fact. You said that after the relief of Mafeking you did not see
any more of the war.”

“No, no, pardon me. I said I was sent down country.”

“Well, that’s much the same thing, sir; whereas, from what you have
told Mademoiselle Dominguez it is clear that you went up country
again and were there at the end of things. You meant me to infer the
opposite, and I must ask you for your reasons.”

At his hectoring tone I turned and looked him full in the eyes, and
then turned away again with a shrug of the shoulders, giving him no
other reply.

“You heard me, Mr. Donnington.”

I took out my watch, glanced at the time, and replaced it in my pocket
very deliberately, and yawned.

“I have asked you a question, sir, and I mean to have an answer.”

I paused and looked at him again more deliberately than before. “Is it
possible that you are addressing me?”

“Certainly I am addressing you,” he said with an angry twist of the
head.

“Then be good enough to drop that barrack-yard tone, or say at once
that you wish to force a quarrel upon me.”

I knew he was an arrant coward; and this was not at all to his liking.
After a slight pause he said in a very different manner: “I may have
spoken abruptly, but I think I am entitled to an explanation.”

“Of what?” I rapped out very sharply.

“Whether you intentionally misled me as to your movements in South
Africa?”

“What on earth can it matter to you or any one else except myself where
I went and where I did not go in South Africa?”

“Do you say you did not meet me out there?”

“Why should I say whether I did or did not? And why should you be so
anxious about it?”

“I am not anxious about it at all. No more so than yourself. But if you
did meet me and now deny it, I have a right to ask your reasons.”

“I met hundreds of men, of course--thousands indeed--and equally of
course you may have been one of them.”

“That is not meant as an evasion, I hope,” he exclaimed, losing his
temper again.

“Major Sampayo!” I cried indignantly.

He gave a twirl to his moustaches and it looked as if he were going to
quarrel in earnest. But he thought better of it. “I meant no offence,
Mr. Donnington,” he muttered.

“Then I will take none.”

“But you will remember your remark that you never forget a face.”

“I did not mean that I could identify at sight every man I met in the
campaign both on our side and among the Boers. Of course there would
have to be something in the circumstances of the meeting which would
serve as a connecting link.”

“And you do not remember me then?” he persisted.

It was awkward to answer this without a direct lie, so I turned and had
another steady look at him for perhaps half a minute and then shook my
head. “Can you suggest anything likely to recall your features to me?”

His eyes shifted uneasily under my scrutiny, and he vented a little
sigh of relief as he replied: “Of course I cannot.”

“We both appear to be in the same difficulty, then. Now that I look
fixedly at your features, there is something about them that I seem
to know; but very likely it is only due to the fact that I have seen
you two or three times to-night. Sampayo. Sampayo,” I repeated, as if
trying to recall the name, and then shook my head again as if giving
the matter up. “I suppose we must take it that we have not met,” I said.

“I can understand that,” I said with a smile.

“You will excuse my curiosity, I trust, Mr. Donnington. It may have
seemed somewhat exaggerated to you perhaps, but I am always anxious to
meet any one who was out there when I was.”

“I can understand that,” I said, with a smile.

All the former uneasy suspicion leapt to life again in his eyes. “Why?”
he asked, quickly and eagerly.

“It is just the same with me,” I answered lightly. “It suggests a sort
of comradeship, you know, chatting over the old experiences.”

“Certainly, certainly,” he agreed.

“I shall be glad to have an opportunity of exchanging experiences with
you some day. Only we mustn’t begin, as we did just now, by firing
broadsides at one another.”

“No, no, of course not. I am quite ashamed of my heat.”

“That’s all right, major. On which side were you in the war? Of course
we’ve all buried the hatchet long ago.”

“I was not a combatant, Mr. Donnington. I was making money and was
very successful, I am glad to say.” As I knew how he had made it, his
boastful self-complacent tone was amusing. “I rejoined the army here
on my return. And now there is another topic on which I should like to
say just a word or two. You met Mademoiselle Dominguez last spring in
Paris, I believe.”

“Yes. She was there with her mother.”

“You are aware that she has done me the honour to promise to be my
wife?”

“Oh yes. She herself told me. But----”

He interrupted with a wave of the hand. “One moment. It has been
suggested to me to-night that your present visit is in some respects a
result of that meeting?”

I smiled. “Considering that I have been only two days in the city there
appears to be a tremendous amount of interest in my movements and
actions.”

“You have proposed that we should see something of each other in a
friendly way, Mr. Donnington, and I should be glad of your assurance
that there is no truth in the suggestion?”

“Really, really!” I protested laughing again.

“Pardon my frankness, but I wish to know where we stand.”

“You are not serious, of course?”

“Indeed I am. And I must press the point.”

“Well, really, I can’t take such a thing seriously at all, Major
Sampayo. You are naturally at liberty to entertain any ideas you wish
as to my presence in Lisbon. But I am greatly astonished that you
should have even broached such a subject.”

“I have a right to put the question to you, I think.”

“Well, I disagree with you, and absolutely decline to discuss it. You
must have seen very little of the English in South Africa if your
experiences have led you to believe that it is our custom to exchange
confidences with a stranger. Possibly after you and I have had our
proposed chat over our mutual experiences out there and get to know one
another better, we may resume the subject. But not until then, if you
please. And now, I must bid you good-night.”

He looked very angry and malicious; but I did not care for that. I was
rather pleased than otherwise that Miralda should have spoken of me to
him in such a way as to rouse his jealousy.

Sleep was almost out of the question for me that night. I was in a
positive fever of unrest.

Did Miralda care for me? If so, why had she promised to marry Sampayo?

Over and over again I recalled every word that had passed between us
that evening, and every glance she had given me. The first look at the
moment of meeting had been one of surprise, but I had read no other
feeling into it.

She had, however, been genuinely indignant when she heard that only
business had brought me. And she had every right. I had carried matters
far enough in Paris to warrant her in believing I cared for her. I had
done everything I could to make my feelings plain. Then I had gone
without a word, had remained away four months, and had now arrived
“on business.” It was only human nature that she should resent such
treatment.

Unexplained, my conduct was that of a cad and a coxcomb. She might
well believe that in Paris I had spoken without meaning, had been
amusing myself with a flirtation, and had forgotten her as soon as I
had shaken the dust of the city off my feet. To follow to Lisbon on
such an errand as the visconte had described and I had acquiesced in,
was nothing short of a brutal insult to her.

But while her resentment was white-hot, I had made her see the truth.
Her eyes had told me that she understood. And the explanation had
shifted the axis of all her thoughts. I had come solely on her account,
hurrying to her at the first moment I was at liberty to speak the words
which had been impossible in Paris, and--she had pledged herself to
another man.

If she cared for me--always that if--she would find herself playing
the part she believed I had played. The charge of inconstancy was
transferred from my shoulders to hers. And she had to face the task of
telling me the truth. Her sudden agitation was intelligible enough. And
she had undoubtedly been very deeply moved. That thought was as balm in
Gilead to me.

I thought long and carefully over her manner at that point. She had
thrown off her agitation with an effort and passed at once to the
opposite extreme of indifference; she had plunged into a discussion
of conventional trivialities of no interest to either of us, and had
deftly fended off my attempts to refer to our former relations until
she herself had mentioned them in a way that implied they were past and
buried. And she had followed this with the news of the engagement.

The object might have been to spare us both from embarrassment. But I
read more in it. That she should try to spare me pain was as natural as
is the light when the sun shines. But she had not spared me. She would
know that to refer to it in the light tone she had used would add to
the shock; and there had not been a word of preparation and not one of
regret.

Why?

I thought I could see the reason. She wished me to believe her
heartless and unfeeling. She had regretted her involuntary agitation
on learning the truth, lest I should believe she really cared. She had
then acted designedly and with the set purpose of making me believe she
had entirely forgotten the Paris episodes, could speak of them with
complete indifference, and was happy in her engagement.

Again, why?

And again I thought I could see her reason. She felt there were
circumstances behind her betrothal to Sampayo which shut out the
possibility of its being broken and she wished to drive home that
conviction upon me. She could not tell me what the facts and influences
were which had decided her; so she deliberately blackened herself in my
eyes, posing as a jilt who had first encouraged me to hope and had then
thrown me over with a laugh and a careless toss of the head.

But I knew her too well to accept any such self-caricature as a true
portrait, even without the help of all I had heard from Inez, from
Barosa, and from the viscontesse.

Was it too late now to win? It might be; but it certainly was not too
late to make a big effort. And such an effort I would make at once. If
she had compromised herself in this wretched conspiracy business so far
as to be under the thumb of Barosa and his associates, her very safety
demanded that I should strive with might and main to break the power
they held over her and set her free from it.

But my fear was that some other compelling influence was at work; and
I looked to find it in her home. It was not the viscontesse, I was
certain of her; but I knew very little yet of the visconte and nothing
at all of the brother, Vasco, except that he was infatuated with Inez
and was being properly fooled by her. I made my promised visit to the
viscontesse on the following afternoon hoping to be able to resume
the thread of the conversation at the reception. But no opportunity
offered. She had some friends and I could not get a word with her
alone; and Miralda did not come in until just as I was leaving.

But I learnt something from the conversation. It concerned mainly the
personal side of the political situation. Every one had a grievance
against M. Franco, the Dictator. In his zeal for economy he had swept
away a host of sinecure positions about the Court; and had thus made
enemies not only of every one who had been paid for doing nothing and
their friends and relatives, but also of all who had been looking
forward to such payments.

The visconte himself had held one of the best of these sinecures. He
had been the royal cork-drawer or napkin ring-holder-in-chief, or
something equally important, and the loss of the salary had been hotly
resented.

It sounded intensely ridiculous; but the viscontesse herself was full
of indignation; and her friends all agreed and joined in abusing the
Government with a violence which, although entirely laughable, proved
how widespread was the discontent among those who had been staunch in
their loyalty.

It was on this feeling among the higher classes that Barosa was working
on behalf of the Pretender, Dom Miguel.

Just as I was leaving, the viscontesse found a moment to tell me she
wished to have had more opportunity of talking to me, so I promptly
asked her to come to luncheon on the _Stella_ the next day, and she
was hesitating when Miralda came in. We were standing near the door
and she joined us. She greeted me with just the same air of detached
friendliness she had shown on the previous evening; but when her
mother spoke of my invitation, she surprised me.

“It will be delightful, and I should like it above all things--that is
if the invitation is to include me, Mr. Donnington?”

“Why, of course.”

“And can we have a little run out to sea? I love the sea you know.”

“It shall be exactly as you wish,” I replied, and having arranged that
the launch was to be ready for them at noon, I went off delighted at
the prospect of having Miralda and her mother to myself, for some
hours.




CHAPTER VIII

MIRALDA’S MASK


The next morning was gloriously fine, and I was on the _Stella_ in good
time to see that all was in readiness. Old Bolton, my skipper, muttered
something about the wind shifting and that we should probably have a
change in the weather, but for once I didn’t believe him, and just
before noon I jumped into the launch and went off in high spirits to
fetch Miralda and her mother.

Then came a decidedly disagreeable surprise.

As I stepped on to the quay, Inez was waiting for me, her servant
standing by with wraps. With one of her most radiant smiles she gave me
her hand and reminded me that I had invited her to see the yacht. “So
when I heard Miralda and the viscontesse were going to-day, I thought
this would be just a chance of chances.”

“Of course, delighted,” I replied very cordially. I couldn’t very well
tell her she wasn’t wanted; so I buttoned up my chagrin and made the
best of it. “We’re going to have a little run out to sea.”

“You’re quite sure I shall not upset your plans?” she asked, knowing
quite well that that was precisely what she was doing.

“My dear lady, what plans do you think I have that could be spoilt?
There’s heaps of room on the _Stella_ for us all.”

“I mean with regard to Miralda, Mr. Donnington,” she said, dropping
her light tone and fixing those queer eyes of hers on me.

“I hope to give both the viscontesse and her daughter a pleasant day’s
outing. You don’t consider that a very deadly plan, I hope.”

“You may remember my warning?”

“I try to make it a rule to remember only the pleasant things which are
said to me by beautiful ladies, contesse.”

“You mean you refuse to be warned?”

“Against what?”

“Ah, you pretend you do not know,” she retorted impatiently.

“I don’t think you quite grasp the position. I am in Lisbon on business
which will detain me some little time. Meanwhile, I am fortunate in
having met some old friends and made some new ones, and I am delighted
to have an opportunity of welcoming them on my yacht. That is how
matters stand. And any warning against doing that, however well meant
and by whomsoever given, is really as little needed as if you or I were
to go to the _Stella’s_ captain and warn him against hidden reefs out
there on the open sea.”

“It is against a hidden reef in an apparently open sea that I am
warning you.”

“Well, Captain Bolton is a splendid seaman and knows his charts, but a
man of very few words, and he would--just smile.”

“You may smile if you will; but do you think I should have forced
myself upon you in this way without reason?”

“The man is fortunate indeed upon whom such pleasure is thus thrust.”

“You cover your meaning with a jest--but I am too much in earnest. I
wish to be your friend. You must not seek to interfere with Miralda’s
marriage.”

“Your pardon, but we are really getting too personal. Let me suggest
that we wait to discuss that lady until she is present. Ah, here they
are,” I exclaimed, catching sight of them. And then I had a little
thrust at Inez. “And you are fortunate, too. Lieutenant de Linto is
with them.”

I knew how he must bore her; and she did not succeed in disguising her
chagrin. She had admitted that she had come as a sort of watchdog; and
the punishment fitted the crime so aptly that I grinned. Nor was that
to be her only punishment, as matters turned out. The skipper proved a
true weather prophet, and Inez was a desperately bad sailor.

She played her watchdog part cleverly; but it was entirely superfluous.
All the delightful anticipations I had indulged in were killed by
Miralda herself, whose conduct perplexed me far more than on the
previous night.

Almost from the moment her dainty foot touched the _Stella’s_ deck, she
acted in a manner I could not have deemed possible. She was very bright
and laughed and talked as if there were no such thing in the world as
care and trouble. She treated me as if I were a mere acquaintance whom
she was just pleased to meet again. Nothing more.

But it was not that which so pained me. She spoke freely of her visit
to Paris, referring now to her mother and again to me in regard
to little episodes of the time there, and doing it all without
a suggestion of restraint. Then in a hard tone and with jarring
half-boastful laughter, she began to jest about her conquests. She
named several men, who, as I knew, had admired her; mimicked their
ways, ridiculed their attentions, and freely admitted that she had
flirted with them, because “one must amuse oneself.”

If any man had told me that she was capable of such conduct I think
I should have knocked him down. But I heard it all myself. I could
scarcely believe my own eyes and ears. The last belief in the back of
my mind was that she could be the callous, heartless coquette she was
showing herself, luring men to her by her beauty only to laugh at them
for believing in her, and descending to the depths of talking about it
to others in a vein of self-glorification.

The luncheon gong interrupted but did not check her, and as I sat
listening in silence she appealed to me more than once to confirm
some little ridiculous trait of some one or other of the men she had
“scalped.”

Inez saw and rejoiced at my discomfiture, but retribution was at hand
for her. When we sat down to luncheon the sea was as smooth as the
table-cloth, but when we reached the deck again the weather had changed
and a heavy bank of clouds to the south threatened a capful of wind.
And even this served to show Miralda in a new light.

She heard me tell the skipper to return. “Is it going to be rough? I
hope so. I love a rough sea. Don’t go back yet.”

Inez and Vasco protested vigorously.

Miralda looked at them both and shrugged her shoulders, and then turned
to me. “I don’t see why we should spoil our pleasure for them, do you?”
she asked with a laugh that was half a sneer.

“I am sorry to cut your pleasure short, but I think we had better
return,” I replied.

“People look so silly when they are ill;” and with an unpleasant laugh
she crossed to the side.

When the wind came and the _Stella_ began to roll, Inez hurried away,
followed directly by Vasco.

The viscontesse had been very quiet all the time, and although the
motion of the yacht did not appear to upset her, she said she would
rather lie down and asked Miralda to go with her.

“Don’t be unreasonable, mother,” was the reply. “I am enjoying every
moment of it. You don’t want to shut me up in a stuffy cabin. But take
my hat with you, and bring me a wrap of some sort, and my cloak.”

The unfeeling words and the tone in which they were uttered, stung me
like the knots of a whip lash. I gave my arm to the viscontesse and
took her below and installed her comfortably on a sofa in the saloon.

“Miralda loves a rough sea, Mr. Donnington,” she said, as she pointed
to the wraps for me to take on deck. “Don’t stay with me; I am going to
take an old woman’s privilege and have a nap.”

I took the things in silence and returned to Miralda.

She stood by the bulwarks her eyes intent on the troubled waters; a
stray lock or two of her hair had been freed by the breeze, and her
face was radiant with delight. She revelled in the scene. A veritable
incarnation of vigorous youth and bewitching beauty.

She turned as I reached her side. “Isn’t it glorious, Mr. Donnington? I
suppose I may stay on deck? I shan’t be in the way?”

“The whole yacht is yours to be where you will, of course,” I replied.

“You always say such pleasant things. I remember that knack of yours.
Help me on with this cloak,” she added with a coquettish glance.
“There, how do I look?” she asked when she had adjusted the wrap,
gracefully, as all her acts were. “And now you must find me a corner
where I shan’t be quite blown away,” she commanded.

I found her a corner and installed her.

“We shall want two chairs, of course, and then we can have a long chat
like we used to in Paris.”

I had had quite enough of Paris already, if she meant to continue to
talk in her former strain. But I fetched another chair and sat down.

Then she laughed suddenly and almost boisterously. “Do you know I
really believe my mother wanted me to go and stop with her? She can be
a terrible nuisance. Imagine me pinned up there. Sympathize with me.”

“The viscontesse told me she hoped to get to sleep,” I replied.

“Then wasn’t it selfish of her? As if I was going to miss this
beautiful sea just because she feels bad and has a headache. Absolutely
preposterous, wasn’t it?” and she laughed again.

I looked round at her and made no reply.

She returned the look as if surprised at my silence. Then her eyes
lighted and her lips parted. “Oh, I remember now, of course. It was you
who always put on that mournful look--funereally gloomy--when I used to
do things which shocked your English propriety. I was thinking it was
that Graf von Holstein--that long-faced German who would insist upon
giving me flowers I did not want and then expected me to dance with him
in return.”

I had given her flowers and asked her to dance when she wore them.

“Very unreasonable, mademoiselle,” I said after a pause.

“Oh, men are always like that. They all seem to think that because a
girl amuses herself and dances once or twice with them, they have made
a conquest.”

“A man is of course unreasonable to believe in a woman.”

“What a delightfully cynical platitude. Isn’t the sea getting up
quickly? Poor mother! I am afraid you won’t tempt her on the yacht
again.” Again she laughed, and added: “And that’s a nuisance, for I
love the sea.”

I turned unexpectedly and caught a look in her eyes as they were
bent on me, which she had not meant me to see. And then I thought I
understood.

“I thought that was it,” I said quietly. I myself could smile now.

“What was what, Mr. Donnington?” she asked as a sort of challenge;
adding, with an attempt to resume her former expression of reckless
frivolity: “that sounds like a conundrum, doesn’t it? And they are such
stupid things.”

“I believe I have the answer to the bigger conundrum.”

“There’s the grave Englishman again,” she jested, with a toss of the
head.

“Yes. ‘Miralda’s Englishman,’” I answered, holding her eyes with mine
and speaking slowly and deliberately.

It was great daring, but I felt that I must strip away this mask of
heartless raillery which galled and pained me beyond endurance. I would
know the truth at any cost. If this coquette of flouts and jibes who
laughed at men with one breath and made light of even her mother’s
sufferings with the next, was the real woman whom I had set in the
inmost shrine of my heart, the sooner I was away the better.

The mask fell, but not at once.

She met my gaze steadily, almost defiantly, and the blood rushed to her
face as she read my look and strove to force a laugh and utter a jest
in reply. But the words would not come.

“You understand me,” I said, in the same deliberate tone. “You are
either the most heartless jilt who ever trifled with the best feelings
of men in order to be able to boast of your triumphs afterwards, or you
are deliberately playing the part for some purpose of your own. God
forbid that I should accept your self-accusation.”

“I will go----” she began and half rose. But the reaction came then.
The crimson faded from her face, leaving it white and strained. She hid
it behind her hands as she sank back in the chair, her head lowered,
trembling in agitation.

I was answered and without a word I rose and left her that she might be
alone while she recovered her self-command.

With a rare feeling of exultation I renewed all that had passed in the
light of my new knowledge. She had set herself purposely to disgust me
with the gibbering caricature she had drawn of herself. And my heart
thrilled and my blood raced through my veins as I saw that my reading
of her conduct on the evening of the reception had been right.

Many minutes passed as I paced the deck deciding the course I would
take, and not until I had settled it did I return to her.

She had regained her self-possession, but as I sat down she looked at
me questioningly and nervously as if fearing how I should refer to the
secret I had surprised. But there was not a vestige of the mask left.
She was just herself.

“The wind is dropping again already,” I said in a casual tone.

Her eyes thanked me, but she made no reply and sank back in her chair
with an air of relief. I uttered a few commonplaces about the weather
and the yacht, worked round to the subject of Lisbon and then to that
of my supposed purpose in the city. For once the concessions were of
use, as they enabled me to describe my own acts and intentions in
regard to her as if I were referring to the concessions.

“Of course I shall find difficulties--indeed the whole position is
entirely different from my anticipations. I ought to have been here
earlier. But it was impossible. After my father’s stroke of paralysis
which took me at a moment’s notice from Paris, he lay between life and
death for three months; and although I was as anxious then as now about
these concessions and should have come at once to Lisbon, I could not
leave him for any purpose, however vital and important to me.”

“No, of course not,” she murmured, not raising her eyes from the deck.

“But now that I am here, of course I shall not abandon my efforts to
obtain them until they are actually in the possession of some one else.
I have heard that they are promised, but I shall not regard that as an
actual barrier.”

She moved slightly and answered in a voice firm but low: “From what I
have heard you will only be wasting time and effort, Mr. Donnington.
You will not be allowed to--to obtain them.”

“You think the unsettled condition of political matters here, the
cabals and intrigues and so on, will interfere with me?”

“I am sure of it,” she said very deliberately.

“You mean there are obstacles of which I know nothing. As for those I
do know, I care nothing for them.”

“It depends upon what you do know.” Every word was uttered in a low
tense monotone, full charged with suppressed feeling.

“I know, as I say, that they are promised to some one else, but that
doesn’t count with me. I know too that they are involved in the secret
plans of some of those whose political objects are opposed to the
professed objects of some leaders of the League of Portugal. But that
also I will not regard as an insuperable barrier.”

“Is that all you know?”

“Yes.”

“It has not occurred to you that private influences may be at work
which those who might wish to help you are powerless to resist, and
which make your quest absolutely unattainable and impossible?”

“I admit I have had fears of that, but I shall not believe it
impossible until I know what those influences are.”

“I have told you that I know it to be impossible, Mr. Donnington.”

“Will you tell me more--what these private influences are?”

“I cannot without speaking of things that must be secret; without
revealing a story of shame and crime.”

“Why should I sacrifice an object which is more to me than any I have
ever desired because another person has done wrong?”

“You must not even seek to discover it.”

“On the contrary, I will know it within the next few hours.”

“If you knew it, you would recognize the truth of what I have said. But
if you will take advice, you will use those next few hours to be many
leagues on your way to England.”

“I will go when I said--when the concessions are actually in the
possession of those who seek them. Not one hour, not one minute before.”

She was silent for a while and then for the first time since I had
rejoined her she sat forward and looked at me. “Once in those days when
we met in Paris, you said you would do anything I asked you? Does that
promise hold good now?”

“Yes.”

“Then I wish you to leave Lisbon at once.”

I shook my head. “No, anything but that.”

“I was afraid,” she murmured, and leant back in her seat, with a sigh
of despair; and we both remained silent.

Some time later the skipper’s voice roused me. “We shall drop anchor in
about quarter of an hour, Mr. Donnington,” he said as he passed.

Miralda rose with a sigh, started to leave me and then returned.

“There is one thing you spoke of which I must make clear. I am
no revolutionary, as you hinted, but I am not free. I have been
compromised against my will and I cannot break the bonds. But don’t
think me a rebel, because you see me associated with those who are.”

And without waiting for any reply, she turned and hurried away.

When the anchor was dropped and the launch waiting to take us all on
shore, she came up with the viscontesse and was again wearing a mask.
But a different one now. She laughed and chatted brightly, but without
the hardness or bitterness of the earlier time.

I was once more the stranger. I gathered that the mask was now worn
to mislead Inez, for when we shook hands, although her words of thanks
were just those of common courtesy, there was an expression in the eyes
and a simultaneous pressure of the fingers eloquent of the altered
relations between us.

Wishing to be entirely alone I returned to the _Stella_ and remained
there thinking and speculating and planning.

I did not reach my rooms until late and found a letter awaiting me
which made me rub my eyes in astonishment.

It was from Volheno, thanking me for some information I had given
him and saying that it had been acted upon the previous night with
excellent results. “It will of course be considered by the Government
when we come to decide the matter of the Beira concessions; and I need
scarcely say that if you can give us any more information of the same
kind, you will render the Government a great service.”

I had given no information and would see him in the morning and
explain. The man was mad; and I tossed the letter down and went off to
bed.

I must have slept heavily after the day in the fresh air, for I was
roused by some one shaking me roughly.

I opened my eyes to find the lights switched up and the police in my
room. Two of them were searching the room and a third stood over me and
ordered me sternly to get up and dress and be quick about it.

“What does it mean?” I asked, blinking like an owl in the sudden light.

“You are arrested. That’s what it means. Dress and come with us, unless
you want to go as you are;” and the fellow gave point to his words by
stripping off the bedclothes.

A curious sequel, this, to Volheno’s letter.




CHAPTER IX

THE INTERROGATION


Dignity in a nightshirt is impossible; so I rolled off the bed and
dressed myself quickly.

Why I should be arrested I could not imagine, unless it was in some
way the outcome of that row in the streets. Even if that were so, the
thing could not be serious. I had been mistaken for one of the mob and
nearly clubbed by a policeman; but it was scarcely likely I should be
punished because he had missed his aim. Probably some fool or other had
blundered, and the whole thing was just a mistake.

I was disposed to smile at it, therefore. I might lose half a night’s
sleep; but that was no great matter; and as a recompense I should have
an experience at first hand of police methods under a dictator.

“What am I supposed to have done?” I asked the man who had awakened me.

“Wait and see.” He jerked the words out with scowling gruffness.

“In England when a man is arrested like this it’s usual to tell him the
reason.”

“This isn’t England.”

“There’s no need to make the affair more unpleasant than necessary by
talking in that tone. The whole thing’s a mistake; but I don’t blame
you. Why growl at me, therefore?”

“Orders.”

“Well, who ordered this?”

“Hurry.” And he accompanied the word with an emphatic gesture.

“Thank you,” I said with a grin; and as it was evident I should not get
anything out of him, I finished dressing in silence. In the meanwhile
the two men finished their search of the drawers and wardrobe and my
luggage; and we went to my sitting-room.

This had also been ransacked; and the work must have been done before
they roused me. “Your men certainly understand their work,” I said; for
the search had been very thorough; “but you might have put some of the
things back in their places. If you’ll give me a couple of minutes,
I’ll do it myself, however.”

“No.” Short, sharp, and peremptory this, from the fellow who had spoken
before.

“Then wake my servant--his room is through the kitchen at the end of
the hall and up a short flight of stairs.”

“No.” Same tone from the same speaker.

“All right. Then I’ll leave a line here for him to let him know what
has happened.”

“No.”

“But he’ll think I’ve gone mad, or bolted, or----”

“Come.” He was quite a master of monosyllabic dialogue.

“I’ll be hanged if I will,” I flung back at him angrily.

But as he pulled out a revolver and made me understand--without even a
monosyllable this time--that I should be shot if I didn’t, I decided
not to be obstinate.

As we left the door of the house a vehicle drove up and I was bundled
into it, none too gently.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Silence.” The word was so fiercely uttered that I saw no use in
arguing the point. I sat still therefore wondering to which prison we
were going and what steps I should be allowed to take to get the matter
explained. The simplest course would be to send a line to Volheno;
but the arrest was really an outrage, and in the interests of other
Englishmen in the city, a row ought to be made about it by the British
authorities.

I was hesitating to which of the two quarters I would send, when the
carriage stopped before a large private house, the door of which was
instantly opened and I was hurried inside. Obviously I was expected.

The three men took me up a broad flight of stairs and halted on the
landing. The man of monosyllables went into a room at the back of the
house, taking with him some papers which I concluded he had brought
from my rooms; and after perhaps a couple of minutes he reopened the
door and signed to us to enter.

Seated at a large official-looking table was a man in evening dress
reading the letter from Volheno, the receipt of which had so puzzled
me on my return from the _Stella_. To my intense surprise he rose and
offered me his hand.

“I am sorry to have had to disturb you, Mr. Donnington, and am
extremely obliged to you for having come so promptly,” he said with a
courteous smile and an appearance of great cordiality.

This was too much for my gravity. I looked at him in bewilderment,
and then laughed. “As a matter of fact your men didn’t give me any
alternative.”

“I do not understand,” he replied glancing from me to the police, who
looked rather sheepish.

“Well, I was arrested. These men got into my rooms--I don’t know
how--hauled me out of bed, would tell me nothing, except that I was
under arrest; and dragged me here. That’s why I came so promptly,” I
said drily.

“What does this mean, you?” he thundered at the police, his eyes
flaming his anger.

“I was only ordered to bring him here, and I brought him,” answered the
man of few words, in a hang-dog, surly tone.

“By Heaven, it is infamous. Do you mean to tell me that you never
delivered M. Volheno’s letter to this gentleman?”

“I had no letter.”

“You blockhead, you fool, you thing of wood, get out of the room.
You’ll hear of this again, all of you. A set of clumsy mules without
the brains of an idiot amongst you;” and he stormed away at them
furiously.

I chuckled at their discomfiture while admiring at the same time the
excellent variety of abusive epithet possessed by their angry superior.

“These blunders are the curse and despair of public men,” he exclaimed
as he slammed the door after them and returned to his seat. “Of course
the whole thing is an egregious blunder, Mr. Donnington, and I tender
you at once a most profound apology.”

I considered it judicious to mount the high horse. “It is a very
disgraceful affair, sir, and naturally I shall report the matter to the
representatives of my country here and demand satisfaction.”

“Oh, I hope you will not find it necessary to do that,” he replied
in a tone of great concern. “I would not have had it occur for any
consideration in the world.”

“A man in my position is not likely to submit tamely to such an
infamous outrage; and I cannot see my way to have such a thing hushed
up,” I declared with a very grandiose air. “It might have occurred to
any countryman of mine whose lack of influence might render him unable
to protect himself.”

“Let us talk it over;” he urged; and we did at some length until I
allowed myself to be mollified by his apologies, and agreed not to take
any step without first seeing Volheno.

“And now perhaps you will have the goodness to explain why I was asked
so courteously”--I dwelt on the phrase and he winced--“to come here at
this time of night.”

“It was really M. Volheno’s suggestion, Mr. Donnington. You see I am in
evening dress and I was fetched home hurriedly from a social gathering
as the result of some discoveries the police have made. I may explain I
am the magistrate--d’Olliveira is my name: you may perhaps have heard
it.”

“I have not. I never discuss public matters here,” I said.

“Well, as I was saying, some important discoveries have been made and a
number of arrests----”

“Of the same nature as mine?” I interjected.

“Oh, please,” he replied with a deprecatory smile and wave of the
hand. “A number of genuine arrests have been made and I am going to
interrogate the prisoners. M. Volheno thinks it very probable that you
can identify----”

“Do what?” I exclaimed.

“We believe that they are some of the men who frequented the
revolutionary headquarters in the Rua Catania about which you gave him
information.”

“Wait a moment. I never gave M. Volheno any information of any sort
whatever, sir.”

He gave me a very shrewd glance and his eyes were hard and piercing.
“Surely--I don’t understand, then.”

“I am beginning to, I think. I had a letter from him to-night--I think
your clever police brought it away with them--in which he thanked me
for having done something of the sort. But he is under a complete
delusion. I am going to see him in the morning and tell him so.”

“Is this the letter?” I nodded as he held it up. “With your permission
I’ll read it again.”

“I don’t care what you do with it,” I said.

“It is certainly very strange,” he muttered to himself when he
finished. “He clearly has had a letter from you and this is the reply
to it.”

“Nothing of the sort is clear, sir, and I’ll beg you to be so good as
not to imply that I should lie about it either to you or to him,” I
rapped out hotly. “I have had as much from your people as I can stand
for one night. I tell you point-blank that I did not write any letter
either to M. Volheno or any one else giving any such information as he
and you appear to think; nor did I tell any one anything of the sort. I
declare that on my word of honour.”

His look was very stern. “This is an official matter, of course, Mr.
Donnington, and you must not regard anything I say as reflecting in any
way upon your word. But I am taken entirely by surprise, of course, and
equally of course the matter cannot rest here.”

“What does that mean?”

He made a little gesture of protest and sat thinking. “Do you say that
you had no such information about the house in the Rua Catania?” he
asked after the pause.

“What I know and what I don’t know concerns no one but myself, sir,” I
replied firmly. “I decline to answer your question.”

He shrugged his shoulders significantly. “This may be more serious than
I thought. You will see that. I think, perhaps, I had better send for
M. Volheno.”

“You can send for the Dictator himself if you like. It makes no sort of
difference to me.”

He was much perplexed what to do and at length took a paper from one
of the pigeon holes of the table, folded it very carefully and then
held it out to me. “Is that your signature, Mr. Donnington?” He put the
question in his severest magisterial manner.

“It’s uncommonly like it, I admit.”

“Ah,” he grunted with evident satisfaction. “Have you any objection to
write a few lines in my presence and at my dictation.”

“None whatever, provided you undertake to destroy what I write in my
presence afterwards.”

He smiled grimly and then rose and waved me to sit at the desk.

“Well?” I asked, looking up pen in hand at the desk.

“Write as follows, please.”

  “It may influence your Government in granting the Beira concessions
  which I seek,” I wrote as he dictated, “if I give you some
  information which I have learnt. Let your men raid at once the
  house 237, Rua da Catania. It is one of the headquarters of the
  revolutionary party. I shall be in a position to tell you much more
  in a few days. Of course you will keep the fact of my writing thus
  absolutely secret.”

“That will do,” he said.

I resumed my former seat and he sat down at the desk again and very
carefully compared what I had written with the letter the signature of
which he had shown to me. The work of comparison occupied a long time,
and now and again he made a note of some point which struck him.

“You gave me a pledge on your word of honour just now, Mr. Donnington,”
he said, at length turning a very stern face to me. “Are you willing
that I treat with you on that basis?”

“Of course I am.”

“Then will you pledge me your word to imitate to the utmost of your
ability a line of the writing of this letter?”

“Certainly.”

Again I took his seat and he folded the letter so that only one line
was visible.

“Rua de Catania. It is one of the headquarters,” was the line.

“It’s a little unusual for a magistrate to give lessons in forgery,
isn’t it?” I asked as I studied the writing and then wrote as good an
imitation of it as I could, and returned to my seat.

Again he made an examination letter by letter, very laboriously.

“Well?” I asked, growing impatient at his long silence.

“I am greatly perplexed, Mr. Donnington. And I must ask you one or two
questions. How did you come to know of the house mentioned here?”

“Wait a bit, please. I have complied with the test you put; what is the
result? And what is my position now?”

“I put my questions in a perfectly friendly spirit--as M. Volheno would
put them were he here.”

“And that writing test?”

“I will discuss it freely with you afterwards. I promise you that.”

“Well, I can tell you nothing about the house. Evidently the writer of
that letter knows that I learnt what I know by accident; but what I
know I cannot reveal.”

“I am sorry you take that line. Whom did you meet there?”

“I cannot answer.”

“Did you meet a Dr. Barosa there?”

“I cannot answer.”

“Did you rescue a lady from any of the men belonging to the place?”

“I cannot answer. I will not answer any questions.”

“Was that lady the Contesse Inez Inglesia?”

I held my tongue.

He asked many questions of a similar nature, surprising me considerably
by his knowledge of my movements on that night and since; but I
maintained a stolid silence.

I could see his anger rising at his repeated failure to extract any
reply, and he sat thinking with pursed lips and a heavy frown. “I will
make one further effort. I ask you as a personal favour to M. Volheno
to reply to me.”

“If M. Volheno were fifty times as great a friend of mine as he is, and
begged me on his knees, I would not do it, sir!”

His frown deepened at this. “Then you must understand that if you
persist in refusing, you may as well abandon all thought of obtaining
the concessions you seek.”

“To the devil with the concessions. If Volheno or you or any one else
in the business think you are going to bribe me with them to do spy
work for you, the sooner you disabuse your minds of that insulting rot
the better,” I answered letting my temper go. “And now I’ve finished
with this thing and want to go back to bed.”

“I cannot take the responsibility of allowing you to leave, Mr.
Donnington,” he snapped back sharply.

“Do you mean that you dare to detain me as a prisoner?”

“Keep your temper, sir, and remember that I am a law officer of His
Majesty the King of Portugal.”

“Then as a British subject I claim my right to communicate at once with
the British Legation.”

“That request will be considered, and if it is thought desirable,
complied with. Not otherwise. This is a political matter. It is
known to us that you have held communication with these dangerous
revolutionaries; you are seeking to shield them by refusing
information; and the only inference I can draw is that you do so
because you are in collusion with them.”

At that I burst out laughing. “Infer what you like and be hanged to
you.”

“You may find this is no laughing matter, sir,” he cried, getting white
with anger.

“And so may you, magistrate though you are. Kidnapping Englishmen is
not a game your Government can play at with impunity, my friend.”

“I shall send for M. Volheno,” he said as he rose; “and in the
meantime shall detain you here on my own responsibility.”

And with that he favoured me with a scowl and went out of the room,
leaving me to speculate where I was going to finish the night.

The odds appeared to be in favour of a prison cell rather than my own
bed.




CHAPTER X

A DRASTIC TEST


The matter was obviously more serious than I had at first believed;
and I realized that, as the authorities were aware that I knew Barosa
and Inez were really revolutionaries, I might have some difficulty in
convincing them that my knowledge had been innocently obtained. And two
unpleasant possibilities loomed ahead.

This hot-headed magistrate, if left to himself, might pack me off to
one of their prisons; and any one who has seen a Portuguese prison will
understand my dread of such a step.

The condition of these dens of filth, wretchedness, and abomination is
a black stain upon the Portuguese administration. Take the lowest and
dirtiest type of the worst doss-house in London, multiply its foulest
features ten times, overcrowd it with verminous brawling scum to two
or three times the extent of what you would consider its utmost limit
of accommodation, and stir up the whole with gaoler-bullies who have
all graduated with the highest honours in the school of brutality and
blackguardism; and you have a typical Portuguese gaol.

A sojourn in one of those human hells was one possible result for me;
and the other was even more distasteful--that a sufficiently grave view
might be taken of the case to have me ordered out of the country.

I was railing at my ill-luck in ever having learnt the facts which
threatened one of these alternatives, when the murmurs of many voices
started below in the house swelled as it came up the stairs and
culminated in a chorus of threats and groans and curses just outside as
the door was opened and a man was thrust violently into the room and
went staggering across the floor.

He had been in the wars. His clothes were all disordered, his collar
was flying loose, his coat was torn, and he had the crumpled look which
a man is apt to have at two o’clock in the morning after a night on the
general rampage finished up with a scrimmage with the police.

His first act was inspired by the sheer stupidity of rage. He turned
and shook his fists at the door and swore copiously. He had quite a
natural gift for cursing, and gave free vent to it. Then he began to
put his clothes straight and saw me for the first time.

“Hallo, you here?”

“Yes.” Both question and answer sounded a little superfluous under the
circumstances, but it turned out that he recognized me.

“Did they want you?” He swore again as he recalled his own experiences.

“Who?”

“Those infernal brutes out there?”

“Do you mean the police?”

Instead of replying he gave me a sharp look and then came up close and
peered inquiringly at me with his head slightly on one side.

“What the devil are you doing here?”

“Waiting to go somewhere else; but where, seems a little doubtful at
present.”

He laughed. “I didn’t expect they’d take you yet. They’re all
fools--the whole lot of them. I told them to give you more rope.”

“What kind?”

“Oh, not that sort;” and he made a gesture to indicate hanging. Then
wrinkling his brows he added suspiciously: “You didn’t come of your own
accord, did you?”

“Perhaps you’ll make things a bit plainer.”

“If you did, you’d better tell me.”

“If there’s any telling to be done you’d better start it,” I said drily.

“They got me to-night---- Here, aren’t you interested in Miralda
Dominguez?” he broke off lowering his voice.

“I’m getting rather interested in you. Who are you?”

He winked knowingly. He was quite young, dark and not bad-looking,
except that he had sly ferretty eyes. “You don’t know, eh? You don’t
remember, eh? Is that your line? Or are you on the same tack as I am?”

“What is your particular tack?”

“You might have guessed it I should think. They’ve got about twenty of
Barosa’s people here and about half a dozen police to look after them.
Somebody let ’em know that I meant to save myself by telling things,
and the brutes nearly tore me to bits as I came up. The devils;” and
once more he cursed them luridly. “But I’ll make it hot for some of
them,” he added, his little close-set eyes gleaming viciously.

“Oh, you’re an informer, are you? Well, I don’t like your breed,
I’m----”

“Oh, I know you, of course. You’re Ralph Donnington, the reputed
English millionaire. I know;” and he winked again. “I saw you at the
de Pinsara house the other night with Barosa. He told me you were all
right. I had to tell them about you, of course. They’ve sucked me about
as dry as a squeezed orange. Barosa told me you were interested in
Miralda Dominguez----”

“I’d rather not talk any more,” I interposed sharply.

“I suppose you know it’s all up. They’ve got Barosa and Contesse
Inglesia, and Lieutenant de Linto and heaps of others. But not his
sister yet.”

I affected not to hear this and took out a cigarette and lighted it.

“Can you spare me one?”

I put the case in my pocket.

“If you want to get her out of the mess you’d better do as I’ve done.
Out with everything. It’s the only way. I----”

I jumped to my feet. “Look here, if you talk any more to me I shall
act as deputy for those men outside, and when I’ve finished with you,
you’ll find it difficult to talk at all.”

That stopped him and he slunk away to the door and flopped into a chair
staring at me and muttering to himself, probably cursing me as he had
cursed the others.

Soon afterwards M. d’Olliveira came back with a couple of police, and
said that Volheno was coming and would arrive in about half an hour.
Then he ordered the first of the prisoners to be brought in.

The informer jumped away from the door as if it was on fire and crossed
to the other side of the magistrate’s desk.

The proceedings were very short--apparently for no purpose other than
identification.

I glanced at the prisoner and recognized him as one of the men I had
seen at the house in the Rua Catania. He was the scoundrel named
Henriques, who had been going to strike Inez when I had entered.

He looked at the young informer with a scowl of hate and hissed out an
execration.

The magistrate appealed to me first. “You know this man, Mr.
Donnington?” he said sharply, and the fellow turned a scowling face on
me with a half defiant and wholly malicious expression.

“Do I? If you know that, why ask me?”

“Don’t trifle with me, sir.”

“He knows him well enough. He saw him that night in the Rua Catania,”
broke in the informer.

“Hold your tongue,” was the rough rebuke. “Do you deny it, Mr.
Donnington?”

“You can draw what inference you please. I decline to be questioned by
you or any one,” I replied.

“I cannot too strongly warn you, Mr. Donnington, that any refusal to
identify this man and any of his companions will render you suspect.”

“I am quite ready to accept the responsibility.”

He turned then to the informer and accepted his identification, made a
note of it, and sent the prisoner away in custody.

Another of the men I had seen in the house was brought in, and a very
similar scene was enacted, except that I held my tongue. Three more
followed and then a pause.

When the door opened next time Dr. Barosa was brought in.

“You know this man, Mr. Donnington?” asked d’Olliveira.

“Yes, I had the pleasure of meeting him at the house of the Marquis de
Pinsara. Good evening, Dr. Barosa;” and I rose and would have shaken
hands with him had not the police prevented me.

“Did you see him in Rua Catania?” asked the magistrate.

“I have told you I met him elsewhere. That is my answer.”

“I am obliged to you, Mr. Donnington,” said Barosa, “but unfortunately
no good purpose can be gained by your keeping silent about anything you
know. You can only compromise yourself; and as everything is now known
to these people, I release you from the pledge of secrecy you gave.”

“Ah,” broke in d’Olliveira, gloatingly.

“To the devil with you and your grunts of satisfaction,” I cried hotly,
turning on him. “If you want to bribe or frighten information out of
people, do it with carrion like that young brute at your side. Don’t
try it with Englishmen.”

“How dare you use that tone to me, sir?” he exclaimed, getting up.

Barosa interposed. “I beg you not to compromise yourself further. It
may lead you into a very false position and can do no good either to
me or to the Contesse Inglesia. It is known quite well that you were
present in the----”

“That’s enough, doctor. If you like to tell these people what they want
to know, it’s your affair not mine. As for my part, I have friends
quite influential enough not only to protect me, but to make it
unpleasant for this hectoring gentleman here. I am sorry to see you in
this mess.”

He threw up his hands. “It is the fortune of war.” Then he turned to
the magistrate. “Now, sir are you satisfied?”

There was a pause and d’Olliveira said: “Yes, absolutely.”

And then I had the most amazing surprise of my life.

The magistrate waved his hand and a dozen or more men, police and
prisoners mingled together, crowded into the room, and the eyes of
every man present were directed on me.

Barosa stepped forward and offered me his hand.

“You must forgive us, Mr. Donnington,” he said.

“Forgive you. What the deuce for?”

“For having tested you in this drastic way. You will admit the evidence
that you had betrayed us to the authorities was very strong--a letter
in your name to your friend M. Volheno and his to you, thanking you
for the information, was found in your rooms. I made the inquiries you
suggested and satisfied myself of your absolute good faith. I would not
believe you had broken your word, but my friends here insisted, and
then this test was planned.”

“Do you mean----” I stopped in sheer astonishment as the truth dawned
on me.

“I mean that this was all an elaborate pretence. There is no magistrate
here and no police. We are all comrades in the one cause, and after
what has passed no one of us will ever distrust you again. I say that
for all of us.”

“Yes, certainly for me,” said the magistrate.

“For us all,” came a chorus.

“Well, you fooled me all right,” I said, gaping at them for a moment
like a bumpkin at a wax-work show, for the suddenness of the thing
almost bewildered me. Then I laughed and added: “It seems I was sitting
on a bag with more gunpowder in it than I knew. Which do you expect
me to do--thank you for your present confidence or curse you for your
former distrust?”

“The matter is ended, Mr. Donnington,” said Barosa. “And you have as
much reason as we have to be glad the result is what it is.”

“And if it had gone the other way?”

He shrugged his shoulders and replied very drily: “You had better not
ask perhaps. At such a crisis our methods with those who betray us
cannot be--pleasant.”

“Which reminds me,” I said, turning to the man who had played the
magistrate--whose real name I learnt was Sebastian Maral--“you’ve asked
me plenty of questions and there are one or two I should like to ask
you. How did you get that spurious letter I was supposed to write to M.
Volheno?”

“I think we had better discuss those matters alone,” interposed Barosa;
and then all but we three left the room.

“Was such a letter really written?” I asked.

“Certainly. That which you received was M. Volheno’s reply to it.”

“Then some one did give away that Rua Catania house? Who is it? Do you
suspect any one in particular?”

“No,” said Barosa, his look darkening as he added: “But we shall of
course find out.”

“I think you can help us, Mr. Donnington,” said Maral. “The writer is
obviously an enemy of yours. Can you make a suggestion?”

I was fairly confident that I knew, but it did not suit me to say so.
“I have not had time yet to make any enemies unless some one is after
the Beira concessions and thought this an easy way of getting rid of a
competitor. Will you show me the original of that letter you dictated
to me?”

He glanced at Barosa who nodded, and it was given to me.

I made a discovery then. Either from inadvertence or as a proof of
confidence in me, Maral left on the letter, where it was pinned to the
top, a strip of paper with half a dozen words followed by the numerals
“134.”

I compared the handwriting of the letter with my own copy of the
dictated part and saw at once how clumsy a forgery it was. My signature
was done well enough; the writer probably had a signature of mine and
had practised it until the resemblance was striking. But the attempt to
write an entire autograph letter was a conspicuous failure.

Then while pretending to continue my examination of the writing, I
worried over the curious superscription, and it dawned upon me at
length that it was a message of some sort in cypher.

As the other two had their heads together in a very earnest discussion,
I unpinned the cypher message and rolled it up in my palm. Its nature
convinced me that it was inadvertence not confidence which had led
Maral to let me see it, and I took the risk of his not noticing its
absence even if I could not do what I now very much wished--retain the
letter itself for a time.

“I wish to keep this letter, Dr. Barosa,” I said presently.

“I am afraid that is not possible. It has to be returned.”

“We can get over that easily enough. You are probably as eager as I am
to know who wrote it. As for returning it, I’ll write out another in my
own hand, and that one can be returned.”

After some demur this was agreed to; and I went to the desk and wrote
the duplicate letter, and was careful to fold it up so that Maral
should not miss the strip of paper I had annexed.

While I was writing, Barosa paced up and down the room thinking. The
fact that there was a traitor somewhere among the followers disquieted
him profoundly. And when I had finished he came up to me and said with
intense earnestness: “You have some definite purpose in keeping that
letter, Mr. Donnington?”

“Naturally. I mean to try and find the writer of it.”

“Are you sure there is no one you suspect?”

“I do not know all your followers; if there is any one among them who
seeks to prevent my getting----”

He broke in, with an impatient motion of the hand. “Do you give me your
word you have no positive suspicion?”

“Is that a question you should expect me to answer? I am not one of
you, and I have no interest whatever in your cause. If I am anxious to
discover the writer, it is for my own purposes not yours.”

“We are helping you in trusting that to you.”

“Take it back if you will;” and I held it out.

He shook his head and did not take it. “If you find out the truth you
will tell me?” he asked.

“I make no promise. I may or I may not, but frankly that will turn upon
my own concerns, not upon yours.”

“You are very straight,” he said, with a slow hesitating smile, much
more suggestive of vexation than mirth.

“I think we had better leave it there. It is not improbable that if I
do get at the truth I may need your help. In that case I shall come to
you.”

“I should like something more definite.”

I shook my head. “Not yet, at any rate,” I said.

“I may visit you?”

“At any time you please. And now, I’ll be off.”

While we had been speaking Maral was taking papers from the desk, and
as he turned and held out his hand to bid me good-night, we heard the
sound of loud knocking at the door of the house.

“What can that be?” he exclaimed nervously.

The next moment the room door was thrust open and the young fellow who
had played the part of informer rushed in.

“The police!” he gasped. “The house is surrounded. All the rest have
gone.”

Barosa did not turn a hair, but Maral, suddenly grey with fear, tossed
up his hands and dropped into his chair with a sigh of despair.

“Are they really the police this time?” I asked.

He nodded. “More of the same man’s work,” he said with grim
concentrated passion, and carried away for the moment by his feelings,
he clenched his fists and uttered a vehement oath.

I should have sworn too, no doubt, if I had been in his place. But I
was thinking of myself and what I was going to do.

It was a tight corner for us all.

In the pause the knocking was repeated more noisily and peremptorily
than before.




CHAPTER XI

POLICE METHODS


At the second summons Barosa roused himself.

“What will you do, Mr. Donnington. We have a secret means of leaving
the house and----”

“I swear I had forgotten that,” exclaimed Maral, as he jumped up,
grabbed his papers and made for the door.

“Wait please. Give me the letter which M. Volheno wrote me,” I said,
stopping him.

He searched for it agitatedly and then thrust it into my hand. “Come
on, Barosa,” he cried and darted away.

“Are you going to remain?” asked Barosa, hurriedly.

I nodded. “You won’t want to use this house again?”

“Of course not. But----”

The crash of glass below interrupted him, announcing that the police
had broken in, and the next moment I had the room to myself and sat
down to wait for the real police and find out how their treatment
differed from that of the bogus ones.

With Volheno’s letter in my possession I had nothing to fear, and I
glanced at it to make sure that Maral in his panic had handed me the
right one--and then gave a start of surprise.

It was Volheno’s letter all right, but folded up in it was a long
doubled strip of paper with three rows of small holes punched in it
at irregular intervals. I knew instantly what it was--the key to the
cipher which I had seen attached to the letter which I had duplicated.

As the police might have a fancy to search me I rolled it and the other
strip very tightly, emptied a cigarette, inserted the roll, and plugged
up the ends with tobacco; and just when the police were at the door I
struck a match and was puffing at the cigarette as two of them entered.

“Good evening, gentlemen, I’m very relieved to see you,” I said, rising
and carefully pinching out the lighted tobacco.

“You are our prisoner,” exclaimed one of them, covering me with a
revolver.

“I’m extremely relieved to hear it, I can assure you.”

“Where are the others?”

“What others?”

“The other scoundrels who use this house?”

“To my intense satisfaction your arrival scared them away.”

“Don’t try and fool us with that tone. You won’t help them and it will
make things worse for you. Put up your hands.”

I did so, at once, of course, keeping hold of my precious cigarette,
and they made a very business-like search of all my pockets, and then
felt all about me to see that I had no weapons. They put the results
of their search on the desk, and one of them, being a very zealous
officer, went to the trouble of breaking open two or three of the
cigarettes and pinching and bending the rest. But it did not occur to
him that I could be smoking one which he might wish to see. It had been
quite a happy thought, that little precaution of mine.

Then one of them picked up the letter from Volheno and was unfolding it
when I said gently: “I am not sure that M. Volheno will care for you
to read correspondence between us.”

The name acted like a charm of magic. He refolded it and dropped it
like a live coal.

“It would, however, assist you to understand the position, my friend,
and appreciate your mistake,” I said in the same suave tone.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Ralph Donnington. I am an Englishman and have the privilege
of enjoying the friendship of M. Volheno.”

“Why didn’t you say who you were before?”

“You did not ask me, and I never argue with the man at the butt end of
a revolver.”

“How is it you are here?”

“I think that is a matter I can better explain to my friend, M.
Volheno, himself.” Seeing the excellent effect of the name, I deemed it
judicious to rub it in. “Are you in command here? If not, I wish you
would bring your superior here or take me to him.”

They whispered together and one of them left the room.

“Do you know where you are? What this house is, I mean?”

“Oh yes, perfectly. I have had very good proof of it. Would you
have any objection to my lowering my hands? This is rather a trying
position.”

He nodded and his face relaxed in a grin which he turned away to
conceal.

“I should also like my matchbox and cigarettes--if you don’t think I
shall blow the Government up with them. Thank you very much,” I added
as he handed them to me.

Affecting considerable annoyance at the condition of the cigarettes, I
tossed away those which were broken, and while pretending to straighten
out the bent ones I managed to slip the one I held into the case
without his knowledge. Then I lit another and pocketed the case, and
sat puffing away, with that air of easy indifference affected by the
cigarette-smoking villain in melodrama when he is top dog and has all
the virtuous members of the caste in his power.

I had nearly finished the cigarette when the man returned with a
superior officer whose look of chagrin told me that the raid had been
unsuccessful and that Barosa and the rest had escaped.

“Now what is your story?” he asked brusquely.

As he had the look of a man who would not stand any nonsense, I dropped
my air of indifference. “I am an Englishman, Donnington is my name. I
quite understand that my presence here requires explanation and that of
course I am entirely in your hands.”

“What is your explanation?”

“I was brought here by force.”

He sneered. “You think I shall believe that?”

“I am sure that my friend, M. Volheno, will.”

“What does M. Volheno know of you?”

“Your men took from me a letter he wrote to me. It is on the desk
there and explains itself. But it is marked confidential; and whether
he would wish you to read it is a point I will leave to you. I am
indifferent.”

This proved a good card. He stretched out his hand to take the letter
and paused.

“Tell me the purport of it,” he said.

“No, no. I can’t do that. It is a confidential letter, I say. I cannot
disclose it therefore. But I am your prisoner and cannot prevent your
doing what you please.”

His perplexity was quite amusing.

“How do I know it is not a forgery?”

“I don’t know that myself, but it was addressed to me at my rooms, 318,
Rua de Palma, and reached me to-night through the post.”

“How long have you been in this house?”

“Some hours.”

“Alone?” he cried with another sneer.

“Oh no. For part of the time one man was here; for others, two; and at
times perhaps a dozen.”

“Where are they?”

“I have no more idea than you. There were two of them when you and your
men arrived. I was then left alone.”

“But the house was surrounded. They couldn’t escape.”

“I was brought straight to this room and have not been allowed to leave
it for a moment.”

“‘Allowed’?” he repeated quickly, catching at the word.

“That is just what I mean. Otherwise, I certainly should not have
remained.”

“Who were the men?”

I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. “I would tell you if I could.” This
was a deliberate equivocation, but it saved me from a direct lie. I
meant that I could not because of my pledge, but I meant him to infer
that I did not know.

He paused and I added: “And now I shall be glad to know what you
propose to do with me?”

“What do you suppose we generally do with prisoners? Billet them at the
Avenida Palace Hotel? You’ll be locked up for the rest of the night, of
course, while we make inquiries about you.”

“I am an Englishman--as I have told you.”

“What of that? What’s good enough for a Portuguese is good enough for
an Englishman, I suppose.”

“I am also a friend of M. Volheno.”

“So you say. But do you expect me to rouse him in the middle of the
night whenever a revolutionary rascal chooses to say he is a friend?”

“I can give you the names of several other influential men who know me.
The Marquis de Pinsara, Visconte de Linto,” and I rattled off a number
of the men to whom I had been introduced on the night of the reception.

“You can communicate with them in the morning and call them as
witnesses,” he sneered. He had the sardonic habit strongly developed.
“But I haven’t done questioning you yet.”

“I shall not answer any more questions. You don’t believe what I tell
you. My object was to avoid the unpleasantness of being thrust into one
of your filthy gaols; and that has evidently failed.”

“You will tell me where the men are hidden who were here with you,” he
said very threateningly.

“I repeat, I know no more than you do. You were already in the house
when they left this room.”

“That won’t do for me,” he answered bluntly. He motioned to the two men
who pulled my hands behind my back and slipped a pair of handcuffs on
my wrists, while he himself sat down at the desk and made a list of the
things the men had taken from me. “Is this all?” he asked the fellow
who had searched me.

“All but a cigarette case.”

“Anything in it?”

“Nothing but cigarettes. I made sure of that.”

“All right.” I breathed more freely.

“Now, prisoner, show me the secret hiding-place in this room.”

“There is none. The men left the room.”

He came close up and glared so fiercely into my face that I thought he
was going to strike me. He was the sort of brute to enjoy hitting a
defenceless man. “If you lie to me, I’ll----” he ground his teeth and
left me to finish the sentence out of my own fears.

“I do not lie,” I said meeting his look steadily. “And you will do well
to bear in mind in all you do now that in the morning you will find
every word I have said as to my friendship with M. Volheno is true.”

I spoke very calmly thinking it would have the better effect. But it
appeared to enrage him and this time he actually raised his hand for a
blow. It was therefore clearly time to try a change of manner.

So I shoved my head forward until our noses were nearly touching
and with a fierce oath, I cried: “You dare to lay a hand on me, you
infernal bully, and it shall cost you dear. M. Volheno shall know of
this. Do your duty whatever that may be, but not one jot more, or----”
and I adopted his tactic of an unfinished sentence.

The result was a surprising success. His hand fell to his side, his
eyes wavered, and his threatening truculence of manner dropped from him
like a cloak. The reason was, of course, that he was a miserable coward
and had mistaken my coolness for fear.

“I am only doing my duty,” he muttered.

“You lie,” I thundered back, quick to take advantage of his mood.
“You dare to handcuff me like a felon, when I tell you I am a British
subject and give you ample means of testing what I say. You’ll have to
reckon with the British Legation for this. Do what you will, while you
have me in your power; but don’t think for an instant you won’t have to
pay for your bullying in the morning.”

“I have----”

“Don’t try to excuse yourself. If you want to bully any one, do it
with the unfortunate devils under your orders. As for me, do what you
dare--but remember, it will be my turn to-morrow.”

“If you’ll give your word not to offer resistance, you shall be freed.”

“You didn’t ask that before you handcuffed me. I call these men to
witness that. Take me in them to M. Volheno--if you dare. Or haul me
off to gaol in them. It’s all one to me--until to-morrow.”

He paused and then signed to the men who freed me, and he left the
room. I sat down and the men stood near the door whispering and
sniggering together. They appeared to be rather pleased at their
chief’s discomfiture.

He was away so long that I fell asleep and was in the middle of a
realistic dream that I was in prison among the scum of the city when I
was roused by some one thundering my name in my ear.

I started up and found the official had returned with a companion who
was shaking me and calling me by name.

“Mr. Donnington! Mr. Donnington!”

“Well, what is it?” I grumbled, blinking at him like an owl until I
recognized him as a man I had seen at Volheno’s bureau.

“M. Volheno desired me to come to you, sir.”

“Oh, ho,” I chuckled, turning to the official, “so you thought
discretion was the better part of bullying, eh?”

“My name is Dagara, Mr. Donnington. I am M. Volheno’s private
secretary. He instructed me to say that he desires to see you as soon
as you can call on him.”

“I have to go to gaol first,” I said with a snarl for my old enemy. “I
was already there in my dreams when you roused me. But if I am to be
shot or hanged or beheaded as this man decides, I’ll leave directions
for my corpse to be packed up neatly and sent to M. Volheno.” I was
winning so I could afford a small jibe.

“You are of course at liberty to go where you will,” said Dagara.

“Then I’ll go back to bed,” I declared as I rose, “and will see M.
Volheno in the morning. I have to tell him how this brute has treated
me.”

The official had wilted like an unwatered flower in the noon sunlight.
He returned me my belongings and began to mumble an apology. “I much
regret----”

“I’ve no doubt of it. I know your kind,” I cut in drily, and then left
the house with Dagara, feeling that I was well out of an ugly business.

I had come off with all the honours of war, too, for my letters had not
been read and the two little secret papers were safely stowed away in
my cigarette case.

The secretary walked with me to my rooms and I found him an exceedingly
close-lipped individual. The house where the drastic test of my good
faith had been applied was in the Rua Formosa, about half a mile from
the Rua de Palma; and during the walk I could get little else than
monosyllables from my companion. He did go so far as to tell me that he
had been at work all night with Volheno and that that was the reason he
had not gone home and had been able to come so promptly to identify me.

But when I asked him about the police official he replied that he knew
nothing.

I soon ceased to question him, and as we reached my rooms, he said
suddenly: “You will understand of course that M. Volheno never allows
me to speak of any of his affairs. I will give him your message, and
wish you good-morning, Mr. Donnington;” and with this abrupt apology in
explanation of his silence, he raised his hat and went off.

A useful and silently working wheel, no doubt, in the complicated
machinery of the Dictator’s system of government, was my mental verdict
as I entered my rooms, eager to examine my prizes at leisure.

I put back some of the things Barosa’s men had left littered about,
brewed myself some strong coffee, and set to work.

I first read through again very carefully the forged letter which had
been sent to Volheno. That it was the work of an enemy who was well
versed in my movements was of course on the surface. My friendship with
the man to whom it was addressed, my secret knowledge of the house in
the Rua Catania, my business in regard to these Beira concessions,
these three points told their story as plainly as the attempt proved
the ingenious malignity of the writer, and his intention to cause
Barosa and his friends to suspect me of treachery. The blow was aimed
at my life.

There was only one man in all Lisbon who could have the needed
information and would have the motive.

Sampayo.

Jealousy was one motive, and fear of what I knew about him another. And
he was just the sort of cunning beast to go to work in this mole-like
way. He had reckoned that Barosa’s people would accept without question
such a proof of my treachery and act upon it. And in all probability
they would have done so, but for my conversation with Barosa on the
night of the reception and his conviction of my good faith.

But there was another point. He must have known that the contents of
the letter would be at once passed on to Barosa. There was therefore
some one about Volheno in league with the revolutionary party, and that
some one must be sufficiently high in his confidence to be able to get
the letter and send it to his friends.

I must find that man out; and then I studied the little slip of paper
which Maral had inadvertently given me with the letter.

The line of nonsense ran as follows.

  “Real effects to you truly. You know what this only can mean. 134”

Absolute gibberish of course. But I had the key.

I noticed that the sentence exactly fitted a line of the same length as
the strip of paper with the holes in it; and when I laid the first line
of holes on the top of the words the meaning was clear.

All the letters were covered by it except the following:

  RETURN AT ONCE

“Return at once.”

A simple direction to send the letter back; and 134 was probably the
number by which the man was known to his companions. I had had my
trouble for nothing--or next to nothing; for the cipher key did not
cover the figures at the end of the message.

Then a thought struck me. The numerals might stand for letters: 134
would be “A. C. D.;” or 13 and 4, “M.D.”

“M.D.!” I uttered the letters aloud in my surprise. They were Miralda’s
initials. “Miralda Dominguez.”

The coincidence mazed me; but a moment’s reflection made the inference
appear grotesque, preposterous, idiotic; and I laughed at it.

But my nerves were out of balance. The ordeal of the last few hours,
following so close upon the tense interview with Miralda on the
_Stella_, had tried me severely. Everybody appeared to be playing at
make-believe to cause me to misread everything I saw and heard.

Even as I laughed at the thought that Miralda could have had even
the remotest connexion with the cipher message, the disconcerting
possibility suggested by the coincidence would not be shaken off.

Furious with myself, for the subconscious distrust of her which this
depression of spirits implied, I huddled the papers together and went
off to bed.




CHAPTER XII

THE REAL “M. D.”


A few hours’ sleep enabled me to laugh much more sincerely at the
thought which had sent me off to bed in a hurry, and I was reviewing
the whole situation when Miralda’s brother called. He had the look of a
man who had been making a night of it, and was washed out and generally
sorry for himself.

“Hullo, then, I have caught you, Mr. Donnington. May I come in?”

“Of course you may,” I said as I shook hands with him, put him into
an easy chair and handed him the cigarettes. “Why, did you think you
wouldn’t catch me?”

He lit a cigarette and I saw that his hand shook badly.

“Eh? Oh, you’re such a busy man, aren’t you?” His hesitancy and a note
in his voice suggested nervousness, as if he had been momentarily at a
loss how to answer.

“Not too busy for a chat with you at any time, lieutenant.” I spoke
cordially because I wished to be friendly.

“Thanks,” he said, adding after a puff or two: “You look confoundedly
fit.”

“Not much the matter, I’m glad to say.”

“No, I should think not, indeed.” Another pause followed and he put his
eyeglass in position, glanced at me and then round the room, and let
it fall again. “I suppose not.”

“Will you have a pick-me-up?” I asked. It struck me he had been looking
about for one.

“Cognac,” he replied with a nod. I rang for my servant, Bryant, and
mixed a brandy and soda, which Vasco drank eagerly. “Had a hot night of
it,” he murmured with one of his inane grins as he set the empty glass
down.

“Lost?”

“I always do, curse the luck,” he answered, and pouring himself out
about a wine-glassful of brandy he gulped it down. “Hair of the dog,
you know,” he added, smacking his lips. The spirit stimulated him.
“Better luck next time;” and he laughed, the frown left his face, and
he lolled back smoking with an air of indifference real or assumed.

“So you’re off, eh? Going in your yacht?”

“Off? Where to?”

“Home, I suppose. That’s what I meant about catching you.”

“I am not going away.”

“Not? Why Sampayo----” he stopped suddenly. “No, it wasn’t Sampayo of
course--but I heard you were going last night,” he said, evidently
confused by his first slip.

My interest awoke in an instant. If Sampayo had sent him to me, it was
probably to learn the issue of the previous night’s scheme.

“No no. I shan’t be able to get away for a long time to come.”

“Then I wonder why the deuce--I’m awfully glad to hear it. Then you
won’t be taking your boat away?”

“Of course not. But I’m afraid the weather yesterday made your trip in
her rather unpleasant.”

“Not a bit of it. The fact is I--I came to ask you a favour. I wonder
if you’d mind lending her to me for a day. As a matter of fact I want
to give some of the fellows of my regiment a bit of an outing, and I
should like to take ’em out in her.”

He said all this with the air of one repeating a lesson and very much
afraid of forgetting it. “My dear lieutenant, you can have her and
welcome. Give me a couple of days’ notice, that’s all.”

“Thanks. I’m afraid you’ll think it cool of me.”

“Not cool of _you_ at all; but I think Major Sampayo himself might have
asked, instead of worrying you to do it.”

He sat bolt upright and stared at me. “I say, how the deuce did you
know?” he cried, astonishment shaking all the pretence out of him.

“Never mind that. You can have the _Stella_,” I answered, with a smile,
intending him to infer that I knew much more.

“I know I’m a clumsy sort of ass. I suppose I gave it away. Dashed if
you don’t beat me;” and he shook his head in perplexity as he first
tried to relight his cigarette and then threw it away and started a
fresh one.

“Did Major Sampayo tell you why he thought I was leaving in such a
hurry?”

“Here, hold on. I’m getting a bit afraid of you.”

“I am the last man in Lisbon you need be afraid of, lieutenant. I have
the greatest desire for your friendship and--if you would like to give
it--your confidence.”

I spoke earnestly and he glanced at me with a hunted, harassed look in
his eyes, and then reached for the brandy again. I put it out of his
reach. “I never was more serious in my life,” I added. “If I can ever
help you, you have only to ask.”

He got up. He was pale and shaking. “I think I’ll go,” he said.

“Very well. But don’t forget what I’ve said. I mean it, on my honour;”
and I held out my hand.

Instead of taking it he looked intently into my eyes and then, to my
surprise, and pain, he seemed to crumple up suddenly. He threw himself
back into the chair, covered his face with his hands and burst into
tears.

It is hateful to see a man cry, but the feeling I had for him was
rather pity than contempt. His tears told me so much. He was the merest
tool in Sampayo’s hands, and his weak nature was as clay for the
stronger man’s moulding. Miralda’s words flashed across my mind--that
behind her betrothal to Sampayo was a “story of shame and crime.” Here
was the key to it, I was convinced.

The shock of learning that I knew Sampayo was in the background, his
fear of what I knew, followed by my earnest offer of friendship,
confidence and help, coming at a moment when he was shaken by a night
of dissipation, had unmanned him.

With an excuse that I had to speak to Bryant, I left him alone for
a few minutes, and when I returned he was staring out of the window
smoking.

“You’ll think me an awful fool and baby, Mr. Donnington,” he said
nervously and shamefacedly.

“No. Any man might break down under the load you are carrying.”

“May I come and see you again? I’m all shaken up now.”

“You can do better than that. Tell me now.”

“How you read a fellow’s thoughts.”

“Sit down and tell me frankly what hold Major Sampayo has on you.”

“I--I can’t tell you.”

“Is it money?”

“I--I can’t tell you,” he repeated, in the same hesitating way.

“I shan’t preach. I only wish to help.”

“I--I can’t tell you. I--I daren’t. I wish to heaven I dared.”

“You mean because of--your sister and all the others involved?”

With a quick start he asked, “Is it on her account you ask?”

“It is on your account, I ask.”

He wavered, but with a shrug of his thin shoulders he turned back
to stare out of the window again. After a pause he said somewhat
irritably. “I’m not in the confessional box, Mr. Donnington. You’ve no
right to question me. And after all, you can’t help me.”

“If you think that, there’s an end of the thing, lieutenant.”

“Now I’ve put your back up, I suppose?” and he laughed feebly.

“Not in the least, I assure you. I know that you are in a devil of a
mess----”

“How do you know it? Has Miralda----” he broke in.

“Don’t mention your sister’s name, please,” I interposed in my turn,
speaking sharply.

“Sampayo says you hate him on her account. And he hates you. There’s no
mistake about that.”

“Yet he sent you to borrow my yacht.”

“That’s for another thing altogether--there I go. If I stop here you’ll
have everything out of me.”

“If you mean in regard to this wretched conspiracy, I probably know
much more than you could tell me.”

His jaw fell in his surprise. “You know and yet lend the _Stella_? Why,
are you----” He paused and stared at me in gaping bewilderment.

There could be only one reason for this. The _Stella_ was to be used
for some purpose connected with the revolutionaries and he had jumped
to the conclusion that I was in league with them. Before I could reply
he saw his mistake. “What a mess I’m making of things,” he muttered
to himself; and then to me weakly--“Don’t question me any more,
Donnington.”

“Very well. But I was not asking you about that at all, merely your
personal affairs.”

He stood glancing at me nervously and irresolutely. “I say, you won’t
give me away, will you?”

“You have my word on that.”

“Not even to Miralda, I mean? I told her I wanted to talk to you, but
she wouldn’t hear of it.”

“When was that?”

“A couple of days ago.” That was before our talk on the _Stella_ when
she had been intent upon keeping me at a distance.

“Why did you ask her?”

“There you go again. You said you wouldn’t question me. I wish you
wouldn’t,” he said peevishly, and then added with utter inconsequence;
“she used to be always speaking of you when she came back from Paris.
You were Miralda’s Englishman, you know. And when you turned up
here----”

“I’d rather you didn’t tell me.”

“You are an odd mixture. One minute you want to know everything and
the next you shut me up. She’s awfully white and it’s because it’s so
hard on her that I feel such a brute. I----” he pulled up suddenly and
seized his hat. “No, hang it, I can’t tell you now.”

At that moment Bryant brought in a letter from Volheno asking me to go
to him at once, and when we were alone again Vasco held out his hand.
“May I come again? I--I _should_ like to tell you.”

I told him to come any time, and having made me repeat my promise not
to give him away, he wrung my hand and went off.

So Miralda was being sacrificed to save her brother from the
consequences of the “shame and crime” of which he had been guilty. That
was unmistakably plain now; as plain as that Sampayo was the brute who
was demanding the sacrifice as the price of his silence.

In one way it was good news to me. I had feared that there might
prove to be some other obstacle far more difficult to overcome. But
the instant I sent Sampayo flying for life from the vengeance of the
Corsican, Prelot, this barrier would cease to have terrors for either
Miralda or her weak-kneed brother. It would be best, however, to learn
what this crime was before dealing with Sampayo.

It must be serious, for Vasco was absolutely helpless; so much so that
Miralda had forbidden him to speak to me. But that must have been
before our explanation on the _Stella_. Would she still forbid him?

Other points in the interview were by no means so clear as the evidence
of Sampayo’s power. Why had he been sent to me? Was it merely to
ascertain whether I had escaped the snare laid on the previous night?
If so why the request about the _Stella_?

The two things appeared to be inconsistent, and yet there was a
possible explanation. Knowing Vasco to be a fool, Sampayo had had to
prompt him with a reason for the call, supposing I had escaped from the
toils. Vasco was prepared to find me gone. He had blurted that out;
and Sampayo had probably coached him with the request for the yacht to
conceal his own hope--that I was dead--and at the same time to give him
something to talk about if I were found at home.

Could that request for the yacht be genuine? If so, for what purpose
was it wanted? I could not answer that riddle at present, but I might
be able to get the answer from Vasco.

As I was leaving to go to Volheno, I remembered the ease with which
Barosa’s men had got into the flat, so I told Bryant to get a new lock
and a bolt and have them fitted that day. I had had enough of midnight
visitors.

Volheno received me as courteously as ever, but I soon found that he
was profoundly perplexed about my conduct.

“I expected you much earlier, Mr. Donnington.”

“I am sorry. I didn’t get to bed till six o’clock and lay late.”

“You’ll understand that I have been anxious to hear your news. You have
rendered me a most valuable service by giving me the information about
that Rua Catania house, and you will add immensely to my obligation if
you’ll tell me about this affair last night in the Rua Formosa.”

“I have not rendered you any service at all, as a matter of fact. I was
coming to see you about your letter. It was a complete puzzle. I did
not write to you at all.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I altogether. But if you received a letter signed with my
name giving information, it was a forgery.”

“Mr. Donnington! Are you serious?”

“Never more sober in my life.”

He rang his table bell. “Tell M. Dagara to come to me.”

“He is out, sir.”

“Tell him to come to me the instant he returns. I had no doubt that the
signature was yours. I couldn’t doubt it.”

“Well, you must doubt it now. I declare to you positively that I did
not write the letter which put you on the track of that Rua Catania
business.”

“I am bound to say I thought it strange that, having been only a few
hours in the city, you should have got secret information which my
people have been trying in vain to get for weeks.”

I let this go without a reply, but he guessed my reason for silence.

“Had you any such information in your possession?” he asked, shooting a
quick questioning glance at me.

“I think I would rather not answer that question.”

“That means that you had, of course, and makes the matter all the
stranger.”

“Well, I’ll admit I knew something,” I said on second thoughts,
reflecting that I should have to explain the previous night’s affair.
“These are the facts. You remember warning me not to be in the streets
at night. I disregarded the warning and on the second night I got into
the middle of a fight between the mob and the police, and had to run
for it. By chance I found shelter in that house in the Rua Catania and
afterwards learnt the character of the place.”

“You saw some of these villains there, of course?”

“Yes, and had a bit of trouble, but I got out all right.”

“Do you know the men?”

“Yes,” I said, after considering. “But the position is this. I only
got away by passing my word of honour not to speak of anything or any
person I had seen there.”

“Of course such a pledge given under those circumstances is not to be
considered binding. Do you know the names of any of them or----”

I shook my head. “I must keep the word I gave, M. Volheno.”

“Would you keep your word to a murderer who spared your life on
condition that you kept secret a murder you had seen him commit?”

“That case has not arisen and I would prefer not to discuss questions
of casuistry.”

“But these men are assassins and worse. They are enemies of the State
ripe for any evil work. I must press you to tell me all you know.”

“My lips are sealed. And to that fact I owe my escape from worse
trouble last night.”

“Well, tell me that then,” he said, with a deep frown of vexation.

“The letter you received in my name was really intended to fix on me a
charge of having broken my pledge;” and I went on to give him a short
and carefully worded account of what had passed, laying particular
stress upon my treatment by the police.

He put the last point aside with a short promise that the matter should
be sifted, and then questioned me at great length and with all the
pressure he could exert to get me to give the names of the men I had
seen, or a description of them.

I resisted all his pressure and then he tried argument. He explained
the position of the Government, and their difficulties; the urgent
necessity that they should know who were their friends and who their
enemies, declaring that my information might be of positively vital
importance.

In reply I uttered one or two home truths, telling him that in my
opinion they were trying their hands at repression in a very amateurish
fashion; employing enough force to render many classes of the people
dissatisfied and violent, but not enough to keep them in subjection.

We were hammering away at this when Dagara entered.

“You asked for me, sir?”

“Oh, yes. Bring me the file of personal letters--A to F. That brings
us back from the general question to your part in particular, Mr.
Donnington,” he said, when the secretary had gone out again.

“You must not press me any more. I cannot do what you ask.”

But he did press me very strongly indeed, and then Dagara returned with
the file of letters.

“I want that which Mr. Donnington wrote about the Rua Catania affair.
Just find it.”

I was not a little curious to see whether the copy I had made had been
returned.

“I think I left it in my desk,” said Dagara.

“Oh, how many times have I told you to file these at once.”

“I did file it, sir, but if you remember you asked for it when you were
dictating the reply to Mr. Donnington.”

“Manoel, Manoel, is that any excuse for not refiling it at once?”
exclaimed Volheno, and proceeded to lecture the man for his
carelessness.

It was well for me that both of them were thus engaged, and I rose and
strolled to the window and looked out.

“Manoel,” was his first name, then, “Manoel Dagara”; and in a flash the
identity of the “M. D.” of the cipher message was plain.

This sleek, secretive, smooth-tongued secretary who had parried my
questions with the unctuous plea that his employer enjoined such close
silence in regard to his affairs, was in league with Barosa! On such
terms indeed that he even purloined private letters and carried them to
his other masters.

Here in the very eye of the web of Government was a traitor.

Volheno might well say they did not know who were friends and who
enemies.




CHAPTER XIII

MIRALDA’S CONFIDENCE


As the door closed behind Dagara I returned to my seat. M. Volheno was
obviously annoyed by the incident, but I observed that it was rather
the fact of the secretary’s negligence than the consequences of it
which had ruffled his temper.

“You would scarcely believe, judging by this, the trouble I have
taken to train that young man. Since his marriage there has been some
difference in him; but he is usually as dependable as a machine, and
does his work with precision, speed and silence.”

“A man of the kind is, of course, essential for such confidential
affairs as yours,” I replied.

“Of course I can trust him. He has my entire confidence and is a
perfect encyclopædia of details. As a matter of fact he is a distant
connexion of mine, an orphan, and I educated him.”

“Such a man has reason to be grateful,” I said.

“I believe he would give his life for me,” declared Volheno confidently.

Dagara came back then, but without the letter, and I concluded that
Maral had failed to send him the copy I had made. While he was making
his explanation I observed him very carefully.

He was genuinely troubled, as he might well be, indeed; but there was
so little in his look and manner suggestive of roguery or hypocrisy
that, despite what I knew, I set him down as an honest fellow who had
been forced against his will into this treachery.

His explanation was that the letter was probably among his employer’s
papers and that he would make a search for it; and Volheno, trusting
him implicitly, accepted the story and sent him away with another word
or two of censure.

Then he resumed his efforts to get me to disclose what I knew, but
adopted a different line. He referred to the concessions, and gave me
to understand that, whereas it would help me in regard to them if I
told him things, my refusal would as certainly prejudice my chances.

I did not attach the value of a rotten orange to them, but I deemed it
judicious to make a fine display of rather indignant surprise.

From that he went a step further--that although he himself had no doubt
that I had acquired the information innocently, it was highly probable
that those to whom he was bound to report the matter would not take the
same view; and he hinted that in such a case I might receive a request
to leave the country.

That touched me on the raw, but I instantly professed a readiness to
leave. I would go that very day if he wished, but in such a case, of
course, the concessions would be dropped and there would be no plums
in the future for those who looked for them in return for help at the
present.

And then he grew a little more subtle.

“There is another point, Mr. Donnington. We shall necessarily take more
interest than heretofore in your movements.”

“I am quite indifferent about that,” I replied. “You may quarter your
agents in my rooms and on my yacht, if you wish.”

“I don’t mean any such thing as you imply. But you have certain friends
in Lisbon, and----”

“On your introduction,” I reminded him.

“There is, for instance, the Visconte de Linto.”

“To whom I was presented by the Marquis de Pinsara.”

“Some of his family were known to you previously. The whole of that
family occupy a somewhat peculiar position. You may have heard that the
visconte filled for some years a Court position with a good emolument
and no duties. M. Franco has put an end to that--as in so many other
cases--and this has produced both discontent and bitterness in some
quarters. Between such discontent and actual disaffection, the gap is
small; and we cannot help being impressed by a coincidence where we
find close friendly relations between some such family and a foreigner
who suddenly acquires such dangerous information as you yourself
possess.”

“If you mean that my acquaintance is likely to prejudice them in any
way, it shall cease. But it is a mare’s nest--nothing more.”

“The prejudice might be against you, Mr. Donnington. The position of
that family is--peculiar. The visconte is angry and embittered by the
loss of his salary. His wife is indiscreet and has often spoken against
the Government in very strong terms. The son is a lieutenant in the
one regiment in Lisbon some of whose officers are not wholly free from
a suspicion of disaffection. And the daughter, a very charming young
lady, is engaged to marry another officer of the same regiment and,
further, has one or two friends--one especially--who is something of an
enigma. Then you arrive, and--well, you can draw the inference.”

I smiled. “The inference I draw, M. Volheno, is not from surmise but
from a knowledge of facts.”

“Now don’t you think you would be well advised to let me have in
confidence the information you have gained?”

“I have already explained--I am bound by my word.”

“Then we can do no good by further discussion,” he exclaimed abruptly,
and rose to end the interview.

I hesitated a moment whether to tell him that I had really come to
Lisbon on Miralda’s account, but thought it better to hold my tongue.
It would have shown him the strength of his threat to pack me out of
the country.

The interview left me with the extremely unpleasant and disquieting
feeling that I was getting out of my depth in troubled waters which
might easily be lashed into a storm.

Why he had introduced the topic of the de Linto family, I could not
understand. Yet he must have had a reason, and I ought to know it.
Could I get it from Dagara? He had Volheno’s confidence, and if Barosa
and his associates could force him to give them information, I might
be able to squeeze him also under a threat of exposure. The plan was
infinitely distasteful; but if Miralda’s safety was at stake, I was
ready to adopt almost any means to protect her.

She was in some danger, clearly. She had told me herself that, although
she was no rebel, she was compromised. And as Volheno suspected her, it
might be only a short time before discovery would follow and suspicion
materialize into an actual charge.

Considerably alarmed at this prospect I decided to come to close grips
with Sampayo at once. He might not be the only obstacle between Miralda
and me, but the situation would certainly be much clearer the instant
he was out of the way.

I went off in search of him that afternoon, therefore, but learnt that
he was in Oporto and would not return until the following day. On my
way back I met the Visconte de Linto close to his house and he urged
me to go in with them. He was eager to know something more about the
concessions and his own prospects in regard to them.

This proved to be a preface to a long account of his grievances against
the Dictator. I was a very patient, sympathetic listener; and my
patience was rewarded, for I succeeded in steering the talk round to
the subject of Sampayo, about whom I wished to know the visconte’s real
opinion. I appealed to his cupidity, therefore.

“I should very much value your advice on a point concerning Major
Sampayo,” I said in a confidence-inviting tone. “I am told that his
influence with the Government is so great that his help alone would be
enough to secure me all I want. Of course you’ll see my difficulty. I
should be delighted to have my friends sharing in the good things; but
those behind me naturally expect me to limit the number. Now, if he can
do everything, of course he is just the man for their purpose.”

His face fell. “He couldn’t do that, Mr. Donnington. Of course, he is a
_wealthy_ man and all that, but----” and he shook his head.

“Scarcely wealthy--in our sense of the word, visconte,” I replied
airily. “Not wealthy compared with men who are prepared to put fifty or
a hundred thousand pounds into a single scheme.”

“Will your friends go that extent?”

“If the concessions are such as I desire, I should be ready to do much
more than that myself.” I spoke intentionally as if such a sum were a
mere bagatelle.

“You must be a very wealthy man, then, Mr. Donnington,” he exclaimed.

I smiled blandly and shrugged my shoulders, and then became very
earnest. “I could of course finance the whole thing myself; and if I
could find some one here in Lisbon to co-operate with me honourably and
straightforwardly--he must of course be a man of the highest honour--I
might do so; and should of course leave all the negotiations here
to him. Well, the question is then whether Major Sampayo is such a
man. I place great reliance upon your opinion, as he is to marry your
daughter.”

His perplexity at this was almost comical. He saw that his own chance
of plunder was in danger, and did not know how to save it without
running down the man who was to marry Miralda.

“You place me in a great difficulty, sir,” he said nervously.

“Let me tell you something in confidence, then. I do not like Major
Sampayo. Of course in business matters we do not allow such personal
considerations to determine our actions, although they may influence
us. I would much rather work with such a man as yourself for instance.
But as his name is known to those behind me, of course any decision I
may make and my reason for it might reach him.”

His alarm at this was obvious. “I--I am afraid I cannot say anything.”

“Of course as your son-in-law, his success would benefit you. An
indirect benefit, perhaps, but still a benefit.”

“Our conversation has taken a very unexpected turn, Mr. Donnington. I
was under the impression you desired my influence in any event.”

“It may be a question between yours or his,” I said, pressing him
further into the corner. “That is why I have spoken as I have.”

“I--I really cannot say anything. You must decide for yourself. I
should be delighted to be associated with you, but--but----” he shook
his head and paused.

“But you are afraid of Sampayo?” I finished for him.

“Mr. Donnington!” he exclaimed with no little indignation.

“Don’t take offence, please, at least until you have heard me out. Will
you give me your word of honour not to speak of what I wish to tell
you?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“In coming to Lisbon I had another object besides these concessions. I
met your daughter in Paris, and my disappointment was intense when I
found that she was betrothed to Major Sampayo. I had hoped that in all
my affairs I should have enjoyed the advantage of your help--as that of
a relative by marriage.”

He tossed up his hands and stared at me in speechless surprise.

“Since I have been here--you must pardon my speaking very freely--it
has come to my knowledge that Sampayo has forced himself upon you by
reason of his knowledge of certain matters.”

“My dear Mr. Donnington----” He could get no further, and jumped up
from his chair and began to pace the room in extreme agitation.

“My reason for speaking in this way is to ask you one very vital
question. If Major Sampayo were to relinquish his claims to your
daughter’s hand, would you be willing to honour me by allowing me to
plead my own cause with her?”

“I should be only too----” he cried impulsively but checked himself in
the middle of the sentence, and shook his head again. “It is out of the
question; out of the question.”

“I am answered, on the one point. Now, will you go a step further and
tell me why you deem it out of the question?”

“I really cannot discuss the matter. I really cannot,” he said
nervously. “You must excuse me.”

“I cannot press you, of course. But will you think it over and let me
see you again?”

“I am afraid I must say it would be quite useless, Mr. Donnington.”

“Well, the position may have changed when we next meet,” I said as I
rose. “And now, will you let me give you a hint on another matter. M.
Volheno is my friend, as you know, and when I was with him to-day I
learnt that your attitude toward the Government is a subject of close
and watchful interest. You and all in this house will be well advised
to be on your guard;” and without giving him time for the alarm in his
eyes to crystallize into questions, I left him.

As I crossed the hall his wife met me. She greeted me very warmly and
taking me to the saloon asked me to wait a moment for her.

Before she returned, however, Miralda and Inez came in. Both were
surprised to find me there, and judging by their manner, their surprise
was not so great as their displeasure.

“You are still in Lisbon, Mr. Donnington?” said Inez coldly.

“Obviously. Does that surprise you?”

“More than I can express. Doesn’t it, Miralda?”

“I don’t know,” murmured Miralda who was very much disturbed.

“I have no intention of leaving, madame,” I said to Inez.

“No doubt your correspondence detains you?”

“My correspondence?” I repeated.

“And your close association with M. Volheno and the Government.”

“Inez!” exclaimed Miralda, under her breath.

I understood then. They had heard part of the Rua Catania business, but
not the sequel; and Inez had been using it to poison Miralda against
me. I was not unwilling to see the result. “It is well known that M.
Volheno is friendly toward me.”

“There has been an exchange of letters between you, I believe.”

“Well, scarcely. He wrote to me and I have written to him.” Miralda
started uneasily, looked across quickly, and then dropped her eyes.

“I have seen your letter to him and have been speaking to Miralda about
it.”

“You will permit me to doubt that you have seen the letter I wrote?”

“I have a copy of it;” and she handed it to me. “You do not deny that
that is what you wrote.”

I glanced over it. It was in her own handwriting. “Word for word, as
nearly as I can recollect,” I said.

Inez smiled derisively in triumph. “That is how an Englishman keeps his
word,” she sneered.

“I have kept my word just as an Englishman would, madame.”

But Miralda was both perplexed and troubled. “Do you really mean you
wrote such a letter, Mr. Donnington?” she asked.

“It is a fact that I wrote a letter addressed to M. Volheno and couched
in those identical terms. Under the circumstances it was the best
course for me to adopt.”

Miralda caught her breath and winced as if I had struck her.

“Circumstances,” echoed Inez, with a fine scorn.

“But you had pledged your honour not to reveal a word of this,” said
Miralda, hesitatingly. “You cannot mean that you broke it deliberately
in this way?”

“That is perfectly plain,” declared Inez. “It is only what I told you.”

But Miralda shook her head and laid her hand on Inez’ arm, as she
appealed to me. “Mr. Donnington?”

“You know enough of us English, mademoiselle, to judge whether, having
given my word, I should break it.”

“There is no doubt,” said Inez, with a contemptuous toss of the head.

“You at least have condemned me. And you, mademoiselle?”

“If you admit you broke your word, I should be forced to believe you;
but----” and she threw up her hands with a frown of perplexity.

“But I have not admitted it,” I said.

“How can you say that in the face of this letter?” cried Inez, her
fingers shaking with anger as she held it out.

“Wait, Inez. You can explain this, Mr. Donnington?”

“I cannot explain anything----”

“There, what did I say?” interposed Inez, with contemptuous scorn.

“To those who have already condemned me without explanation.”

Miralda looked at me steadily. “I have not condemned you,” she said
slowly.

“Then I tell you at once that the letter I wrote was written with the
full sanction of a man whose approval even the Contesse Inglesia will
regard as important--Dr. Barosa.”

“Dr. Barosa!” they exclaimed together, but in very different accents.
Miralda’s betokened surprise, Inez’ scorn and disbelief.

“It was written last night in his presence, long after the raid on the
Rua Catania house and when he had thoroughly satisfied himself and
others that I had not broken my word.”

“I find that very difficult of belief,” cried Inez.

“Inez! How dare you?” cried Miralda impetuously, and then winced and
flushed slightly in some confusion, as her friend turned sharply upon
her with a meaning glance.

“Mr. Donnington is to be congratulated upon having so zealous a
champion,” she said coldly.

But it was I, not she, who profited by this shaft. Miralda’s face
set and her eyes shone as she held out her hand to me. “I owe you an
apology, Mr. Donnington, for having stooped to listen to this slander.
You have my word for it that I will not do it again.”

As I took her hand, Inez coughed suggestively.

Miralda understood and turned quickly from me. “There is a limit to
what I will endure even from you, Inez. You have reached it now;” and
Inez, being a person of discretion, held her tongue.

I left them, asking Miralda to make my excuses to her mother, and
returned to my rooms in a glow of pleasure at the proof of Miralda’s
confidence in me, and her zeal in risking even a breach with Inez on my
account.

At my rooms I found a letter marked “Urgent and confidential.”

I guessed of course that it had some concern with the concessions, and
after puzzling over the unknown handwriting, as one will at times, I
opened it without much interest.

But I read it with the closest concern. It was from Vasco, and it gave
me the very facts I was so eager to learn.




CHAPTER XIV

ALONE WITH SAMPAYO


Vasco’s letter was very long, and so rambling and inconsequent in
parts as to be almost incoherent. It was obviously written under the
impulse of intense feeling, despair indeed; and was in response to my
solicitation of confidence and offer of help.

  “I don’t believe you can help me even if you would, and I don’t
  suppose you’ll care to try when you know the mess I am in. But you
  said you would, and a drowning man catches at straws. I am at the
  end of things; utterly broken up and ruined; and bar writing to you
  I have only two alternatives--to shoot myself or get more hopelessly
  into the power of the man who has done a lot to drag me down. That’s
  the mood in which I write to you, and the reason I write. If you
  won’t or can’t help me, say so at once.”

That was the preface to his ugly story.

Put in a few words he was hopelessly in Sampayo’s power. He was a
gambler and a hard drinker, and Sampayo had used both these weaknesses
to ruin him. And ruin him he certainly had, using a craft and cunning
worthy of the man.

Having got Vasco hopelessly in debt to him and others, Sampayo had
succeeded in having him placed in a position where he had charge of a
considerable sum of money subscribed by the officers of the regiment.
He had then dunned him for payment and set others to do the same, and
Vasco had been weak enough to use this money. Sampayo was of course
on the watch, and had discovered the theft within a few hours of its
commission.

To frighten such a weakling was easy work; and Sampayo had at once
engineered matters so that the money had to be instantly forthcoming.
Scared out of his wits, Vasco had admitted his act, and the scoundrel,
in the guise of friendship, had offered to find the sum on condition
that Vasco gave him a written confession.

Glad to escape on any terms, Vasco had only too readily agreed, and
exposure had thus been averted. This was some six months previously.
For two of them Sampayo showed nothing but friendship. Then the
persecution started. Vasco was drawn into the revolutionary net and
forced to commit himself. The next step was that Miralda should be
involved. To save Vasco she had yielded; and after another interval the
demand that she should consent to marry Sampayo had followed.

She had resisted this strenuously--she had been home from Paris only
about a month at the time; but the utmost pressure had been brought to
bear upon her, not only by the visconte and Vasco, but by Barosa and
the leaders of the revolutionary party.

For two months she had held out, and had yielded only a month before my
arrival.

How this part of the letter stirred me will be readily understood.
After my talk with Miralda on the _Stella_, it was not mere coxcombry
on my part to believe that, had I come only a month earlier, I should
have found her ready to receive me on the same footing as in those
weeks in Paris.

I could understand now the reason for Inez’ warning, Barosa’s
references, Sampayo’s instant jealousy, and that regret of the
viscontesse that I had not come sooner. They had known the reason for
Miralda’s stubborn resistance, and had feared that my arrival would
lead to her rebellion.

Vasco’s immediate request was that I would lend him some money--about
five hundred pounds--but he freely admitted that even if I consented,
the money would not free him from Sampayo.

I sent him a note at once that I would do what he wanted and would have
the money ready for him if he would come to me the following evening.

But I made it a condition that he should go on board the _Stella_ at
once and remain there until the time for our interview. I did not mean
to give Sampayo a chance of frightening him into admitting he had
told me. I told Bryant to put the letter into Vasco’s own hands and
to go with him to the yacht, and I wrote a line to my skipper with
instructions.

It proved to be a prudent precaution. Sampayo returned about midday and
as I found out afterwards went everywhere in search of Vasco, before
going to his own quarters, where I was waiting.

He had learnt meanwhile that his attempt against me had failed, but he
was genuinely surprised to see me when he entered.

“This is an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Donnington,” he said.

“I am sure of the unexpectedness,” I replied drily, taking no notice of
the offer of his hand.

He drew himself up stiffly. “Am I to understand that your refusal of my
hand is intentional?”

“Am I to understand on my side that you made the offer of it from any
feeling of friendship?”

“That is a very extraordinary question.”

“It is not altogether an ordinary visit, Major Sampayo. It has more to
do with business of a sort than friendship. I am right in thinking you
do not feel very well disposed to me.”

“Oh, really I have no time just now for talk of that kind. I have been
away from the city and have a great press of matters to attend to. Be
good enough to state your business briefly.”

He said this in a very curt sharp tone and he crossed to a writing
desk, unlocked it and began to turn over some papers.

I made no reply, but leant back in my chair and lighted a cigar. My
silence worried him. He kept up a pretence of being very busy, opening
a letter or two and making some notes as if ignoring my presence.

Then under the pretence of fetching a book, he rose and assumed
surprise to find me still in the room. “Oh, are you still here?”

“Yes, still here, as you see--waiting.”

“Your conduct is very extraordinary. You are trying my courtesy to the
utmost limit.”

“On the contrary, I am only waiting until you have time and inclination
to give me undivided attention. By all means finish these pressing
matters first.”

“Well, then, state your business at once.”

“It may take some time,” I said with an apologetic smile. I could not
resist the pleasure of playing with him a little, as a punishment for
his conduct.

“If it has anything to do with the concessions you are after, you may
spare me and yourself the waste of time in discussing them. I have
decided to have nothing to do with the matter.”

“Don’t you think I could persuade you to change your mind?”

“Certainly not. The Marquis de Pinsara spoke to me to endeavour to
obtain my influence for you, but I declined. I will not be mixed up in
an affair which I do not consider quite clean.”

“I assure you there is nothing in it which would soil your hands, Major
Sampayo,” I said, with just sufficient emphasis on the “your” to rouse
him.

“I consider that remark extremely offensive, sir,” he replied hotly.
“And you will be good enough to understand that I do not allow any
man, Englishman or not, to make offensive remarks to me. I do not
suppose you have come to insult me deliberately.”

His manner was very hectoring; and as it is sometimes amusing to allow
a bully to believe he can bully you, I allowed him to enjoy this belief
for a while.

With a start of affected nervousness I exclaimed quickly, “Oh, I’m
sure--I trust----” as if beginning an apology, and then stopped and
lowered my eyes.

“Then be good enough to be more guarded in what you say and how you say
it.”

I hesitated as if much impressed and rather cowed by this and at a loss
what to say. “These concessions, of course....” I stammered when he
broke in.

“You have my answer in regard to them. It is final. And now I must ask
you to leave me.”

I put in a little comedy stroke, by tossing up my hands, glancing
half-appealingly at him, and giving a little sigh of regret.

“You can do no good by remaining, Mr. Donnington. You asked me just now
whether I had offered you my hand in any spirit of friendliness. I will
tell you now, I did not. I have no wish for your friendship or your
acquaintance.”

“But you expressed a desire that we should meet again and I--I made
quite sure----” I broke off again and let the sentence falter out in an
indistinct murmur.

“You know my decision now at any rate. You understand our language
quite well enough for my meaning to be perfectly plain.”

I was rather surprised at his attitude. He appeared to have quite
reassured himself that we had not met before and that he had nothing to
fear from me. And yet he had set that trap to get me into trouble. I
could only conclude therefore that my present apparent fear of him led
him to think he could safely intimidate me. So I dug the spur in.

“You said you would welcome a chance of exchanging our mutual
experiences in South Africa.”

But he did not feel the spur. “I have told you I do not desire your
acquaintance at all,” he said warmly, adding with a sneer: “Are you
Englishmen accustomed to force yourselves upon one in the way you are
doing now?”

I let even this go in silence, and he crossed and threw the door open.
“Now, sir,” he said, in barrack-yard style.

I rose then. “I think you had better not insist on my going at present.”

“I don’t care what you think. Go. That’s all I mean.”

“You are deeply involved in a certain conspiracy, Major Sampayo. I have
absolute knowledge that concerns you closely.”

“Oh, this is blackmail, eh?” he cried. “You want to force me to
help you by threatening me. Well, I refuse point-blank. Give what
information you like. You are a spy.”

I gave him a steady look and answered very deliberately. “You mistake
me. I did not give the information which led to that raid in the Rua
Catania, but--I know who did.”

I got right home with that thrust, and as he glared at me, that old
perplexed, speculative fear of me came creeping back into his eyes. He
tried to fight it back by encouraging his rage. “Are you going to force
me to kick you out, you spy?” he cried fiercely.

“A spy is an object of contempt, quite kickable, of course; but Dr.
Barosa would probably regard a traitor as infinitely more despicable.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, even more angrily, but also with
more fear.

I paused. “You forged the letter in my name. I have the proofs here;”
and I took out the letter and held it up.

He burst into a loud scoffing laugh, the effort of which was obvious.
“You must have lost your senses.” Even his voice was beginning to grow
unsteady.

Having frightened him to this extent, I took a chance. It was
certain of course that he must have carefully practised the copying
of my handwriting before he forged the letter, so I glanced round
significantly at his desk and said: “You are forgetting that you have
not been in this room for more than thirty hours.”

It was an excellent bluff. He was scared right through. He changed
colour, and the quick look which he shot involuntarily at the desk was
instinct with fear. It was several seconds before he could recover
himself sufficiently even to bluster.

“I’ll have no more of this,” he said with an oath and came toward me
threateningly.

I knew him to be a wretched coward and was not in the least doubt that
if he laid hands on me I could more than hold my own; so I let him
come, my eyes fixed very steadily upon his. About two paces from me he
stopped.

“Are you going?” he asked.

I made no answer and no movement.

“I’m in no mood to be trifled with.”

I let this go also without reply. I kept my eyes steadily on his face,
and saw the struggle between his rage and his fear, and at one moment
his rage all but won. His face set viciously and he tried to conceal
his intention under an assumption of contempt.

“You are too contemptible to touch,” he said, as he moved back and then
turned to his desk.

For a moment he misled me. I thought he meant no more by the insult
than a cover for his cowardice. But I soon changed my opinion. His back
was toward me, and I saw that while pretending to turn over his papers,
his left hand went stealthily to a drawer. I guessed his intention.

The purpose in his mind when he had meditated that attack had not been
to put me out of the room, but to secure the proofs of his treachery
which I said were in my possession. He was looking now for a weapon
with which to force them from me.

To test him, as well as to interrupt his search, I made a feint of
leaving.

“I will go now,” I said and stepped toward the door.

“No, by Heaven, not until this thing is cleared,” he cried, and rushing
to the door he locked it, pocketed the key, and hurried back to the
desk.

Knowing the man, I had of course taken the precaution of having my
own weapon with me, and was about to take it out when another thought
struck me.

Instead of the revolver, I took out a letter from the Corsican, Prelot,
which had been forwarded to me that morning.

“What is there to be cleared up?” I asked, in the same steady, stern
tone I had used before.

He found his revolver then and holding it behind him turned round. “You
have made a lying charge against me. You say you have the proofs. Give
me them.”

“I refuse to do anything of the sort.”

“I think you will,” he replied, with a cunning leer, and he covered me.

“Do you dare to threaten me?”

“Hand them over at once. Don’t fool me.”

I hesitated a moment.

“I give you five seconds,” he thundered.

“I had certain information in this letter,” and I held up the
Corsican’s.

“Give it to me.”

I folded it up and threw it close to him.

With a chuckle he stooped and picked it up, and as he began to read it
I took out my own weapon.

The door was locked and he might be really dangerous when he learnt the
peril which menaced him.




CHAPTER XV

IN THE FLUSH OF SUCCESS


My precaution proved to be unnecessary.

As Sampayo read the first page of the letter his expression was merely
one of perplexity. Prelot had begun with a recital of the places he
had visited since writing to me before, and this told nothing of any
significance.

Sampayo read it hurriedly and turning the page glanced down at the
signature.

He started violently, and stared at the words for the space of a few
seconds like a man bewitched. The hectic flush of triumphant cunning
changed to a deathly grey. His hand shook so that the paper crackled;
then his teeth began to chatter; the trembling spread to his limbs, and
the whole of his big frame quivered and shook till he reeled under the
shock and had to cling to the table for support.

His eyes all this time were fixed glassily on the signature of the
letter; his breath was laboured and stertorous as he gasped for air;
and he made frantic efforts to fight against the palsy of terror. He
failed. And at length the revolver dropped from his nerveless hand,
the letter fluttered to the floor, and with a groan he collapsed into
the chair near him helpless, inert, and unconscious, his bullocky head
lolling over the back with gaping mouth and staring but unseeing eyes.

I laid him down on the floor, and pocketed his revolver lest, when he
recovered, he might have a fancy to put a bullet in me. Then I helped
myself to the key, and having unlocked the door, put the key in my own
pocket.

Next I picked up Prelot’s letter and was beginning to hunt round for
some brandy when it occurred to me to look in his desk to make sure
that he had no other weapons and also to see if there was any evidence
that he had been practising my handwriting. A hasty search gave me just
what I wanted. Hidden away in a small drawer I found some sheets of
paper on one of which was the draft of the letter he had written in his
own handwriting; while among the others were his first attempts at the
forgery and with them a letter of mine written to Volheno announcing my
arrival in Lisbon.

I concluded that Sampayo had been disturbed at his work and had put the
papers away hurriedly and forgotten them.

Lastly I turned my attention to restoring him. I found a decanter of
brandy and gave him some. The spirit soon began to take effect, and
then I lit another cigar and sat down to wait until he should be ready
to resume operations.

When at length he sat up he passed his hand across his eyes in dazed
bewilderment, as a man will when awakened suddenly from an ugly dream.
Then with a start he began to stare about the floor as if looking for
the letter, and not seeing it he gave a deep sigh of intense relief,
apparently convinced that the thing was no more than a nightmare horror.

“If you’re looking for that letter, I have it,” I said quietly.

With a shuddering start at my voice--I was behind him and he had not
seen me--he swung round and stared at me, and began to shake again as
his terror returned.

“Here, you’d better have some more of this;” and I poured him out a
wine-glassful of brandy and gave it him.

He made one gulp of it and sat leaning forward, trying to think.
Presently he scrambled to his feet and sank with a sigh into the chair,
leant his arms on the desk and buried his face in his hands.

For some few minutes--five probably--he remained in this attitude of
utter dejection. Then he let his hands fall on the desk, turned his
head slightly so that he could see exactly where I was, and shifted his
position so that the action of his left hand should be hidden by his
body.

He was reaching for his revolver of course. A start and a grunt of
dismay announced his disappointment.

“If you feel steady enough to shoot, you’re fit to talk,” I said
sharply; “and we’ll get this thing over.”

There was a long pause before he spoke. “What is it?” he murmured then,
slowly and sullenly.

I gave him another shock then. Imitating Prelot’s voice as nearly as I
could recall it, I stamped my feet and called out, “Ah, Jean Dufoire,
at last!”

The effect was electrical. He sprang up and turned round in a positive
agony of terror.

I laughed. “I began to think you might have forgotten your name.”

With a scowl of hate he flung a bitter curse at me.

“Well, it’s roused you anyway, and now listen to me. You are either
going to do exactly what I tell you, or Lucien Prelot and Jean Dufoire
will be face to face before this time to-morrow. Now, which is it to
be?”

“Who is Jean Dufoire?” he asked, after a long pause.

“If that’s your line, I’m going.”

He let me reach the door and felt in his pocket to make sure that he
had the key; but when I opened it he started. “Wait,” he said.

“Which is it to be? Quick,” I said sharply.

“Tell me what you want.”

“Which is it to be?” I repeated.

“I’ll do what you wish.” The words came slowly as if the utterance of
each one of them was a torture.

I returned to my seat. “In the first place, you have a confession of
Lieutenant de Linto’s. Give it me.”

With shaking fingers he unlocked a drawer of the desk and from a secret
recess in it took out a paper and held it out.

I pushed a chair half-way between us. “Put it there.” He obeyed. “Now
write an admission that you incited this young fool to take the money
having won large amounts from him by cheating at cards.”

“I didn’t.”

“I haven’t forgotten Jean Dufoire’s reputation. Write what I say--and
sign it Jean Dufoire, now known as Major Francisco Sampayo.”

He fought against this, but in the end yielded.

“Now a confession that you wrote the letter in my name giving
information about the house in the Rua Catania.”

Against this he fought more stubbornly than before, but I showed him
the papers I had taken from his desk, vowing I would take them straight
to Barosa, and then he gave in. The sweat was standing in great beads
on his forehead as he placed the papers on the chair.

“Now a letter to the Visconte de Linto and one to Mademoiselle
Dominguez renouncing all claim to her hand.”

“I will not,” he cried with an oath. “My hand shall rot first.”

“It will do that soon after Lucien Prelot has found you.”

“I will not,” he repeated, flinging down the pen. “I dare not.”

I took the slip of paper and wrote, speaking the words as I pencilled
them. “‘Jean Dufoire is now known as Major Francisco Sampayo. You will
find him in Lisbon.’ That telegram I shall send within five minutes of
leaving here,” I said.

With a groan he threw up his hands distractedly and rising began to
pace up and down. “I dare not. I dare not,” he exclaimed.

I watched him very closely and observed that his movements, at first
erratic as if at the dictates of his overpowering agitation, had a
method suggestive of a purpose. Each turn he took brought him a little
nearer to me. So I stood up and while pocketing the papers he had
written, I held my weapon in readiness, questioning him the while.

“What do you mean by dare not?”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then make it plain.”

“No. There is a limit to my compliance. I dare not do this.”

“What is it you are afraid of?”

“I can’t tell you that. My lips are sealed.”

“Oh come, you weren’t afraid to betray your associates when you thought
to get me into a mess. Why be afraid now, to get yourself out of one?”

He was pacing in my direction now and I made a half turn from him as if
to glance at his desk.

“I would do it if I could, Heaven knows. You’ve got me in a corner,
but----” And at that instant he sprang forward to grab me by the
throat. I was fully prepared, and instead of getting his hands on me he
threw them up and staggered back from my levelled revolver.

“Don’t try that again,” I said between my teeth. “And now do what I
have told you--and do it at once.”

He abandoned his intention to try force, and sat down again at the
desk, but he would not write the letters.

“I dare not. I dare not. You must do what you will. I dare not,” he
repeated, over and over again in answer to my threats.

This persistent refusal perplexed me. That he was in fear of his life
I knew, for I had convinced him I meant to set his enemy on his track.
But there was obviously something or some one of whom he was even more
afraid than of me. I could think of only one man--Barosa. But why of
him? And why only in regard to breaking his engagement to Miralda?

“Why are you so determined to marry Mademoiselle Dominguez?”

“I am not. I will take any oath you like not to marry her.”

“Then it is only the written renouncement you shrink from?”

“I dare not do it.”

“Then write a letter to her asking her to release you and to keep the
whole thing secret.”

“Why are you so set on this?” he asked.

“Don’t question me,” I snapped angrily.

He sat thinking in moody despair. He might well despair being between
the upper and nether millstones. Then at length he took up the pen and
began to write, but stopped and tore up the sheet.

“You can tell her,” he said.

I renewed my threats, promising secrecy, but he struggled hard and
at length I got up and went to the door, declaring I would at once
dispatch the telegram I had drafted.

“Give me time,” he said then. “Let me have a week--three days--one
day----” he pleaded as I shook my head. And at last he gave in.

“Now for my last condition,” I said as I took the letter. “You will
leave the city at once--to-day.”

“Give me more time. I shall go of course after this, but I must have
some time--two days at least--to make arrangements.”

“Not one hour after to-day. If you are still in the city to-morrow,
this message will go to Lucien Prelot.”

And with that final shot I left him.

There was only a very small fly in the amber of my satisfaction at the
result of the interview. I had secured all I wanted. I had caused the
rupture of the engagement to Miralda, had put an end to his hold over
her brother, had obtained the proofs of his treachery toward Barosa,
and had given him a notice to quit which he would not dare to disobey.

The only point where I had failed had been in learning that strange
secret at the back of his fears which had made him refuse to write
the letter to the visconte. It was in some way connected with the
betrothal; but beyond that, I could not even hazard a guess.

But I was in too high spirits at what I had gained to worry over the
minor failure. Indeed, the prospect of a secret understanding with
Miralda was so alluring that I was more than half disposed to be glad
that the thing had taken this particular course, and decided not to
lose a minute before telling her the news.

I was hurrying off to her when I remembered my promise to have the
money for Vasco. I had to get it from the bank, and while I was there
it occurred to me to put the other papers I had forced from Sampayo in
safe custody. I sealed them up and left them in the bank’s custody,
with instructions that the packet was not to be given to any one--only
to myself in person.

This precaution started another line of thought. Sampayo was at bay,
utterly desperate, fighting for all he cared for in life, and I must
reckon with that and be on my guard.

What was he likely to do? He had attempted my life once, even while he
was only in doubt whether I could harm him. What would he do now that
he knew and was desperate? I decided not to run the risk of being
alone in my rooms until I knew that he was out of Lisbon.

Instead of going straight to Miralda, therefore, I drove down to the
quay and sent off a message by a boatman to Burroughs, my second in
command on the _Stella_, to come to my rooms with a couple of the crew.

Jack Burroughs was just the man for such a purpose--a ’Varsity man of
good birth but very small means, with the roving instinct strongly
developed, he had been half over the globe in search of adventure; and
having a love of the sea, had jumped at my suggestion that he should
come with me, partly as companion and partly to qualify himself to take
command of the _Stella_ later on.

Having dispatched the message I drove back to the visconte’s house. I
was in luck, for Miralda was alone when the servant showed me into the
room.

She was not surprised by my visit and received me with some little
restraint. Her eyes were troubled and her hand trembled as she placed
it in mine.

“I am glad to find you alone.”

“I was expecting you, Mr. Donnington, but I am afraid I am sorry you
have come.”

“Expecting me? But no one except myself knew I was coming.”

“You are the bearer of a letter, I think.”

“Are you reading my thoughts? You amaze me.”

She shook her head and smiled sadly. “It is unfortunately nothing
occult. But I will ask you not to give me the letter.”

I drew a deep breath of surprise. “Do you know what is in it?”

“No--but please do not question me. You are mixing in matters which
you cannot understand and I cannot explain. But do not give me the
letter--I--I could not read it.”

“Will you not say why? This is so extraordinary.”

“I know it must seem so to you. Oh, why do you not leave the city?” she
burst out impulsively.

“But the news I bring is good news--at least I hope----”

“Please, please,” she interposed, holding up her hand.

“But if you don’t know the contents of the letter why mustn’t you read
it?”

“Don’t question me. I cannot tell you. I would if I might--I am sure
you know that. But I cannot.”

“Who told you I was coming?”

She shook her head again, growing more and more distressed. “Don’t
offer it to me even. I must take it if you do but must not read it.”

I sat thinking a moment. I was almost dumbfounded by this sudden check
at the moment when I had been so full of confidence. I had hoped that
the instant she saw the letter she would see that the barrier between
us was swept away for good. And now she would not even look at it.

She dared not, just as Sampayo had not dared to write the letter to the
visconte. Was there any connexion between her fear and his? Was this
further evidence of that mysterious power in the background?

“Very well,” I said at length; and at the words the expression of her
eyes changed.

But there are more ways than one of gaining an end, and I was resolved
she should know the contents of the letter before I left; and once more
I pressed those Beira concessions into my service. I chatted at random
for a while and then spoke of them.

“You’ll be glad to hear that I am getting along all right in that
matter,” I said in a casual tone.

“I am glad if it will mean that you will be able to leave Lisbon,” she
replied, a little suspicious as to which concessions I meant.

I said a lot about Beira and the colony until I had cleared the doubt
from her eyes. “I’ll tell you how the matter stands,” I said then, and
added quickly, not heeding her attempts to interrupt me: “There was a
man here who tried to forestall me by using secret means he possessed
to force others, and to-day I have seen him and he has given me a
letter definitely renouncing his claims and by to-morrow he will have
left Lisbon for good.”

She understood, but instead of showing relief or pleasure, her eyes
clouded again with trouble, and she sat with drooped head biting her
lip and pressing her hands tightly together in agitation.

“Have you no word of--of congratulation?”

Her congratulation was a deep sigh, a gesture of despair, and a
scarcely audible whisper: “It is too late.”

“No!” I exclaimed firmly. “I don’t and won’t believe that. And I hold
too strong a hand now for any one to beat me.”

My firmness told. She looked up with the dawn of hope in her eyes, and
if I could read it, something beside hope, something far dearer to me.

“My hand on it,” I said, stretching it out.

She was about to place hers in it, when the servant announced Inez. On
watchdog duty again, of course. I gave her the letter and whispered
quickly: “Take this now. You know what is in it. I have other news for
you--I have rescued Vasco.”




CHAPTER XVI

BAROSA’S SECRET


I stayed a few minutes after Inez’ arrival so that she should not think
she had scared me away, and I left the house more in love with Miralda
than ever and convinced that had she been free the interview would have
had a very different result.

I saw Barosa’s sinister influence behind. Sampayo had evidently told
him at once what I had done; he had instantly sent instructions to
Miralda to take the letter but not to read it; and his power over her
was too great for her to dare to disobey.

To break down his influence appeared impossible; it meant a fight
against the whole forces of this infernal conspiracy. And then a
somewhat wild, harum-scarum alternative occurred to me--to carry her
away from it all on the _Stella_. Vasco was out of danger, and so far
as she herself was in danger from the Government, she could smile at it
when we were once in old England.

Vasco was already on the yacht. Could I use him to get her there? And
if I did, would she resent my trick or come to view it as the best, if
not the only way out?

Burroughs was at my rooms when I arrived, and he was just the man to
help me in such a plan; but I would not broach it until I had had more
time to think it round.

I was still undecided when Barosa arrived. I guessed his object but
greeted him pleasantly. He was, however, too engrossed by the reasons
which had brought him to make any sort of pretence, and the moment we
had shaken hands, he plunged into the subject.

“I have come to see you about Major Sampayo, Mr. Donnington. I regret
to hear that you and he have quarrelled.”

“Scarcely quarrelled, doctor. At least I should not use that term; and
pardon me if I say that it is a strictly personal matter.”

“I cannot regard it so; that is why I have come. You have threatened
to use certain information you possess and have required him to leave
Lisbon at once.”

“I should put it very differently, of course.”

“We need not split hairs,” he replied bluntly.

“I do not care to be addressed quite so curtly, Dr. Barosa. If you wish
to tell me anything or to make any sort of request, I am willing to
listen in a friendly spirit. But not otherwise.”

“I have no wish to offend, but the matter is serious. I have explained
to you once before that we are under great obligations to Major
Sampayo, and any action directed against him is felt to be directed
equally against us.”

“Of course I cannot take that view. I have nothing to do with your aims
or concerns or plans. My action is strictly individual. But perhaps you
will put in plain terms exactly what you wish.”

“That your persecution of Major Sampayo shall cease.”

“Persecution! There is no persecution. Are you aware that he even
attempted my life?”

“Not for a moment, Mr. Donnington. You refer to the Rua Catania letter.
That has all been explained. He was not satisfied that you would keep
your pledge of secrecy and intended that merely as a test.”

“Is it possible that he has persuaded you to believe that?”

“Otherwise I should not say it, Mr. Donnington.”

“Well, I don’t, and nothing would ever make me. He forged my name to
the letter and managed to let you know of it somehow in his belief that
you would deal with me as a liar and traitor. I know the man.”

“So do I. And the fact that he warned us of the raid so that nothing
should be discovered satisfies me of his good faith.”

“Very well, then, we must be content to differ about it.”

“You will not forget that he had stronger cause for distrusting you
than we had. We believed that you had come here for very different
reasons from those openly given--reasons which touched him very closely
indeed.”

“Did he think I came after him, do you mean?” I asked with a smile.

“No, of course not,” he replied, nettled by my smile,--as, indeed,
I intended he should be. “He believed that you had come on a very
different person’s account.”

Why did he fight shy of mentioning Miralda by name? And why was he
himself so interested in forcing Sampayo to marry her, when the man
himself had offered to take any oath I wished that he would not? “I
don’t care a rap what he believed,” I said, after a moment’s pause.

“But we care, Mr. Donnington?”

I paused and then asked sharply: “What is Miralda Dominguez to you, Dr.
Barosa?”

The question took him by surprise, and the sudden light which gleamed
in his eyes answered my question.

“She is nothing to me, personally, of course,” he protested.

“You misunderstand my question. What is she to you and your friends?”
It was not prudent yet to show him that I believed I had guessed his
secret of secrets.

“She is one of us, Mr. Donnington. She is in a position to render our
cause valuable help, as she has already done. It is more to the point
to ask what she is to you.”

I had another shaft ready, but to prepare the way for the surprise
I paused, gave a shrug and a smile of indifference, and then said
quickly: “I hope to make her my wife.”

Once more the sudden flame in his eyes confirmed my former diagnosis.

“That will not be possible, Mr. Donnington.”

“We shall see. I doubt if I am more easily turned from a course I have
once taken than you yourself. I’ll tell you how I view the thing, for
it is the pith and marrow of this business with Sampayo. I came here
for the express purpose of asking her to become my wife. I found her
promised to Major Sampayo. I set my wits to work and my money, and
ascertained that she had been driven to compromise herself in your
politics. By means of money I succeeded in learning how she had been
forced to join you. My whip-hand over Sampayo led him to admit that
he did not really wish to marry her--and I found that you were really
the background force which made him shrink from an open rupture with
her. He agreed to a secret one and gave me a letter to her. I took that
letter and she absolutely refused to open it. I saw, therefore, that
Sampayo had been to you and that you had ordered her not to read it.
Now I’ve spoken frankly and invite similar freedom from you. Why did
you do this?”

“I cannot explain to you without entering into matters that are
secret--political matters, I mean, of course,” he replied, making the
addition quickly.

“Very good. Then you come to me and tell me that I must not do as I
please with regard to Sampayo. You call it persecution. I apply that
term to Mademoiselle Dominguez’ treatment. Cease that, give her back
her freedom of action, and I’ve done with Sampayo. He can stop here or
go to the devil for all I care.”

“I have told you it is not possible, Mr. Donnington,” he said firmly.

“You mean that you, for motives personal to yourself, will not permit
it.”

“You have no reason to draw any such inference.”

“Well, I do draw it, and shall continue to believe it and act upon it
until I learn it is wrong.”

“I tell you it is wrong, wholly wrong and preposterous.”

I looked at him with a purposely aggravating smile and shook my head.
“As a matter of fact, I know,” I said. Pure bluff this, of course, but
useful.

He paled with anger and his eyes flashed again. “You wish to insult
me,” he said between his teeth.

“I should not regard it as an insult if you suggested that I admired
a very beautiful woman, but if I got as angry as you are, you would
conclude that you were right.”

He sprang up. “Then you intend to disregard my warning and set us all
at defiance,” he cried, beside himself with rage.

“Are you threatening me?”

“Take it as you will, sir.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that I knew he was the agent
of the Pretender and reply to his threat with one to denounce him to
Volheno. But I checked myself. “You understand I shan’t take it lying
down. I shall hit back. And now I think we are at the end of this stage
of the affair,” I said; and he left me.

It was evidently a fight to be with the gloves off, and I might look
for trouble without any fear of being disappointed. But I should be on
my guard.

I had gained more than a warning by the interview, however. I had
learnt the secret which had been in the background. Barosa was in love
with Miralda; and Sampayo was only the stalking-horse to keep other
men away until he could declare himself. I could not resist a smile at
his dilemma. He could not do anything at present without changing Inez
from friend to enemy and I saw how this interesting embarrassment could
be turned to excellent account with her.

But the axis of things was shifted. It was not Sampayo who had so
tortuously woven the web which had entangled Miralda. It was Barosa
himself. And then came the question why Sampayo had been so pliant a
tool in his hands and so frightened of him. There was one probable
answer to that--that Barosa knew what I knew about that South African
villainy.

Vasco arrived when I was turning over the problem. I told him that I
had obtained his confession from Sampayo and that the latter would
not trouble him any more; and he thanked me profusely, making earnest
protestations that he would never touch a card or a dicebox again as
long as he lived. Men generally make resolutions of that sort at such a
moment, of course. He told me how much he owed to his fellow-officers,
and I gave him the amount.

Then I suggested that he should return to the _Stella_ until Sampayo
had left Lisbon. This was not my real reason. I really wished to have
him on board in case I should decide upon the drastic step of carrying
off Miralda and could use him to get her to go to the yacht.

But he jumped away from the suggestion as if it were a red-hot iron. “I
am sorry I cannot, Mr. Donnington. I’ll do anything else, but to-morrow
I must go on duty.”

“Why?” I asked with surprise at his exaggerated love of discipline.

“Don’t ask me that. I cannot tell you. I cannot really.”

“But you’ve told me a good deal.”

“I’d tell you anything else. You’re the best friend a fellow could
have. But this is not my secret. Please don’t question me.”

“Not your secret, eh? Then it’s some of this conspiracy business. It
strikes me you’re going to make a fool of yourself. You’d much better
have nothing to do with it.”

“For heaven’s sake don’t say any more.”

“Very well. By the way, you wanted to have my yacht for a day?”

His tell-tale face was instantly so troubled that I took it he
connected the question with what I had said before.

“I shan’t want it, thank you,” he said quickly; and added with
stammering hesitation: “You see, I’ve given up the idea of taking those
fellows out.”

“All right. But all I was going to suggest was that you should come for
another outing with me and perhaps get your sister to join you.”

“Oh, I’ll do that any time--but not to-morrow, or--or the next day. Any
other time. I know Miralda would go--at least--if----” and he stopped.

“Well, we’ll fix a day soon,” I said, and let him go.

Evidently something serious was to take place on the morrow. What could
it be? Was it something I ought to know for Miralda’s sake? Clearly the
sooner I could get her away the better.

Later in the evening Burroughs told me a curious incident. We were
smoking, and he broke one of the pauses with a sudden laugh. “A rum
thing happened yesterday,” he said, in response to my glance of
surprise.

“Well?”

“Say, is the king of this benighted country in the habit of playing the
Haroun Al Raschid game?”

“I don’t know, Jack.”

“Well, it looks like it. I was on the Quay yesterday and some of the
loafers began looking at me and nudging one another and chattering--you
know what beggars they are for that--and the thing went on until there
were two or three dozen of ’em gawking around. I was walking away when
hang me if the whole lot didn’t off with the caps and sing out ‘Long
Live the King.’ I looked round for the King, but he wasn’t there, and
when I was going back in the launch to the _Stella_ afterwards, one of
the hands told me the crowd had taken me for him, and were pretty huffy
because I hadn’t acknowledged the cheer. Wish I’d tumbled to it, I’d
have played up to it.”

“You are surprisingly like him, Jack, now that I look at you,” I said
with a grin.

“Rather be myself, a heap,” he replied drily, and after some chaff the
matter dropped.

I had been considering how to tell him about Miralda, and after the
next pause I asked him if he knew why we were in Lisbon.

“You haven’t told me,” he replied drily.

“You mean you have guessed?”

He took his pipe out of his mouth, glanced at it, and then at me and
smiled. “I know the symptoms. I’ve had the fever myself. You’re the
sort to take it badly too.”

“I have.”

“What’s the trouble?”

“All sorts and plenty of it.”

“Well, I’m with you, if you want me. I’d love a scrap.”

“I’m thinking of making a bolt of it.”

“_Stella?_” I nodded. “The lady willing?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t asked her. She’s been forced to give a promise
to some one else. I’d better tell you something about it;” and I gave
him a short outline of the position.

“It’s a mix up, sure,” he commented drily. “But she’s a lovely girl.
That’s a cert.”

“How do you know?”

“A man has eyes, I suppose. She’s a good sailor too. Seemed to enjoy
that bit of a racket on the yacht.”

“Yes,” I said, self-consciously.

“If you can get her to put one of her dainty feet into a rowing boat,
I’ll answer for it that she doesn’t take it out again except to mount
the _Stella’s_ companion, and the rest would be as easy as shooting
gulls.”

“But how to do it?”

He paused, shook his pipe out, refilled it and lit it. “If you leave it
to me, I’d undertake to do it all right,” he said very deliberately.

“How?”

“I said leave it to me. I’ll tell you how when it’s done.”

“But you’ve never spoken to her.”

“All the better.”

“I should ask her first.”

“And spoil your chance. Ask her when we’re half-way across the bay.”

“It may have to come to that.”

“Better come first,” he said with his dry smile. “If you want to win.”

That was my own thought secretly; but I was half afraid Miralda herself
might resent such a strong step.

We lapsed into silence and I sat thinking over the whole situation,
and the longer I thought the stronger grew my conviction that to get
Miralda away was at once the safest and simplest solution of all the
difficulties. If she would go, of course. Would she? I could only
answer that out of the hopes which her look that afternoon had roused.
If she were free, I was certain of her. And free she certainly would be
if I dared to carry her off in the _Stella_.

Presently we began to speak of another matter. We were sitting at
the open window with no light except from that of the full moon, and
Burroughs went out on to the verandah and leant over, looking about
curiously.

“I suppose you think there may be something happen to-night by having
us up here?” he asked as he sat down again.

“Scarcely likely, but I thought best to be prepared.”

“It’s turning-in time. I’ll keep the first watch.”

“What have you seen?” I asked.

“Nothing--except that any one could get in here easily enough.”

“Oh, I don’t think there’s any fear of that.”

“I wasn’t talking about fear of anything. But I shan’t turn in.”

“Neither shall I, yet. I couldn’t sleep.”

“Well, I reckon we don’t want to show ’em they’re expected;” and he
got up and closed the window. “And we shall have plenty of other time
to talk, so we’ll keep a close lip. From what you told me, this is the
night they’re most likely to try some hanky-panky. I guess, too, we
don’t want too fresh smoke for ’em to smell, so I’ll shake my pipe out.”

He did so and drew his chair away from the window, and I followed his
example.

I was wrong about not being able to sleep. After a time I dozed off
and, at Burroughs’ suggestion, lay down on a sofa close to him and went
off into a sound sleep.

From a dream that I was being smothered I awoke to find a hand pressed
tightly on my mouth.

“Hsh! Wake up. Something’s happening,” whispered Burroughs.

I looked round the room. It was almost dark, for the moonlight was no
longer streaming through the window. I had evidently been asleep some
hours.

Then Burroughs caught my sleeve and pulled it upwards. A sign to me to
get up.

When I stood up he put his lips to my ear and whispered: “You stay this
side of the window. I’ll go to the other.”

Without making a sound he crept away from me.

I stood listening intently, and presently bent down and peered
cautiously at the window.

There was neither sign nor sound of anything.

The seconds of suspense lengthened into minutes.

Burroughs had clearly deceived himself.

And just when I was on the point of telling him so, the form of a man
showed on the verandah.

In a second I was on my feet again in the shadow of the curtain.

Cautiously the window was pushed open. A man entered and stood
motionless as a statue, listening and peering round the room.

With absolutely noiseless tread he stepped forward a couple of paces,
paused again, and then returned to the balcony.

A couple of minutes passed before he re-entered, this time with a
companion. The second man remained close to the window.

The small circle light of an electric lamp carried by the first comer
flashed for an instant, and then he started to cross the room.




CHAPTER XVII

A LITTLE CHESS PROBLEM


As soon as the two men were separated in this way, I realized that
Burroughs had made a mistake in tactics. We ought to have stayed
together. As it was, I did not know which of the two he meant to tackle.

It turned out that he was in the same uncertainty about me; but he
saw that the man who had crossed the room was going to switch on the
electric light, and to prevent this he sprang on him and shouted to me
to seize the other fellow.

I might as well have tried to seize a stroke of lightning. Before my
companion had half finished his sentence, the man was out of the room
and over the balcony railing, and it would have been sheer folly to
attempt any pursuit.

Meanwhile, Burroughs, who was as strong as a bullock, had collared his
man, holding his hands behind him in a grip of iron.

I closed the jalousies and fastened them, and then shut the window and
fastened that, and then switched up the light.

I recognized the prisoner immediately. It was Henriques--the brute who
had been going to strike Inez that night in the Rua Catania.

“Run your hands over him and draw his teeth,” said my friend.

He had both a revolver and a knife, and I took these from him and then
turned out his pockets. Among the miscellaneous contents I found, to
my intense surprise, an envelope addressed to Vasco, the name being
given in full.

I was careful not to show my keen interest at this, and something like
a flash of intuition warned me that I must learn the contents of the
letter without Henriques knowing that I had read it. As the envelope
was fastened, this was a little difficult. “These things may be wanted
by the police and may or may not be important,” I said to Burroughs.
Then I fetched a sheet of paper from my desk, wrapped up the envelope
and the small things and sealed the packet, placing the revolver and
knife by them. I did it very deliberately so that Henriques should see,
and then I said to him: “I don’t mean to give you a chance to deny that
these thing were found on you.”

“Shall I send for the police?” asked Burroughs, who was considerably
perplexed by what I had done.

“That depends upon this scoundrel. You needn’t hold him. He can’t do
any harm. But don’t let him get near these toys of his,” and I pointed
to his weapons. I had my plan by that time. I meant to trick him, and
it was part of my plan that he should believe that the packet was not
out of his sight the whole time.

“Now, if you make a clean breast of things, I shall let you go,” I
said, turning to the man. “What’s your name?”

“Garcia Rosada.” He lied so promptly that I saw he had been carefully
making up his tale.

I was on the point of telling him I knew his name, when it occurred
to me that it would be better to affect to believe him. “Who sent you
here?”

“No one.”

“Why did you come then?”

He hung his head for a moment as if in shame and then muttered: “I’ve
never been a thief before, and if you’ll let me go, Excellency, I vow
to the Holy Virgin I’ll never be one again. Have mercy on me. I’ve a
wife and five children and this will--will kill them.” He was an artful
scoundrel, and the break in his voice was quite cleverly done.

I put a few more questions, and he improved on the tale, saying that
his companion was name Ferraz, and having heard that I was a very rich
man, had tempted him to try and rob me.

Burroughs’ face, when he saw that I appeared to believe the yarn, was
quite an amusing study. He was divided between doubt whether I was
really gulled, and curiosity as to my object, if I was not.

“I’ll write that down while it’s fresh in my memory. If I find your
story true, I won’t punish you, Rosada,” I said and turned away to my
writing table. I made a pretence of writing, repeating the words aloud
and turning now and then to put a question about some detail.

But what I really did was to make up a dummy packet the exact
counterfeit of that on the table.

As soon as it was ready I crossed again to Henriques. “There’s one
thing you haven’t explained,” I said, picking up the revolver. “Why did
you bring this and the knife with you?”

He had his tale ready, good enough for such a fool as he deemed me.
“They are not mine at all, Excellency. They belong to Ferraz--the man
who got me into this.”

I put a question or two; and then as if in doubt I turned to replace
the revolver and stood for a moment in such a position that he could
not see me exchange the packets.

“You don’t believe that, do you?” exclaimed Burroughs, with a scoff.

“I don’t know quite what to believe yet,” I replied. “I’ll think it
over;” and I returned to my desk, and while keeping up the farce of
writing and asking occasional questions, I opened the packet and took
out the letter to Vasco.

It was very insecurely fastened, fortunately, so that I could open it
without showing any signs that it had been tampered with. As I read
it, I found it was from Dagara, and could scarcely restrain a laugh of
chagrin at the elaborate means I had taken to discover a mare’s nest.

It ran as follows:--

                                               “LISBON CHESS CLUB.
                                                   438, RUA DA GLORIA.

  “DEAR LIEUTENANT DE LINTO,--

  “I was sorry you could not be at the Club last night. We had a most
  interesting series of problems set by M. Polski, the Polish champion.
  There were ten of them and the fifth and sixth will interest
  you--both forced mates in seven moves. I hope that all our playing
  members will find or make an opportunity of studying them very
  thoroughly. I shall have them printed, of course, and am writing in
  this strain to all the members who were not present.

  “I am so anxious to see the general average of play improved before
  we meet the Sanatarem Club.

                                   “Yours sincerely,
                                                      “MANOEL DAGARA.”

Feeling very much like a man who has most ridiculously hoaxed himself,
I refolded the letter, put it back carefully into the envelope, and was
about to fasten it when a thought struck me.

Vasco a chess player! The most unlikely man in all Christendom to have
that profoundly staid disease. And why should this Henriques be chosen
to carry such a letter and have it on him in the dead of night when he
had come on such a grim mission as had brought him here?

Then a reason suggested itself. He must have had instructions to
deliver it in person to Vasco; and as the latter had been on the
_Stella_ from the previous night, the note could not be delivered. The
man in such a case, being afraid to leave it about, might well prefer
to have it on him.

This meant that it was of much more importance than its contents
suggested; and my thoughts flew to the cipher.

I was glad now that I had taken all the trouble and I took some more.
I made an exact copy of the letter, laying a sheet of very thin paper
over it and using the utmost pains to space every word and letter
exactly as it was written.

Then I fastened it up and made up another packet and returned to
Burroughs.

“I am still undecided what to do,” I said to him. “If this man’s tale
is true, I shan’t punish him. But he must stop here for the present, of
course. Have him locked in a room and let a couple of men be with him.”

Then I made another exchange of the packets and said to Henriques. “You
can’t have your weapons, but you can keep this.” And I gave it him.

Burroughs took him out of the room and was back again in a minute or
two, his face one staring note of interrogation.

“What the devil does it all mean?” he cried.

“He’s an honest fellow that, Jack. He’s been led into trouble by evil
companions and----”

“Oh, rats!” he broke in. “What were you writing there? You had me
guessing all the time?”

“I was only writing this;” and I showed him the copy of the letter.

He read it and scratched his head. “What is it? A prize puzzle?”

“It’s a copy of the letter I took from our friend’s pocket.”

“But you wrapped it up in the parcel.”

“You wouldn’t have me rob a gentleman of his belongings?”

“But the blessed thing was on the table all the time.”

“Do you mean this?” and I produced the dummy.

“It’s on me,” he said with a laugh. He was very American at times in
his idioms.

“I’m either a big stupid ass and have taken a lot of trouble for
nothing, or I’ve made a useful discovery. I shall soon know which,” I
said explaining how I had changed the packets.

Then I fetched the cipher key which I had hidden in another room and
returned to find him puffing at his pipe and puzzling over the copy of
the letter.

I told him then about the discovery of the cipher, and laid the key
over the lines getting more nonsense words from the first two or three.
Then I read the letter again and a thought struck me.

Dagara spoke of ten problems. There were ten lines in the letter.

“The fifth and sixth will interest you,” ran the phrase.

I laid the punctured slip over these in turn. The fifth gave me this
result. I will put the indicated letters in capitals.

“I hoPe that All our Playing mEmbeRS will find oR make.”

“P A P E R S R,” was shown up.

I laid the same row of holes over the next line, with no results that
were intelligible. The second row was no more fruitful, but the third
gave this result.

“an EArly opportunity of stuDying them thoroughlY.”

Put together the two lines of indicated letters read--

“PAPERS READY”--easy enough for Macaulay’s schoolboy to understand.
“Papers Ready.”

“I’m not a stupid ass after all,” I exclaimed, triumphantly. “Now we
want our considering caps. This means that some important information
which the writer of this letter has obtained is waiting to be
delivered, and what we have to do is to get hold of them.”

“It’s not in my line,” said Burroughs.

“I’m going to sleep over it. We’re not likely to have any more callers,
so I shall go to bed;” and to bed I went, leaving him on watch, as he
declared he should sit up till daylight.

In the morning I decided what to do. It was clear that the papers were
too important to be trusted by Dagara to any one but a duly selected
messenger. The care with which the message was sent to Vasco that they
were ready, suggested that he was not that messenger. Why then should
he be told about them? Probably he had to send the messenger for them.

I thought it over carefully, revolving all I knew, and by the process
of exclusion decided it was Miralda. It must be some one whom Vasco
could see at any time, the moment the message reached him. Even with
Inez, of whom I thought first, this was not practicable. It might be
some fellow-officer; but no one of them would be so invariably within
immediate touch as Miralda.

Moreover, it was just the thing for which she could be used to the best
advantage. Dagara was married I knew, and thus she would only have to
pay an informal visit to the wife for him to meet her and hand over any
papers. Then I recalled that Inez had been one of the first to see that
forged letter of mine which Dagara had given up, and the conclusion was
easy that when Miralda obtained anything, she handed it on to Inez for
the latter to give to Barosa.

The inference was strong enough for me to risk acting upon it. I could
not, of course, be certain that Miralda went to Dagara’s house for any
communications, while that I should go there was out of the question. I
decided therefore to try my hand at a cipher message in Miralda’s name
telling Dagara to bring the papers to a spot where I could meet him,
and then take him to the only safe place for such an interview as ours
would be--on the _Stella_.

I must contrive to get him there secretly. I remembered a very
little-used landing-stage on the east of the city round the point,
where I could have my launch ready, and I soon saw a way of getting
Dagara to that spot.

The message I sent in cipher was as follows:

  “Usual place unsafe. M. waiting now in the Praca da Figueira for
  papers.”

I wrapped this up in a long letter answering his about the chess
problems, addressed it to Dagara at Volheno’s and sent Bryant to leave
it at the office.

I had meanwhile bundled Burroughs off to bring the launch to the
landing-stage, and I timed the delivery of the letter to reach Dagara
just about his dinner interval.

If the scheme failed, I resolved as an alternative to find out where he
lived and risk a visit to his house to frighten the papers out of him.

I had a carriage in readiness as I intended to drive him in it to the
landing-stage; and I was not a little excited as I started for the
Praca da Figueira--a quiet little square close to my flat.

I left the carriage out of sight and as I turned the corner leisurely I
felt a little thrill of satisfaction to see that he was there before me.

I had worked out my chess problem successfully and saw my way to mate
in less than his seven moves.

He was walking slowly with his back toward me, and I quickened up my
pace so that I was close to him when he heard my footsteps, turned and
saw me.




CHAPTER XVIII

DAGARA’S STORY


I was a great deal more pleased to see Dagara than he was to see me,
judging by the way in which he took my hand and the little nervous
shrinking movement as I linked my arm in his and turned back with him
toward the carriage.

“I am afraid I am a little late, but I have made all the haste I
could,” I said with a smile of apology which perplexed him considerably.

“You have an appointment then? I myself am--am waiting for a friend.”

“My appointment is with you, of course. There is a change in the plans
and I have come to fetch you. I have a carriage here for the purpose. I
was delighted to come. I want to ask your opinion about something.”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, Mr. Donnington.”

“The fact is I want to talk chess with you--about M. Polski’s ten
problems, and particularly the fifth and sixth.”

His face turned to the colour of the paving stones he was staring at so
intently, and his voice was as husky as if half the dust of the city
had got into his throat when he muttered: “What do you mean?”

“Here’s my carriage. Jump in, and we’ll chat it over as we drive.” I
had already told the driver where to go.

Dagara had no jump left in him, poor fellow, and tried to refuse to get
in at all. But with my help he stumbled in and sat staring helplessly
at me, as I talked a lot of nonsense about chess--to give him time to
pull himself together.

“Where are you taking me, Mr. Donnington?” he asked when I had
chattered myself almost out of breath.

“He is driving us down to a landing-stage and I’m going to give you
some lunch on my yacht. I have had a desire for a chat with you for
several days.”

“I am much obliged to you, Mr. Donnington, but I cannot go now.”

“Oh, nonsense. I’ll make excuses to M. Volheno.”

“But I will not go. I won’t be forced in this way,” he cried, striving
hard to rally his courage.

“Of course I won’t force you. I’ll stop the carriage.” I leant forward
as if to call to the driver, and then turned with a meaning look. “By
the way, did you find that missing letter the other day?”

“I don’t know what you mean. I demand to get out.”

“I know why it was missing, M. Dagara. Would you rather lunch with me
or shall we return together to M. Volheno? Decide quickly, please. It
must be one or the other.”

He drew a sobbing breath of fright; and all thought of resistance was
abandoned.

I let him frighten himself thoroughly until we were nearing the
landing-stage. “Now I want you to understand things. I shall either be
one of the best friends you ever had or I shall ruin you lock, stock
and barrel. That rests with you. I know all you have been doing and
what your appointment was for to-day. Give me the papers you have and
tell me candidly all you know about these people’s plans, and I shall
be the friend. Refuse, and I shall be the reverse. And I can be a very
ugly enemy, M. Dagara. We shall not talk on the way to the yacht and
you will have ample time to think over your position and decide. But
I must have the papers at once, lest you should take a fancy to pitch
them into the harbour.”

He hesitated in positively pitiful fear.

“If you do not give them to me now without trouble, my men on the
launch will take them from you by force.”

That threat had a wholesome effect. After a moment he handed me an
envelope which I pocketed, and he gave no more trouble.

In consequence of some repairs to the roadway the carriage had to stop
some fifty yards short of the landing-stage, but he walked to the
launch without demur, and when I told him to conceal himself in the
little cabin he obeyed at once.

As soon as we reached the _Stella_ I led him into the saloon. “Now I’ll
have your decision, Dagara,” I said sharply.

“Will you really try to shield me?”

“Yes, I give you my word--but no half measures, mind. I know quite
enough to test the truth of all you say.”

“I’m the most miserable man in Portugal, Mr. Donnington, and this
double life is killing me;” and then out came his story.

It was very similar to Vasco’s case--except that Dagara’s wife had been
the means of his undoing. She had friends among the revolutionaries and
had been in league with them some time before he discovered it. She had
wormed things out of him, as wives can and do out of husbands who love
and trust them, and had handed on the information to her friends.

Barosa had learnt this and naturally jumped at the chance of getting a
man in such a position into his clutches. It was not difficult to lay a
trap for him, and he found himself suddenly faced with the alternative
of giving a little information of a comparatively harmless description,
or of seeing the wife he loved denounced to the Government as a
revolutionary.

Love for wife triumphed over fealty to employer, and the information
was given. It concerned only some arrangements for the disposition
of a body of troops and police on one occasion when the king was
returning to the capital from a shooting party. But it was given in
writing--Barosa took good care of that, of course--and from that hour
Dagara was a bond-slave and had never known a minute’s peace of mind.

By degrees, cunningly progressive, information of increasing secrecy
and importance had been extorted from him until even his wife was
scared out of her senses and the man himself driven to regard suicide
as offering the only prospect of relief from unbearable torture.

I was right in my guess that Miralda had been used lately as a
go-between. She knew the wife, and Vasco had been dastard enough to
induce his sister to fetch one or two communications from Dagara,
without telling her their nature. She had then been allowed to discover
their treasonable character, and had immediately refused to carry any
more. Then the screw was turned. She was already compromised and her
name as a suspect would be given up. She had resisted strenuously,
answering threat with threat, but the thing had been done cleverly, and
the only people she was at that time in a position to harm were the
Dagaras, her friends, and her own brother. The latter’s prosecution for
the theft he had confessed was the next menace, and this had driven her
to yield, and so, like Dagara, she had become hopelessly entangled in
the net.

This was almost all that Dagara could tell me. I put a guarded question
about the Visconte de Linto, but he declared with the exception of
Miralda, Henriques and a friend of his wife’s, he did not know the name
of another person in the conspiracy. Henriques was the caretaker of the
building in which the chess club met, and carried his letters to Vasco.

The reason for this caution on Barosa’s part was clear. He knew that
Dagara had a very weak backbone and that at any moment a fit of remorse
might seize him in which he would reveal all he knew to Volheno. He was
therefore allowed to know as little as possible.

“But you know what use is made of the information you have given from
time to time?” I asked him.

“So far as I can see, it has been of comparatively little use. I have
told them from time to time the objects and plans of the police and
have warned them when suspicion has fallen on certain individuals, or
when raids have been planned. The threatened persons have disappeared
and the raids have brought no result.”

“You warned them about me and gave them that letter?”

“Yes. But in regard to that a curious thing occurred. I received a
communication in the cipher warning me to look out for it.”

I understood this of course. In his eagerness that the attempt against
me should not misfire, Sampayo had sent the warning.

“But what are these men’s plans?”

“I don’t know. They are of course in league against the Government, but
what they mean to do I have no idea. That uncertainty is the heaviest
part of my burden. It weighs on me night and day.”

“Well, let us deal with these papers in particular,” I said. “What is
the information in them?”

“I was ordered to ascertain the movements of the police and troops
to-morrow evening when the King returns to the city from a shooting
expedition. Except that in this case I had to get fuller details
and quite exact particulars; the information is no more than I have
supplied before.”

“Do you suppose any demonstration is to take place against him or any
attempt made to harm him?”

“God forbid,” he cried instantly agitated.

“Is there anything in the arrangements differing from those which are
usually made?”

“Yes, there is. His Majesty is not supposed to be returning for another
week and is only remaining for the one night. He has expressly ordered
that the customary arrangements shall be omitted both on his arrival
and on his departure the following morning early. He wishes the matter
to be kept quite secret.”

I pricked up my ears at this. “Tell me the police arrangements.”

“They are all there,” he replied pointing to the papers.

“Tell me generally.”

“There will be very few police or military present. He crosses from
Barreiro in an ordinary launch--not the royal launch--and instead of
going to the Quay, he will land at the Eastern landing-stage--the one
from which you brought me to-day. He will be accompanied only by two
members of the shooting party, and three or four officers will be
present to receive him.”

“Of any particular regiment?”

“The First Battalion of the Royal Guards.”

This was the regiment in which Sampayo was a major and Vasco lieutenant.

“Wait a moment. Is not the loyalty of that regiment suspected?”

“Oh no,” he replied decidedly.

“But M. Volheno said something of the sort to me.”

“M. Volheno was only trying to draw some admissions from you, Mr.
Donnington. He dictated to me a _précis_ of his conversation with you
that morning; and I knew at once what his object had been.”

“Well, go on.”

“A private carriage will be in waiting for his Majesty, and he and his
two companions will drive in that to the Palace.”

“But a carriage cannot get any closer to the stage than ours
to-day--that is some forty or fifty yards from the landing-place.”

“His Majesty has used that stage more than once when returning
privately to the city.”

“Since you have been giving away this information?”

“Yes, once--about six weeks ago.”

“Will that part be policed?”

“It never is. His Majesty does not go in fear of any section of
his people. He ridicules the very suggestion of such a thing, Mr.
Donnington.”

“And M. Franco and M. Volheno?”

“Are of the same opinion so far as the capital is concerned. Of course,
it would be different in Oporto. The revolutionaries are strong there.
But in Lisbon there is no more than discontent which the police can
suppress.”

“I understand. Now, would it take you long to make a copy of these
papers?”

“An hour, perhaps.”

“Do so while you are having something to eat. I wish to think things
over.” I left him at the work and going on deck nearly tumbled over
Burroughs, who was staring intently at some object through the most
powerful glass we had on the yacht.

“Don’t show yourself, Ralph. Come here a moment,” and he pulled me
under the lee of the pinnace behind which he was screening his action.

“What is it?”

“You’ve infected me with some of your suspicions, and as you said last
night about yourself, I’m either a stupid ass or I’ve made a discovery
which may be important. I’ve been watching the people on that boat
there--the one with the grey hull and sharp lines. She’s called the
_Rampallo_. She came in yesterday, and the old man tells me the whole
of her crew were discharged soon after you sent for me.”

“Well, what’s that to us? We don’t want any hands.”

“But she hasn’t taken on another.”

“I suppose her skipper or owner can please himself.”

“But the skipper went with the crew as well. And when I came off this
morning to fetch the launch, I saw that tall young dandy on board
her--the fellow who was out with us.”

“The devil you did!” I exclaimed, with suddenly roused interest.

“There have been two or three boats out to her this morning, and what
can any one be wanting in a yacht with no crew on board?”

“Let me have a squint at her,” I said, taking the glass and training
it on her. She was a nice craft, about 250 tonnage; her sharp lines
suggested a good turn of speed; and everything about her was as smart
as one expects to see it in a private yacht.

“What drew my attention to her,” said Burroughs at my elbow, “was that
I saw some one carefully scanning us through a glass, and I thought I’d
return the compliment.”

“What was he like?”

The description he gave fitted no one whom I knew. “He’s been at it
more than once since. The old man has noticed it too.”

“Are you sure that you recognized that young fellow?” I asked as I
handed him the glass, not having seen any one on the yacht.

“I’d eat my sea-boots if it wasn’t.”

“Well, keep an eye skinned for her. It’s very singular.”

I took his advice not to show myself and sat down on the other side of
the deck and lit a cigar to think things over.

I recalled Vasco’s request for the loan of the _Stella_ and the
hesitating way in which he had explained that he had abandoned the
idea of taking his companions for a day’s cruise.

Why was he on that other yacht? For a time my mind was so thronged with
the crowd of suggestions arising out of Dagara’s statement, the events
of the last few days, and now this enigma of a crewless yacht, that I
had the greatest difficulty in picking a course. In my present mood I
was ready to see matter for suspicion in anything, however trivial.

Presently Burroughs called to me. “He’s there now, Ralph.”

It was Vasco, sure enough. The glass showed his features plainly; and
while I was watching, two other men came up on the deck and all three
went ashore in a launch.

I returned to my seat completely bewildered. I had gained vitally
important information, but had no idea what use to make of it. Rack my
wits as I would, I couldn’t see the connecting link with Barosa’s plans.

Then all suddenly a wild thought occurred to me: far-fetched,
extravagant, and grossly improbable; but not impossible.

It was that an attempt was to be made on the king’s life, and that this
crewless yacht was to afford the means of escape for the assassins.

Possible or impossible I could put it to the test. It was good enough
to form a working hypothesis, and I plunged into the consideration of
the steps to take.

In the first place Dagara must go back to the city with the papers and
these must find their way to Barosa.

I saw how to do that. I called Burroughs to me.

“Jack, I am going to take Dagara back to the city in the launch, and I
want you to go at once to my rooms and liberate the fellow we caught
last night. It must be done cleverly. Tell Simmons to leave Foster in
the room alone with him and then to fire a shot and yell to Foster for
help. Foster is to rush out, leaving the door open and the way clear
for the scoundrel to get off. He must be at liberty inside an hour from
now and must have no suspicion that the thing is a plant. Get going,
man. I’ll tell you all afterwards,” I said as he hesitated and wanted
to ask questions.

Then I went down to Dagara to test him.

I should have to trust him, for his part was of the very pith and
marrow of my new plans.




CHAPTER XIX

SPY WORK


Dagara having finished both his task and his lunch was waiting in some
concern to know what was to come next, and he appeared relieved when I
said he was to return in the launch.

“I wish you to go back,” I told him, “and act precisely as if our
meeting had never taken place. With this exception--should any change
be made in these arrangements for the King’s arrival to-morrow evening,
let me know them and do not divulge them to any one.”

“And about Mademoiselle Dominguez?” he asked.

“Well, what about her?” I repeated, not understanding.

“She got you to meet me to-day after sending me word where to go.”

“Oh no, that was a fairy tale of mine. I wrote that cipher letter.
Yours has not yet reached her brother. But it will do so very soon now,
and she will no doubt go to your house as usual.”

“But how did you get the cipher?” he asked in blank astonishment.

“Never mind about that. The question is, will you do exactly as I ask?
I will call at M. Volheno’s office to-morrow afternoon and you must
manage to see me and----”

“He has an appointment from four to five with M. Franco at the latter’s
bureau. If you come then I could see you privately without exciting
any suspicion.”

I agreed to do this and then, having got from him his address and the
time when he would reach his house and give the papers to Miralda, I
made certain that no one on the _Rampallo_ was taking stock of our
movements, and smuggled him into the launch.

As soon as he had left to return to his office I sent the men with the
launch to wait at the usual landing-stage on the quay.

When I reached my rooms, the little farce had been played and Henriques
had gone. I calculated that his first step would be to deliver the
letter to Vasco, who would immediately send Miralda for the papers, and
my intention was to meet her as she left Dagara’s house.

It was essential that I should know to whom she was to hand them and
that person must be shadowed from the moment they were in his or her
possession.

In the meanwhile I had to ascertain whether Sampayo had left the city,
and to do this I sent my servant, Bryant, a sharp fellow, with a letter
for Sampayo. I told him to say it was to be given into Sampayo’s own
hands, and if asked, he was to say it was from Dr. Barosa.

I wrote one line: “Give you one more hour.”

He returned with the news that Sampayo had gone. The furniture was
being removed and all the evidences of a speedy departure were
everywhere. I concluded, therefore, that Sampayo had learnt of the
failure of his little scheme the previous night and had fled.

In the meanwhile Burroughs and I had discussed the spy work that had to
be done. My opinion was that the papers would be given to Inez, and if
so, the difficulties would be considerable.

“Simmons is sharp enough to do it,” said Burroughs; “but I should
suggest that you put both him and your man, Bryant, on it, and let
Simmons rig himself up as a Portuguese long-shoreman.”

I adopted the suggestion and we sent the man out to buy the necessary
disguise.

“I must be on hand to point out the quarry,” I said; “but the devil
of it is, if she takes them to her house we shall have the trail cut
and shall need to shadow every one who comes out. And that’s precisely
where she is most likely to take them.”

“Say, I’ve a great idea,” exclaimed Burroughs, clashing his big fist on
the table excitedly. “What price my offering to ship aboard that yacht,
the _Rampallo_?”

“What’s that got to do with this sleuthing business?”

“Nothing, but you want to know what game’s going on on board her.”

“My dear fellow, let’s stick to one thing at a time.”

“It would be great though, wouldn’t it? I’d make ’em sit up.”

“Do you imagine for an instant that you are not known to belong to the
_Stella_?”

“I didn’t think of that,” he said crestfallen, shaking his head.

“Well, don’t think any more of it, and let’s worry this other thing
out.”

“I can’t get that infernal boat out of my head.”

We did worry with it until it was time to set out; but the only thing I
could see to do, if Inez took the papers home, was to call at her house
myself.

Being entirely new to this spy business, I was abominably nervous and
possessed with the conviction that every one we met knew quite well
the reason why we were strolling along the street with an entirely
exaggerated air of indifference.

Burroughs and I went ahead, Simmons, got up as a rather theatrical
Portuguese fisherman, was behind us, and Bryant, who apparently was
the coolest of the four, followed on the opposite side of the street.

We had barely reached the neighbourhood of Dagara’s house when Miralda
drove up in a hired carriage. She stopped the driver a hundred yards
short of the street and got out, leaving the driver to wait.

My first step was to get rid of the carriage, by telling the man he
would not be wanted and paying his fare with the addition of a liberal
tip.

In a few minutes Miralda returned and was profoundly surprised to find
me instead of the carriage, and her hand trembled as she put it in mine.

“I have sent your carriage away. I knew you were coming to M. Dagara’s
house and the reason, and I was compelled to speak to you alone.”

“You have frightened me. What is the matter?”

“I am only going to ask you to trust me. You will?”

“Need you ask that?” and her eyes flashed in reproach. “But I may be
seen with you,” she added, glancing round.

“I am not going to keep you long enough to explain everything--only to
ask you two questions. I will tell you everything another time. To whom
are you going to give the papers you have just received from M. Dagara?”

“Mr. Donnington!” she cried with a start and a stare of astonishment.

“No, not to me,” I replied with a smile. “Let us walk on a little. You
will not think I mean anything that is not entirely to help you in
asking this.”

“No. I know that. But I--I can’t tell you. Besides, I have been ordered
not--not to speak to you.”

“I guessed something of the sort and that’s partly the reason why I
arranged this meeting instead of coming to your house. You generally
give such things to the Contesse Inglesia. Shall you give her these?”

Again she was startled. “But how can all this be known to you? Do you
mean others know it?”

“Certainly not. But please tell me.”

“How you have learnt all this, I can’t imagine; but you are right. I
do generally give them to Inez. But there has been some unaccountable
delay and I am to give them to Vasco.”

“That’s good news, for a start.”

“Why good news?” she asked quickly.

“You must let me be a little mysterious for the present. And now, the
second question--can you tell me where he is to take them?”

“I know no more than you--not so much indeed it seems;” and she smiled
faintly.

“That’s better--that you can smile, I mean. When will you give them to
him? Is he waiting at your home for them?”

“No. He hurried in to tell me to fetch them at once and that he would
come back for them. He was very excited about something and very
strange.”

“When is he to return for them?”

“I don’t know.”

“But I must know. It is absolutely vital. Can you so arrange that he
does not get them until, say, eight o’clock this evening?”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask me. Can you do it?”

“It may be dangerous, but I--I will try.”

“It must be certain,” I said firmly. “I must know definitely.”

“Then of course I promise you.”

“Good. I shall depend on you. Let me say how I thank you for this
trust.”

“As if I should not,” she said again, with a look of reproach.
“But--but can’t you tell me something? I am all at sea.”

“I wish we both were,” I cried impulsively. “That would put an end to
all this ugly business.”

Her face clouded. “I can see no end to it but trouble and disaster,”
she replied with a gesture of despair that went to my heart.

“I believe I can see the end, if all goes well just now. But if I
fail----” I paused and looked at her earnestly.

“If you fail?” she repeated questioningly.

“There is still the sea,” I said, with as much under-current of meaning
as I could put into tone, looks, manner.

She sighed. “Yes, there is still the sea; but----” and she shook her
head despondently.

“Would you dare?” I asked in little more than a whisper.

“I am fettered like a slave--oh, once more to be free!” she sighed.

“Will you dare it now?”

But at that she flinched. “I am talking like a madwoman. It is
impossible, impossible.”

“I don’t understand that word when I am in such earnest as now. Sampayo
has left Lisbon. I have driven him away. I will sweep every other
obstacle out of our path. Miralda?”

She trembled as I uttered her name and took her hand in mine; the
colour flushed her cheeks and she stood hesitating with downcast eyes.

“Miralda?” I said again appealingly, hoping she would yield.

“Ah, how you tempt me!” she whispered.

“In less than an hour we can be out of the river, homeward bound. For
God’s sake come--now,” I said passionately.

But I failed. She started as if from a dream and shivered. “You made me
forget, but----”

“Remember only your happiness and the freedom from all these troubles.
Trust me.”

She shook her head, sighed deeply, and withdrew her hand. “It is not
that I distrust. But there is my mother. If I were to play these men
false they would visit it upon her.”

“But she can come with us. Let me see her.”

“It is impossible. Impossible. Would to Heaven it were not?”

“Then I’ll try the other way,” I said. “But if I fail----”

After a pause she lifted her eyes to mine, let them rest there a second
and then smiled, but shook her head despondently again.

“It must be as you will,” I said. “And now there is one thing more. It
may be necessary for me to communicate with you. If I send one of my
people to your house, will you see him?”

“Yes. I will help you all I can and pray for your success.”

I held out my hand. “Till we meet again.”

She put hers into it with a delighting pressure.

“And if I fail,” I said again, “there is still the sea.”

“There is still the sea,” she whispered; “for you, but not for me.”

I watched her go and presently saw her enter a carriage.

Then Burroughs came up and I tried to think of other things; not
very successfully at first. We returned to my rooms, and on the way
Miralda’s eloquent smile, the thrilling pressure of her hand, the flush
of tell-tale colour, and the proof of her trust, entangled my wits and
made it difficult for me for a time to give coherent answers to the
questions of my insistently curious companion.

My object in securing Miralda’s promise to delay the delivery of the
papers to Vasco was to enable me to make preparations to follow him
myself, and I set about them the instant we reached my rooms.

I had decided to use the Portuguese clothes which Simmons had obtained;
and a few alterations in them together with a false moustache, the
darkening of my eyebrows and the judicious application of a little
picturesque dirt to my face and hands and clothes, so changed my
appearance that even Miralda would have had difficulty in recognizing
me.

I arranged that Burroughs should follow me, to be at hand in case of
need; that Simmons should go to the launch and Foster remain for the
night with Bryant at the flat.

It was dark when I reached the visconte’s house to wait for Vasco, and
I had no fear that he would penetrate my disguise.

There was one trouble I had to guard against--the danger of the
streets. The fact that a man of my apparent position was lurking
about in such a neighbourhood might easily attract the attention of
the police, but I was saved from that embarrassment by Miralda’s
punctuality.

I had scarcely found a hiding-place when a carriage drove up and she
and Inez alighted from it and entered the house. She had gone to Inez
in order not to meet Vasco until the hour we had agreed.

Three minutes afterwards he came out and hurried away at a rapid pace,
and the spy work commenced in earnest. While we were in the quieter
streets, I followed at just sufficient distance to keep him in sight;
but when he turned into the Rua Sao Benito I hastened to close up, for
fear of losing him in that somewhat busy street.

As I hurried round the corner I nearly plumped into him. He stood
looking about him, and I stopped and rolled a cigarette to fill the
pause.

It turned out that he was waiting for a tram-car, and when he boarded
it I had no option but to risk discovery and follow him. He sat close
to the door and I passed him, with my face averted, choosing a seat on
the same side, but at the other end.

He was in a condition of extreme nervous excitement and had been
drinking freely, probably to drown his fears. He sat with his hands
plunged in his pockets and took no notice of any one; and even when the
other passengers got out at the Square of St. Paul, leaving him at one
end of the long seat and me at the other with no one between us, he
took no notice of me.

I had now lost Burroughs, of course. He had hung behind until he had
missed the car; but this was perhaps all the better. If he had been in
the car, Vasco might have recognized him.

When we reached the Praca do Commercio, Vasco got up and jumped off
and hurried along the Rua da Alfandega. There was little fear of my
attracting notice here as there were still plenty of people about, and
I had no difficulty in following him.

I guessed now that he was making for the landing-stage near the
Artillery Museum, and just as he reached that building he was accosted
by two men in the dress of sailors. He drew back nervously at first,
with a sharp stare; then began to talk to them; and they walked on
together.

They were as much like sailors as I was like the cross of St. Paul’s,
and walked with the stiff upright carriage of well-drilled soldiers.

It was clear that I was not the only person in Lisbon that night with a
fancy for disguise, and this discovery confirmed my opinion that Vasco
was making for the landing-stage.

Were Burroughs’ suspicions of that yacht, the _Rampallo_, about to be
confirmed?

It looked uncommonly like it.




CHAPTER XX

A NIGHT ADVENTURE ON THE RIVER


The fact that Vasco’s companions--presumably his fellow-officers--were
playing at being sailors, increased the need for extreme caution. I
dropped back and followed at a distance, contented to keep the three
men just in sight.

They made straight for the landing-stage, got aboard a small launch in
which another man was waiting, and cast off at once and headed out into
the estuary. They were going to the _Rampallo_, of course; and equally
of course I must manage to get on board after them.

I could not follow immediately, however, as the noise of my launch
would be heard and a dozen suspicions started. I guessed that a
conference was to be held on the yacht about the information which
Vasco had brought; but why such a place was chosen for it baffled me.
The reason could not be merely the desire for absolute privacy which
had induced me to take Dagara to the _Stella_. These men must have a
dozen places in the city where they could meet without a remote chance
of being overheard.

Still I had to deal with facts, and the controlling fact now was
that the papers were on Vasco and he was going to the yacht. I must
therefore follow him or throw up the sponge.

While I was waiting Burroughs arrived. “I lost you in the Rua Sao
Benito, Ralph,” he explained, “so I thought it best to come on to the
launch. Why are you here?”

I told him briefly what had occurred, and what I meant to do, and in a
few minutes we were on our way to the _Stella_.

“You’re taking risks,” he said, as we sat talking it over.

“I can’t help that, but in fact I’m not so sure there are any. My idea
is this. As soon as we reach the yacht, get the _Firefly_ launched.”
This was a small electric launch I had on the yacht. “You and I will
drop down in her to the _Rampallo_. She runs with scarcely a sound, and
we’ll see whether any look-out is kept on her. I shall be surprised
if there is; and if not, I shall climb aboard without any trouble. If
there is one, you must manage to keep him watching you at the stern
while I swim to the bow and get aboard by the anchor cable. Once on
board, I’ll shift for myself. If necessary I’ll silence him.”

“It sounds all right to you, perhaps,” he grumbled.

“It’s got to be all right, Jack. The worst that can happen is that I
shall be discovered and have to make a bolt of it. I suppose I can dive
well enough to jump from a yacht’s bulwarks. But even if the beggars
get hold of me, I suppose you can make enough row to scare them. Have
the launch within hail, if you like, with the skipper and four or five
of the men. There’s no personal risk at all--the only risk is that I
may fail to find out things.”

“But if they caught you they might shoot first and jaw afterwards,” he
objected.

“A dozen ‘ifs’ suggest a dozen ‘mights,’ of course. But I’m not likely
to give them much of a chance.”

“They’d be justified if they took you for a thief.”

“They won’t be thinking about thieves. They’re much more likely to be
fearing the police and be scared out of their skins. Anyway, it’s the
best plan I can think of, and it’s got to be done.”

When we reached the _Stella_ I threw off the clothes I had been wearing
and dressed for the venture. I had of course to render myself as
little conspicuous as possible for the spy work on the _Rampallo_, and
had also to be careful not to wear anything which would hamper me too
much if I had to take to the water.

So I chose a set of very dark grey combinations which fastened close
up to the neck, and a pair of dark rubber-soled shoes. A dark cloak
to wear in the _Firefly_ completed a costume in which I looked like a
cross between a Harlequin and a Guy Fawkes conspirator.

By the time these preparations were complete Burroughs had launched the
_Firefly_ and we were soon off. The moon was not due for an hour and
the night was dark enough to conceal us.

The _Firefly_ glided almost noiselessly through the waters at the slow
pace we deemed best, and we switched off the motor every now and again
and let the boat drift. The darkness made it a little difficult to pick
up the _Rampallo_, which had no light, but Burroughs glanced now and
then at the compass by the flash of an electric torch, and thus kept
his course.

“What weapon have you?” he whispered once.

“Why, none, of course. I’m not going throat-slitting. I am only going
to use my ears.”

“There she is,” he said suddenly, and pointed ahead. His eyes were
keener than mine, but I made her out soon afterwards.

We drifted down close to her, keeping our eyes fixed on her for any
sign that a look-out was kept.

“I don’t think there is any one on the deck,” he whispered.

She was lying between us and the twinkling lamps of the city, and as
we drifted nearer, her outline showed up against the lights and the
reflexion of them in the sky.

All was as still as a vault; and not a single porthole gave out so much
as the glimmer of a match.

A sickening feeling of disappointment began to creep over me at the
fear that there was no one on board.

“Sheer down alongside, Jack,” I whispered.

No one challenged us as we dropped under the lee of the hull. I fended
the _Firefly_ off with my hands and then worked her round under the
stern.

Here was confirmation of my fear in the disconcerting discovery that
the launch, which I had confidently expected to find either astern or
alongside, was not there.

“There’s no one on her, Ralph,” said Burroughs.

“I shall get aboard and see. Drop astern and then circle round at a
distance to the bow.”

We drifted far enough for our little propeller to be out of earshot and
then made a sweep round to the bow.

“What do you think it means?” he whispered.

“I’m afraid I’ve backed the wrong horse. But I can’t think of anywhere
else for that launch to go. When I get aboard stand off up the bay so
that you can keep a look-out for me. The reflection of the city light
in the sky will be enough for you to see any signal I make to you.”

“You can do better than that. Take the electric torch. You can show a
light then even if you have to swim for it.”

“That’s a happy thought,” I exclaimed, and tucked it inside my vest.

“If there’s any trouble I shall be able to make racket enough for you
to hear me, and you can come aboard after me.”

We stopped the propeller then and drifted down till I could reach the
yacht’s cable. I swarmed up this and, using the greatest caution, got a
grip and hauled myself up until I could see along the deck.

It was quite deserted, so I climbed on to the forecastle and crept
along as stealthily as a cat stalking a bird and almost as noiselessly.

I had reached almost amidships when I discovered that some one was on
board after all. The glow from a lamp showed through the partly open
companion of the saloon. Doubling my caution I lay at full length on
the deck and approached the opening.

Whoever he was he was able to afford very good cigars, for the scent of
one reached me. I lay listening intently. I heard the crackle of papers
as they were turned over; the rustle of some one moving in his chair, a
sound of stertorous breathing; the clink of a bottle against a glass,
and again the crackle of papers as the man, whoever he was, resumed his
writing or reading.

For many minutes there was no other sound. Then the man struck a match
as he lit a fresh cigar, and pushed aside the papers with a breath of
relief. Then silence for a while, broken at length by a gasp and a
snore.

“Wake up, you drunken young pig!”

At this I nearly uttered a cry of astonishment. It was Sampayo’s voice;
and in a second I understood what had so baffled me--why the papers had
been brought to the _Rampallo_.

Sampayo was hiding on it from me. That removal of his goods and all
the evidences of flight which Bryant had seen were just play-acting to
mislead me into the belief that he had bolted, and being afraid to be
seen on shore he had arranged for his associates to come to the boat.

That they were coming was soon plain. Sampayo roused the man he had
spoken to; and the answer was in Vasco’s voice, thick with drink.

“Go on deck, you young fool, and see if there are any signs of the
launch. They ought to be here by now.”

“Leave me alone,” grunted Vasco thickly.

“I must go myself then,” was the reply with an oath.

I slipped away forward and hid myself under the lee of the forecastle
hatchway. Sampayo came out on deck and stood smoking and listening and
peering through the darkness for the expected launch.

Presently, I heard the quick throb of her propeller, and in a few
minutes she reached the yacht and three or four men, I could not
distinguish the exact number, came on board, and all went down below at
once.

Anxious not to miss a word of what passed I hastened along the deck to
my former position, and had just passed the hatchway leading below to
the saloon when some one came running up the companion way.

In a second I rolled into the scuppers lying as still as death.

“I fastened her all right,” protested some one.

“For Heaven’s sake, make sure. You’re not much of a hand at sailors’
knots,” was the laughing reply.

Two men came out and hurried across the deck. One of them got down into
the launch; and the other stood watching.

“It’s all right. As fast as a steeple.”

“It would be a pretty mess if she got adrift.”

The men came on deck again and they both returned toward the companion
way.

“I suppose everything’s all right on the deck,” said one.

“What should be wrong?”

“Nothing. Only I’ve got an infernally uneasy feeling.”

“Not going to back out at the last minute, are you? We shall be in a
pretty bad way to-morrow night if we have to go without the only man
who knows anything about managing the boat.”

“Who said anything about backing out? We’re all in it now, sink or
swim. But--oh, hang presentiments,” he broke off irritably.

“Well, I’ll get a lantern if you like and look round the deck. But it’s
all rot.”

“I’ve half a mind you shall.”

As he said this he came a couple of paces toward me, and I began to
think any number of unpleasant things.

“I won’t be a minute,” said the other and ran down below.

Move I dare not. The man was too close to me, and the instant the other
returned with a light, my discovery was certain. All I could do was to
plan how to escape. I decided to lie still until actually discovered,
and then trust to their astonishment, giving me time to jump over the
side and swim for it.

The few seconds that followed were among the longest of my life. But
just as I heard the second man coming with the lantern, some one below
called to the man close to me by name.

“Gompez!”

He went a couple of steps down the companion way and replied that he
was going to see that all was snug on deck, and before the words were
out of his mouth I was half-way to the stern.

Then followed the grimmest game of hide and seek I have ever had to
play. But the odds were on my side. The two men went carefully round
the deck; but, fool-like, kept together. The light of the lantern
showed me exactly where they were all the time, and by skulking from
cover to cover I had little difficulty in keeping out of their way.

My movements were absolutely noiseless, and the dark grey costume I had
fortunately put on made it almost impossible for them to see me.

I had one other narrow escape. I had worked my way back again to the
companion while they were in the bows, when another man came out and
called to them sharply to be quick. I was crouched so close to him that
he could have touched me if he had stretched out a hand in my direction.

But instead of that he went a few steps toward the others and I turned
and slipped away in the opposite direction.

Two or three minutes later the three went below, the newcomer
expressing a strong opinion about the folly of having shown a light.

Giving them time to join the rest of the party below, I crawled back to
the companion and settled myself to listen once more.

Barosa’s was the first voice I heard distinctly. “We needn’t waste any
more time in discussing it. Captain Gompez was quite right to satisfy
himself and as we are indebted to him for having the boat at all, it
is surely ungracious to charge him with wasting a few minutes for this
purpose. And now, please, will you let me explain exactly what are the
arrangements for to-morrow? Major Sampayo has carefully examined these
papers, and every detail is as I told you it would be.”

There was a murmur of interest, followed by a pause, and then Barosa
spoke again.

“I have news of the greatest importance for you, gentlemen, and that
you may appreciate it fully, I shall be obliged if you will carefully
study this plan of the scene.”

A considerable rustling of papers followed as the plans were handed
round, the whispering of many questions, and then another pause of
silent, almost breathless expectancy.




CHAPTER XXI

PLOT AND COUNTERPLOT


The pause was a long one before Barosa spoke again.

“Of course we have all studied the actual ground of which these are
the plans, but it was best that we should have them before us in
settling the final details. I was able to tell you three days ago the
arrangements for Dom Carlos’s private visit to the city to-morrow
evening, and this later information, coming straight from M. Volheno’s
office, confirms them. Dom Carlos will arrive at the little Eastern
landing-stage at a few minutes before eight, and will have with him
two companions--only two. And the news I have for you is that those
two companions are fast and firm adherents of the rightful king of
Portugal, His Majesty Dom Miguel.”

A murmur of surprise greeted this statement, and Barosa paused in
evident enjoyment of the effect his words had produced.

“They are Conte Carvalho Listoa and Colonel Antonio Castillo. You will
agree that I do not exaggerate when I say that that fact makes failure
impossible. He will be received by six officers of the 7th Battalion
of the Royal Guards----” and he gave a string of names which I do not
remember.

“These, as we know well, are also our staunch friends, pledged like
ourselves to give their lives for their rightful king. Dom Carlos will
thus be without a single supporter, and absolutely in our power. He
has, as you know, made use of the same landing-stage on the occasion
of former private visits to the city, and the arrangement has always
been that a carriage drew up close to the stage. That will not be
practicable to-morrow, although he does not know it. You will see two
thin red lines on the plans. Those indicate the lines of excavations,
which have been made for some supposed building and drainage
operations. I have been able to get that work started without creating
any suspicion as to the real object--which is to render it impossible
for a carriage to approach within fifty yards of the landing-stage.”

“Good,” exclaimed some one and the others murmured assent.

Barosa then explained the scheme in elaborate detail.

It was this. The king was to be met at the landing-stage and the
officers were to explain why the carriage was not in the usual place;
and that it was in waiting for him at a spot most easily reached
through the smaller of two sheds used for wharfage purposes. A door at
the back of this shed opened on to a narrow way between two buildings.
The officers were not to leave the shed, as it was deemed desirable
that they should not take any personal part in what followed. The two
friends of the king were to walk a few yards with him and then excuse
themselves on the plea that they had left something on the launch, but
if this proved impracticable, they were to drop behind.

From the door of the shed to the end of the passage was a distance of
some forty yards and a carriage was to be in full view; but this was to
be one provided by Barosa and intended for the escape of those in the
plot who would not be needed after the attempt had been carried out.
The king’s carriage, sent from the Palace, was to wait at a spot fifty
yards in the other direction.

Except the two servants with Barosa’s carriage, not a man was to show
himself in the path between the shed door and the carriage, lest the
king’s suspicions should be roused. The coachman was to signal with
his whip when the king appeared, and then to make it appear that the
horses were restive and to back them past the corner of the building on
the left hand of the narrow passage.

Round this corner the conspirators were to wait and when the king
reached it, a cloak was to be thrown over his head and he was to be
gagged and hurried through an adjoining shed to some water steps where
the launch would be waiting to rush him to the _Rampallo_, where a
cabin had been specially prepared for him. The yacht was to make
at full steam for Oporto, where he was to be delivered over to the
revolutionary party there and forced, under threat of assassination, to
abdicate in favour of Dom Miguel.

After Barosa had finished his explanation, a long discussion followed
on many of the details. The scheme was hailed with approval, but the
tone of the speakers convinced me that, while ready to take part in an
abduction plot, they were against assassination, and Barosa had to give
very specific assurances that nothing of the sort would be attempted.

Presently the talk turned upon the arrangements made to protect
themselves and their friends when the trouble came after the abduction;
and as it was not very material for me to learn that, I crept away
to the bow, lowered myself noiselessly into the water, flashed my
torchlamp as a signal to Burroughs, and struck out to meet him.

“You’ve given me the fright of my life, Ralph,” he said when I had
clambered into the _Firefly_. “I heard their launch come out, and saw a
light moving about the deck and didn’t know what the deuce to do.”

“It’s all right, Jack. Get back to the _Stella_. I’m cold to the bones,
but I’ve heard enough to keep my blood from stagnating.”

“Here’s my flask. Take a pull.”

I gulped down a couple of mouthfuls of whisky, and as soon as I was on
board and had had a hot bath, a vigorous towelling, and some grog, I
was ready to talk things over with him.

I told him everything I had overheard. “And now the question is what
I’m to do.”

“It’s as simple as falling off a tree. Slip off to the quay and bring
off a party of police and take ’em on the yacht.”

“Yes, and get the only woman in the world I care for arrested for
conspiracy in a plot to abduct the king.”

“You could make her safety a condition.”

“With whom? Who’s to assure me of that? It’s nearly midnight. Where do
you suppose these men would be by the time I had roused first Volheno
and then old Franco the Dictator, and argued the matter out. And if
they refused, where should I find myself? I can tell you. In gaol until
I opened my lips. I’m already half-suspect as it is. That saw won’t cut
any ice, Jack.”

“But you won’t let the thing go through, surely?”

“What’s the King of Portugal to me, and what do I care whether his
name’s Carlos or Miguel?”

“Well then, tell mademoiselle what’s going on and get her to make a
bolt of it on the _Stella_ to-morrow, and leave word behind you and
queer the plan that way.”

“There are several reasons against that, but one’s enough. She wouldn’t
leave her mother to bear the brunt of things, her brother’s up to the
eyes in it, and if she did bolt, she’d be under the charge all her life
long and her flight would be accepted as proof of guilt.”

“Well, I give it up then,” he exclaimed with a shrug.

“But I don’t. I can’t. I’ve got to queer the thing somehow and make
certain of mademoiselle’s safety. And I’ve got to do it off my own bat.
Wait a bit, wait a bit,” I exclaimed after some minutes’ thought.
“I’ve got an idea coming. By the lord-knows-who, I believe it would be
possible. Let’s go over that business again. He lands from the launch,
goes into the shed--there are two sheds, I remember--he goes out with
his two friends, the coachman sees him and under pretence of the horses
turning restive, backs the carriage past the corner, the two friends
turn back. I wonder if both sheds have doors at the back. I expect so.”

“Is that Greek you’re muttering?” broke in Burroughs.

“Stand up, Jack, let’s have a look at you.”

He got up and I laughed as I looked him over. “Wait a bit, take your
coat off,” and I plunged into my cabin and fished out a thick tweed
shooting coat and a soft felt hat. “Here, put these on, quick.”

He did so, muttering: “Is this a pantomime rehearsal?”

“By the lord Harry, it’ll do,” I cried excitedly, smacking my hands
together.

“What’ll do?”

“Wait, man, wait. It’s all coming up like a clear photo. How much
taller am I of us two? By George, two inches. That’s a heap; but
padding might take off some of it.”

“Perhaps you’d like to know how much thinner you are than I am next?”
he said with a grin.

“That’s just what I would,” I replied to his still greater surprise.
“Six inches, eh. That’s a lot.”

“And muscle too, not fat, mind that.”

“But I can get over that, easily enough.”

“When you’ve a minute to spare perhaps you’ll tell me why you take this
sudden interest in my anatomy?” he asked drily, as he threw off my
shooting coat and put on his jacket.

“I’m going to crown you and be your Majesty’s understudy at the same
time, King Jack Burroughs. You won’t have a long reign, my boy--only a
couple of minutes at most--that is if that second shed has the door I
believe it has.”

“You’ll soon be understudying in a strait jacket at this rate, Ralph.”

“It is a little mad, perhaps, but I’m going to do it. I intend you
to take the place of the king to-morrow evening long enough for this
coachman to mistake you for him. I shall then take your place, the
instant no one is looking, and I’m going to let these men abduct me.
It will be much easier for them than if they got hold of the genuine
article.”

“Wouldn’t it be much simpler and shorter to put a bullet in your head
yourself?” he asked grimly. “You’ll find one get there all right when
they know.”

“Not a bit of it. You forget the ‘divinity that doth hedge a king.’
These men are not assassins. They made that plain; nor are they
accustomed to handle kings every day. They’ll be so excited over the
business that they’ll be as nervous about ill-treating him as an old
maid about her lap dog. They’re officers, mind, and what we term
gentlemen; and they’ll be so scared to death lest the thing is going to
fail, that they won’t want me to have so much as a peep at their faces
until I’m safe on the _Rampallo_ and locked up in the cabin which, as I
heard, is already in readiness for my reception. If you turn the thing
over, you’ll see that if I had laid the plan myself, it could not have
suited me better;” and I ran over it again in detail.

“When we first leave the shed you’ll be king, and Bryant--I shall use
Bryant because he’s a cool hand--and I will be in attendance on your
Majesty. You’ll be recognized at once as the king--half Lisbon would
mistake you for him at close grips even, and these fellows will be
expecting you--we shall walk about ten yards and then stop while we are
supposed to be asking you to excuse us; and we shan’t move on until
the carriage has backed out of sight. I shall then take your place--I
shall pad myself out, you know, and make up--and shall walk on alone
straight into the trap.”

“But why you? I could put up a bigger fight than you.”

“There’s no fight to be put up at all, Jack.”

“You mean to let them carry you off to Oporto? You may find yourself in
a tighter corner there than you reckon.”

“But I’m not going to Oporto. It’s 180 miles or thereabouts and, with
an amateur crew, the _Rampallo_ under the best circumstances wouldn’t
make more than twelve to fifteen knots; the _Stella_ would steam round
her, and from the moment these beggars shove their yacht’s nose out of
the harbour, you’ll keep almost within hailing distance. That’s where I
want you. They’ll shut me into the cabin and as soon as it’s daylight
I’ll hang a handkerchief or a pillow-case or something out of the
porthole, and you’ll make trouble for my hosts.”

“Of course they’ll stop directly and say ‘thank you, sir,’ and go down
on their knees and ask me to come on board and kick ’em,” he gibed with
a heave of his big shoulders.

“It doesn’t matter what they say, it’s what you’ll do, Jack. Haven’t
we got a couple of guns? And couldn’t you give the thing a pretty loud
advertisement? And do you think they’ll relish to have you firing a
royal salute within a league or so of the shore? And can’t we get some
cartridges that aren’t blank in the city to-morrow? And would they
enjoy their breakfast nicely if you sent a shot into the _Rampallo’s_
hull? Or couldn’t the old man run the _Stella_ alongside in the old
grappling-iron style?”

“Piracy now, eh?”

“Yes, piracy, if it comes to it. But it won’t. What I’m after is this.
Sign on an extra crew to-morrow and get ’em on the _Stella_ quietly.
When you see my signal, sheer close up, fire a blank cartridge and
order them to stop. Get our men aboard somehow or anyhow; and then
we’ll send the _Rampallo_ off to sea with the whole of them in her as
prisoners and keep them away a week. By that time I shall have had time
to straighten things out in the city. And now I’ll tell you exactly
what we’ve got to do to-morrow;” and I went very carefully over the
whole ground, filling in the gaps and elaborating the details and
mapping out the whole of the day’s work before us.

As soon as the dawn broke, Burroughs and I steamed over to the Eastern
landing-stage and made a careful survey of the scene of operations.
There were half a dozen places where we could lie hidden in the larger
shed, and as I had hoped, it had an opening at the back, and the doors
were so close together that it would be difficult for any one at the
spot where the carriage was to remain to be certain which one a person
leaving either would use.

I explained everything as I had planned it; and as we ran back to
the _Stella_ to snatch three or four hours’ sleep, I arranged that
Burroughs should take Bryant down to the place during the day and
explain things to him.

As soon as we were up, the skipper was called to a consultation and his
work assigned to him. He was to engage the spare crew, buy some ball
cartridges and half a dozen pair of handcuffs, and lay in a store of
provisions to put on the _Rampallo_ sufficient for a week’s cruise, if
the scheme went right.

With Burroughs I went to my rooms and we explained Bryant’s part to him
and sent him off to get the necessary disguises--shooting rigs such as
were in common enough use, and three light dustcoats for us to wear
over the disguises in driving to the landing-stage. For me he was also
to get some padding to fill out my spare figure to something like the
proportions of His Majesty, and a quantity of small shot, intended
to increase my weight, lest my abductors should detect the deception
when they found I was two or three stone lighter than their august and
portly monarch ought to be.

The arrangements of these matters occupied nearly all the morning.

Next, I sent Burroughs to Miralda to tell her to find some means of
preventing Vasco from taking any part in the night’s work. If necessary
Burroughs was to frighten her into compliance, but not to say what was
actually on foot. If no other way could be found, Miralda was to drug
Vasco. But by fair means or foul, he must be prevented from leaving the
house, or his life would be in danger.

This was essential in view of the line I meant to take with Volheno and
the authorities in the event of success.




CHAPTER XXII

READY


I was busy with the final touches to my shooting rig when Burroughs
returned bringing Miralda’s promise to do what I asked.

“She is going to stop him somehow, Ralph. I think she’ll drug him if
he gives any trouble. He was evidently gloriously drunk last night
and he turned up this morning--his friends of the _Rampallo_ took him
back--and is all to pieces, she told me. He had already let out enough
to scare her out of her senses almost, and she jumped at the chance of
saving him from trouble.”

“Did she want to know things?”

“Well, what do you think? She has a way with her, too; and I was glad
to get out of fire of her eyes--or she’d have had the whole business
out of me.”

“Any message for me?” I asked casually.

“No, nothing particular, of course,” he replied in the same tone, with
a grin. “I don’t wonder you’re willing to do things now. Hanged if I
wouldn’t be. She wanted to know that you weren’t running any risks; but
she didn’t seem to fancy that a rough sort of sea-dog like me was the
sort of message carrier she ought to choose, so she made a postman of
me;” and he put down a letter and went out of the room saying he wanted
to tell Simmons something.

It was the first letter I had ever received from Miralda, and I did
what I suppose nine out of ten mooncalves would have done. I just sat
staring at the envelope for a while, as if it were an amulet with a
thousand mystic virtues, and looking round to make sure I was alone,
I kissed it--yes, and more than once, before I thought of such a
commonplace thing as opening it.

It was very simply worded.

  “I will of course do what you ask; and I think I am half disappointed
  you have asked so little of me--a something to help others, not
  you yourself. Your friend’s manner shows me that he at any rate
  recognizes the dangers of the task you are attempting, whatever that
  may be. I know it would be useless to try and dissuade you from it;
  and I suppose I cannot help you. But I can pray for you. With all my
  heart and soul I do. God keep you safe and unharmed, and give you
  success.

                                                            “MIRALDA.”

It is difficult even to suggest how this letter moved me.

Like a pause of peace and hope and love in the midst of the strenuous
hurly-burly of the struggle, it seemed; a favour on the lance of
a knight setting out to battle for the woman of his heart; a kiss
imprinted on the shield with love’s whispered blessing. For the
moment all else in the world was nothing, and Miralda was all in all.
Everything was forgotten as my thoughts wandered among the fairy groves
of that mystic domain of ecstatic oblivion--the rhapsody of a lover who
knows that he may hope.

“Shall I sew these shot pads together, sir?”

It was Bryant’s respectful voice, and it brought me to earth as if I
had dropped from a balloon.

“Eh? Oh. Yes. No. I’ll see to it in a moment,” I muttered incoherently,
as my thoughts were knitting themselves together. “Don’t go, Bryant;”
and with an effort I told him what I wished and sent him away.

The dream was broken, but I folded Miralda’s letter and was putting it
next my heart, when common sense prevailed over romance. I might fail.
If I did and were searched, the letter, instead of an amulet protecting
me from danger, might prove a serious peril for her. So I lit a match,
and kissed the paper once more, and burnt it.

Then Burroughs returned to discuss where we had better have the launch
in waiting for him to get back to the _Stella_. This proved to be,
however, only the preface to a change he wished to make in the plan.

“You don’t seem to think that you’ll be in any danger while you’re in
the hands of these fellows on the _Rampallo_, Ralph?”

“No. I shall take a revolver with me, of course. There’ll be plenty of
chance of concealing it under all that padding.”

“Well, I’ve thought of something. When the time comes for us to hail
their boat in the morning, it would give them a much bigger scare if it
was you who hailed them. I’m afraid of that part of the business, you
know.”

He spoke with such earnestness that he showed his meaning at once. “Why
not say it plump out, Jack?” I asked with a smile.

“Confound you, don’t you understand? That part of the affair will need
a longer head than mine to manage.”

“What I do understand is that you don’t agree with me about there being
no danger for the prisoner on the _Rampallo_ and that you want to be
the prisoner instead of me. Don’t you think it’s like your infernal
conceit to want to cast yourself for the star part?”

“Oh, come off,” he growled. “There’s no earthly good in your keeping
the star part for yourself.”

“Didn’t you give me the cheering opinion that I should find a bullet in
my head when they discovered me?”

“I’m serious, Ralph.”

“Well then, answer me this. If I’m right and there is no danger, I run
no risk. And if you’re right and there is danger, why should I shove
you into it instead of myself?”

“Fifty reasons. If anything happened to you the whole thing would be
spoilt.”

“Not a bit of it. We should still have wrecked this little
revolutionary move and you could carry out the rest of the plan with
the much stronger card that these beggars would have to answer for what
they might have done to me.”

“Yes, but hang it all, man, there’s--there’s the girl,” he said,
hesitatingly and almost nervously.

“You don’t want to make me jealous, do you?”

“Don’t rot, Ralph. I’m in earnest.”

“The offer is just what I should expect from you, but I must see the
thing through myself. If there is any risk, it must be mine.”

“I’d much rather----”

“No, Jack,” I interposed, shaking my head. His offer moved me deeply.
It was just like his whole-hearted friendship to wish to take the risk,
especially as he believed it to be much more serious than I did. Big
or little, however, that risk must be mine. But his disappointment was
both genuine and keen.

“I must go out now,” I said a moment later. “I have to see Dagara, and
while I’m away, you’d better take Bryant down to the landing-stage and
put him through his paces.”

He got up with a smile and a heave of his broad shoulders. “You’re an
obstinate devil, Ralph,” he said: “and it would serve you right if I
chucked the whole thing.”

“Look here. I’ll put it another way. If our positions were reversed,
would you let me take the star part?”

“I don’t want any of your conundrums,” he grunted, and went off to call
Bryant.

Acting on my resolve to avoid even remote risks, I took Simmons with me
to M. Volheno’s bureau.

I found Dagara on the look-out for me, and the moment I asked for M.
Volheno, he came out of an adjoining room.

“M. Volheno is not in, Mr. Donnington,” he said, for the benefit of the
clerks round. “Can I be of any assistance?”

“I only wished to ask a simple question.”

“Will you come into my room?” and he led the way.

“Well? Have you any further information for me?” I asked as soon as he
had closed the door carefully behind us.

“No, Mr. Donnington.”

“There is no change in the arrangements for His Majesty’s arrival
to-night?”

“None whatever, but--but I want to speak to you. I can’t bear this any
longer. I have decided to tell M. Volheno everything.”

If he did anything of the sort, of course there was an end to all my
plans, and therefore to all my hopes of getting Miralda out of the
trouble. But it would not do to let him see it.

“I think you are quite right.”

He was as much surprised as I intended him to be. “I scarcely expected
you to agree so readily. But after my promise to you, I felt I must let
you know first.”

“I am not involved, M. Dagara. You are in a very trying
position--purgatory, as you term it--but your ruin and imprisonment
cannot in any way affect any one but yourself and your wife and
children, of course.”

“My wife and children?” he echoed blankly.

“No, not your children, perhaps. Your friends will no doubt be able to
take care of them. Your wife, only, I should have said.”

“But she has had nothing to do with this betrayal of information.”

I perceived then that he had not decided to confess, but was only
contemplating the step. “You are rather shortsighted, surely, if
you think that those whom you are going to give up to justice will
not retaliate. You must reckon that they will do their utmost to be
revenged, and that utmost will include your wife.”

“You don’t think I should confess, then?”

“On the contrary, I think you should have told everything long ago; but
you might have taken the precaution of sending your wife out of the
country. Is she strong enough to bear imprisonment? You know what hells
your Portuguese prisons are.”

“It would kill her in a week,” he groaned.

“It is clearly your duty, but I am sorry for her.”

“I have not the means to send her away. O God, I’d kill myself if I
dared, but that would only leave her destitute and at the mercy of the
men who have destroyed me.”

“You have destroyed yourself,” I said sternly. “But I have no time to
discuss this with you. So far as I am concerned, I prefer that you
include every detail of our interview yesterday in your confession to
M. Volheno. Hide nothing, for I have nothing to fear.”

Having made him believe that I was indifferent, I rose and turned to
the door, and then paused.

“I don’t know that I have quite understood one thing you said--about
not having means to send your wife away. Does that mean that you have
no money.”

“Yes,” he replied disconsolately. “My salary is not large and I cannot
save.”

“Oh, if that’s all, you must allow my pity for your wife and children
to take a practical shape. How much money would she require?”

“I don’t know,” he said, wringing his hands fatuously.

“Try and think it out, then;” and while he was doing this I turned my
side of the matter over and came to the conclusion that as his presence
was a menace to Miralda’s safety, the sooner he was out of Lisbon the
better. The moment this abduction plot failed, a dozen informers were
certain to offer evidence, and he and his wife would certainly be
accused.

“About two hundred and fifty milreis, Mr. Donnington,” he said, looking
up at last.

“Well, you asked my advice just now, and I’ll give it you. You are
ill both in mind and body. Any one can see that, and in such a
condition, no one can form a calm judgment. Ask M. Volheno to give you
a fortnight’s holiday and leave the country to-night. I will give you
double the sum you ask for now. Go to Paris and give your address to
M. Madrillo, at the Spanish Embassy. He will let me know it and I will
send you another two hundred and fifty milreis, and will let you know
the position here.”

I put the money on the table and the tears were in his eyes as he
seized my hand and pressed it in both of his.

“Don’t give way, man. If I find that it is not safe for you to return
here, I will interest myself to find you employment either in Paris or
elsewhere. Don’t thank me, but prove your gratitude by going straight
for the future;” and I hurried away. It was worth many times the money
to secure the delay for Miralda, and his excessive gratitude tended to
make me feel rather mean.

Burroughs and Bryant had not returned when I reached my rooms, so I
went once more carefully over every detail of my scheme in a kind of
mental rehearsal. There was only one point which gave me any qualms
now. We three had to get into the shed on the wharf without being seen
and conceal ourselves, and yet be able to learn the precise moment of
the king’s arrival.

Burroughs had been worrying over the same thing, it turned out, and had
not been idle.

“We’ve made a useful friend, Ralph,” he said when he arrived. “Got hold
of the wharf watchman. He’s a Spaniard, and Bryant’s Spanish came in
very handy. He managed to find out how things go down there. He shuts
the big shed at seven o’clock and we must be inside before then. We
can manage it all right. That Bryant has his head screwed on the right
way. He promised to go to the man’s house to-night at nine o’clock; so
that if we show up about half-past six, he’s going to meet him and take
him away while he explains why he can’t keep the appointment. We shall
slip in then, and Bryant will get rid of him and join us by the back
entrance. A screwdriver will do the rest.”

“A screwdriver.”

“We had a good look at the lock on that back door and five minutes will
have it off.”

“I’d been worrying about that part of the thing. But time’s getting on.
We’d better have something to eat and get ready.”

The business of dressing occupied some time. We all wore the hunting
rigs over our ordinary clothes; as both Burroughs and Bryant were to
get rid of theirs as soon as possible after the purpose for which they
were needed was achieved.

We sent Simmons and Foster off to the yacht and locked the flat up for
the night.

We looked rather like three squat square Dutchmen as we set off; but
the long grey dustcoats rendered us sufficiently inconspicuous, and
as the weather had changed and the light was bad, we attracted no
attention in the streets.

The wind was rising and a light rain falling, and there was every
promise of a somewhat dirty night. This was all the better for our
purpose.

When we were near the landing-stage, Bryant went on ahead in search of
the new friend he had made and presently we saw the two together close
to the sheds. They stood talking for a few minutes and then walked
away, and disappeared round the end of the further building.

“He lives over that way,” said Burroughs. “We may safely go.”

The rain was falling fast now and the wind coming in gusty squalls
across the bay and not a soul was to be seen as we slipped into the
shed.

We hid ourselves among a large quantity of hay, and were scarcely
settled when some one else entered the shed, and I heard him clamber
among some big packing cases. I jumped to the conclusion that either we
had been seen or that Volheno had decided to put a police agent on the
watch.

I dared not speak to Burroughs, and in this trying uncertainty we
waited until the watchman entered, gave a casual glance round with his
lantern, and then locked the doors.

I racked my wits to know what to do about the unwelcome interloper.
Bryant might come to the back entrance at any minute, and we should be
instantly discovered.

Then to my profound relief I heard his voice.

“Are you there, sir?” he asked in a whisper.

“Phew, how that shook me up!” exclaimed Burroughs. “How did you get in,
Bryant?”

“I got rid of the man at his house door as he was going to fetch his
overalls, so I came on at once, sir.”

“All right. But I wish you had said who you were. Get to work with that
lock.”

In a few minutes all was ready and we waited anxiously for the sound of
the king’s approach.

We heard the arrival of the officers in the adjoining shed and could
even catch the low hum of their voices.

The suspense was not a little trying; and I was intensely glad when the
whistle of a launch announced that the king was coming.




CHAPTER XXIII

ON THE _RAMPALLO_


Whenever I read of an actor playing for the first time a part which
is to make or mar his reputation, my thoughts fly back to that wet
squally evening on the Lisbon water-front. The big warehouse with its
piles of varied merchandise; the curiously composite smell with its
predominating scent of hay; the creaking of the tall slide doors at the
front as the wind dashed at them and whistled through the crevices and
whispered and rustled in the cavernous gloom of the building, the hiss
and spume of the waters of the bay, and Burroughs, Bryant and I grouped
together by the smaller door as I stood listening intently for the cue
to “go on.”

I was, and yet was not, nervous. That is, I was sure of myself and
confident of success, was quite cool, and had not a thought of
shrinking from the scene to be played; but at the same time my pulses
were beating very fast, my tongue was dry, and I kept moistening my
lips and biting them, and I could not keep my hands still nor my
fingers from fidgetting, and I am sure I was very pale.

I knew that success or failure might turn upon my giving the signal to
leave the shed at exactly the right moment. If I went too soon, the men
waiting at the end of the narrow passage would know the king had not
had time to pass through the shed from the launch. If I delayed too
long, the king himself might come out before the “abduction” had taken
place.

Yet I had nothing to guide me. After the whistle of the launch we could
not hear a sound to indicate what was passing--the racket of the wind
made that impossible. Had I foreseen this, I saw how simply I could
have avoided this perplexity. A hole or two bored in the big gates or
a brick loosened in the partition wall between the two sheds would
have sufficed; and I cursed my stupidity in having lost sight of the
precaution.

“Can you hear anything?” I whispered to Burroughs, but both he and
Bryant were in the same dismayed perplexity as I.

“There seems a hitch somewhere,” he whispered back.

“Well, I shan’t wait any longer,” I decided a moment later, and I
opened the door with as little noise as possible.

It creaked horribly on the hinges, however, and jammed half-way, and I
caught my breath, fearing that the wrench I had to give it must surely
be heard by those in the adjoining shed. Then the wind came rushing
through with most disconcerting violence; and I only just succeeded in
preventing the door from slamming to with a tell-tale bang.

“A bold face on it, and we shall soon know,” I said as we started
through the drenching rain squall.

Burroughs went in front with Bryant close to his side, while I kept
behind as I did not wish the man who was on the look-out to see that
there were two replicas of the king’s august person.

The rain gave us invaluable help, for it rendered impossible any exact
recognition of us by the man on the watch.

We walked some ten yards along the narrow passage before he even saw
us. Then he waved his whip, jerked at his horses, and began to back
them past the end of the building to our left.

At that moment the strenuous excitement was relieved by a touch of
the ludicrous. In the preoccupation of the period of suspense I had
forgotten to stick on the false moustache without which any imposture
would have been instantly detected.

I called to the others to halt a moment, and fishing the thing out of
my pocket I dabbed it on, and had to hold it in its place by crinkling
my upper lip against my nose.

Burroughs and Bryant turned back; and I pulled my felt hat well down
over my face, held my head down as if to avoid the pelting rain and
hurried on alone.

On reaching the corner I purposely quickened my pace, and as I
turned, something was thrown over my head, a hand was clapped to my
mouth--outside the cloak fortunately, otherwise it might have been my
moustache only which would have been abducted--and I was lifted off my
feet and carried bodily away.

I made a pretence of struggling.

“No harm will happen to you unless you resist or try to cry out,” said
a voice sternly.

I felt I could safely desist, therefore, and let them carry me the
rest of the distance to the launch, where I was placed in the little
deckhouse with a couple of men to hold me down.

I made another feeble struggle then, and once more I was ordered with
threats to lie still.

In the struggle I managed to get my hands up to my face and luckily
found the moustache which I stuck on again.

Almost immediately afterwards, I was turned face downwards, and
the covering cloak or cloth or whatever it was, was pulled back
sufficiently to allow of a revolver being thrust against my head.

“If you dare even to look round, I shall fire,” said the same voice,
and I replied with an appropriate shiver of fear. I chuckled as I
realized that the men were as anxious I should not see their faces as
I was that they should not see mine.

Next I felt a hand on my forehead, my face was lifted an inch or two,
and a thick wide scarf, in which a gag was fastened, was wound twice
round my head and fastened at the back, and then my hands were tied
behind me.

It was extremely uncomfortable, of course, and I had great difficulty
in breathing, but that was all. A very small discount from the success
which I had scored.

After that I was left to my own meditations, and I guessed that I was
not one whit less excited or ill at ease than my captors. My one qualm
was whether the scarf would be taken off before I was left in the
cabin which was in readiness for me on the _Rampallo_. If it was, then
the confounded moustache would assuredly go with it and that farcical
incident might prove to be the curtain raiser to a very serious drama
and possibly a tragedy.

But the men’s unwillingness to let me see their faces was a fact of
auspicious promise, and I judged that their reluctance would not
lessen until they were practically certain their desperate venture had
succeeded. So long as failure was a possible contingency, it would be
practicable for them to make a bolt of it in a body, with much less
risk of recognition than if “His Majesty” had seen that his abductors
were officers whom he knew well by sight and probably by name.

Nor could they be absolutely certain of success until the _Rampallo_
was many knots on her way to Oporto. They would naturally calculate
that the abduction would be discovered almost at once; and were no
doubt afraid that the authorities would be roused to prompt and
energetic action, with the result that the yacht might be stopped
before she could get out of the river.

I persuaded myself, therefore, that the risk of my impersonation being
detected was over for some hours at least, and as this was the most
comforting thought for me, there was no good purpose to be gained by
anticipating trouble.

The launch was a vile sea boat. She kicked about and tossed and pitched
like the ill-behaved cockle-shell she was, and, as I was powerless to
help myself, I rolled about the floor like a bale of goods or a very
intoxicated monarch; and the man in charge understood neither how to
manage her properly nor how to make matters easier for his “king.”

I was heartily glad, therefore, when we bumped alongside the _Rampallo_
and I was hoisted aboard. They handled me with all the clumsiness of
nervous amateurs, and I think that was the moment of my greatest peril,
for the launch danced and bobbed about so much that they nearly dropped
me into the river.

But they did not unfasten the scarf, and I was taken below into a
cabin, laid on the berth, my hands still tied and the gag in position,
and locked in.

Had they peeped in a few minutes later they would have been
considerably surprised. They were as great bunglers in tying my hands
as they were in managing the launch, and I had not the least difficulty
in wriggling my arms free. A vigorous tug tore off the head-gear,
wig, and all, and as there were a couple of serviceable bolts on the
door I shot them home softly, and indulged in the luxury of unimpeded
breathing. It had not occurred to them apparently, that “His Majesty”
might be quite as anxious to keep them out of the cabin as they were to
keep him in; otherwise they would have removed the door fastenings.

Then I closed the porthole and covered it over, took off the
shot-weighed shooting rig, and with my revolver ready at hand, I threw
myself at full length on the bunk to cool and wait for the next act.

I was in darkness, of course, but by feeling the hands of my watch I
found the time to be just nine o’clock. It would be dawn between four
and five; and I had thus some seven or eight hours to wait before
signalling to Burroughs on the _Stella_. I was now quite easy in mind
about the issue, and as no one could enter the cabin without making
noise enough to wake me, there was no reason why I should not go to
sleep.

The yacht was under weigh almost as soon as I was placed in the cabin
and, so far as I could gauge the speed, was making no more than from
ten to twelve knots.

I was just dropping off to sleep when some one tried the door and was
apparently very much astonished to find it fastened on my side. It must
have seemed something like a conjuring trick for a “king” gagged and
bound, as I was, to have accomplished such a feat.

I took no notice, of course. There was some whispered consultation
followed by more knocking and more whispering, and then I was left at
peace. They concluded, no doubt, that as they could force the door
at any time, there was no use in doing so until we were near Oporto;
and that if I preferred to remain gagged, instead of allowing them to
release me, the “royal” prerogative entitled me to punish myself.

Anyhow, they went away and I went to sleep, and did not wake until
the dawn was breaking. I had very little doubt that I passed a more
comfortable night than any one else on the yacht.

I opened the porthole and shoving my head through was intensely pleased
to see the _Stella_ under easy steam about a mile astern. I waved a
towel as a signal to the skipper to close up, and having edged it and
left it fluttering, I looked carefully to see that my revolver was
loaded, and sat down to speculate as to what form the crisis would take.

As the _Stella_ could steam two knots to the _Rampallo’s_ one, a few
minutes after my signal was observed would bring matters to a head.
But those minutes might bring trouble my way, of course.

The first sign of it was a hurried trampling of feet on the deck over
my head, followed almost directly by a loud knocking at my cabin door
and an angry demand for me to open it.

I let them knock and call as they pleased and then some one said that
the door was to be broken in. But I did not wish that to be done and
did wish to make delay, so I rapped back loudly with the butt of my
revolver.

“Open the door at once,” came in loud angry tones.

Putting my handkerchief to my mouth I yelled back a lot of muffled
unintelligible gibberish. An altercation followed in which they
continued to call to me to open and I replied with the same sort of rot
and played with the bolts as if fumbling in an attempt to unfasten them.

In this way I gained two or three invaluable minutes, and a glance out
of the porthole showed me that the _Stella_ was coming up very fast.

Their impatience drove them to act at last; and the first blow was
struck to force the way in.

“Wait. I’ll open it,” I shouted.

I drew the bolts and stepped back as a hail came across the water in
Burroughs’ stentorian tones.

There are many ways of showing astonishment, and most of them were
conspicuous as the door flew open and four men started to rush in and
then jumped back from my levelled weapon.

“Well, gentlemen, I should like to know what the devil you mean by
kidnapping me in this way,” I sang out and then, to their further
astonishment, I burst out laughing.

If my life had depended upon my keeping serious, I could not have
helped laughing at the ridiculous figures they cut. It was not so much
their boundless amazement at seeing me instead of the king, nor their
quick retreat from my weapon, but their general appearance which was
so irresistibly comic.

They wore neither coat, waistcoat, nor collar, their trousers were
rolled up to the knees, in their shirts of finest linen were gold
studs and the sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, their boots were
faultless in fit, all four wore gloves, and two of them carried
pince-nez; while from the top to toe they were smothered in a mixture
of machine oil, perspiration and coal dust.

They looked for all the world like amateur greasers badly made up and
coming straight from the comic opera stage.

“Who are you and where is----” stammered one of them, when a companion
stopped him and stepped forward.

“Leave this to me,” he said and then to me: “Who are you?”

“I am the king of Portugal, of course--Dom Carlos,” I replied, trying
to keep my face straight. “Where is Captain Gompez?”

“I am Captain Gompez.”

“I’m afraid you’ve had rather a rough night of it, captain. Stokehole
work is trying for an amateur.”

“Who are you, sir? I’m in no mood for fooling.”

“I should think not after such an experience. But as you are the owner
of this boat, tell me why you brought me here?”

As I said this I saw one of the younger men--a red-headed,
fiery-looking fellow--pull off his gloves furtively and begin to reach
for his hip pocket. “If either of you attempts to draw on me I shall
fire at whoever’s nearest to me,” I sang out in a very different tone.

Captain Gompez was the nearest and he promptly turned and stopped the
fellow who then tried to sneak away.

But I wouldn’t have that either. “You stop just where you are,” I
said. “I’m like your leader here--in no mood for fooling.”

At this moment Burroughs fired the blank cartridge from the _Stella_,
and some one called excitedly for Captain Gompez.

Taken aback by the unexpected development, all four started and I took
advantage of the moment when their eyes were off me to grab hold of the
captain and drag him into the cabin and then slammed the door to and
shot home one of the bolts.

“Now we can talk this----”

Before I could finish the sentence he flung himself upon me with an
oath in a desperate effort to grab my weapon, while he shouted to the
others to break in the door.

Like a fool I had allowed myself to be taken by surprise, and in a
second he had me pinned against the wall and at a terrible disadvantage.

I could not use my weapon, and my life depended on my preventing him
from getting it.




CHAPTER XXIV

A TIGHT CORNER


Captain Gompez was about my own height but very strong, as agile as a
cat, and mad with rage. Under equal conditions I should have had no
chance in such a struggle with him. Fortunately for me, however, the
conditions were not equal.

He had been up all night, hard at work in laborious and unusual toil.
He was responsible for the management of the _Rampallo_ and had had to
teach his crew of amateurs their work, and he was also the leader in
this critical part of the abduction plot. The combined strain of all
this had told on him and made tremendous demands upon his strength and
endurance.

At the same time, he had the two most powerful motives which can drive
a man to set his life on an issue such as that involved in this attack
on me. He knew that in some way I had thwarted the plot, and the
knowledge filled him with a frenzy of rage, while he believed that, on
his success in overpowering me, depended not only his own safety but
that of all who were relying upon his leadership. This rendered him
desperate.

My advantage was that I was as fresh as paint after the hours of sleep
I had had during the night; and I felt that if I could hold my own in
the first minutes of the affair, the frantic efforts he was making
would tire him out and give me the victory. Time would give me another
advantage. The _Stella_ would soon be alongside, when Burroughs would
quickly have command of the _Rampallo_.

The struggle between us began in a somewhat curious fashion. The attack
had taken me by surprise, as I have said, and forced me back against
the side of the cabin. As he grabbed for the revolver, I shot my right
hand up as high as I could stretch it, to hold the weapon out of his
reach. You may have seen one child use a similar tactic when teasing
another, and you may know how difficult it is to bend an arm held rigid
in such a position, when there is no marked advantage in height.

That was the problem the captain had to solve, and he fought with
tremendous energy. He held my right wrist in his left, tugging and
straining to lever it down so that he might venture to release his
right, which held my left in a grip of steel, and grab the prize.

His shouts to the others to break the door open were not answered, and
he soon ceased to call, concentrating all his strength in the struggle
for my weapon.

He displayed such strength that I realized he would beat me before the
energy which frenzy gave him was exhausted; and as I was convinced that
the first use he would make of his victory would be to put a bullet
into my head, I resolved to empty the revolver as a defensive measure.

I fired three shots in rapid succession when he suddenly released my
left arm and fastened both hands on my right wrist and tugged and
strained at it in the desperate effort to drag the weapon within his
reach.

This was more than I could resist, and I thought he would dislocate my
shoulder and wrench the sinews. But I succeeded in discharging two more
cartridges before my power of resistance was broken, and then I let the
weapon fall and at the same moment I got my left hand on his throat and
pressing my foot against the wall pushed him violently backwards.

The manœuvre took him by surprise and he slipped and fell, dragged me
down with him, to resume the struggle under different conditions. I had
some advantage now, however. I was top dog. But he writhed and wriggled
with such agility that I could make little use of my position.

He fought at this stage like a savage. He kicked me viciously, butted
my face with his head, tried every trick to get his hands on my throat,
writhing the while like a snake to change his position so that he could
wriggle back to the spot where the revolver lay, the possession of
which meant life or death to me and freedom or ruin to him.

Again I realized that he was the better man and that I was going to
be beaten. By a very clever movement he got me again at a terrible
disadvantage. I was holding on to his throat when he twisted to one
side, drew his knees up with a sudden jerk and thrust one of his feet
into the pit of my stomach with such force as to drive the wind clean
out of me. My grip on his throat relaxed and I fell back sick and dizzy
and beaten.

Only the merest luck saved my life then. As I fell, my hand came in
contact with the revolver and I gripped it and pulled the trigger. Even
as the shot flashed, he was on to me; and he wrenched the weapon from
me, and pulled the trigger three or four times at my head in the hope
that there was still a cartridge left.

Maddened with rage and disappointment he raised it and tried to strike
me on the head; but I had sense enough to protect myself with my arms,
and then my rage began to lend me strength. I grappled with him again,
and as the effects of the kick passed off and I recovered my wind, I
renewed the fight.

I was in a very different mood now. He had attempted to take my life
and I no longer tried merely to exhaust his strength. I fought like a
madman. For the moment, indeed, I was mad, crazed with blood lust,
white-hot for revenge.

Disappointment at finding the weapon, which he had striven so
frantically to gain, useless, disheartened him; his strength was nearly
used up and he had no passion left to answer to that which burned like
a fever in me.

I got him under me again, my left hand fastened on his throat while I
dashed my fist again and again into his face, finding a brutal pleasure
in the punishment I inflicted, until his resistance weakened and he lay
still and helpless.

Then I rose and sat on the berth, breathing hard and watching him as
if he were some dangerous wild beast who had mauled me and from whose
fangs I had only just escaped with my life--as indeed I had.

I was not seriously hurt. That kick of his had only winded me. My
arms were painful from the blows I had received from the revolver in
shielding my head, but they were only bruised, and I had every cause to
be glad matters were no worse.

Nor was my opponent badly injured. His face was damaged and his lips
swollen and bleeding, but the blood was chiefly from his nose; and he
soon recovered sufficiently to sit up.

His first movement brought me to my feet, but he had no strength left
to make any fight. Moreover my own rage had cooled and, to tell the
truth, I was a little ashamed of my savagery; so I made no effort to
interfere with him.

He spat out some of the blood from his mouth and had plenty more on his
face, so I threw him a towel.

“Are you going to try any more of this?” I asked.

He was wiping his face with the towel, and paused to look up at me,
shook his head, and continued his task.

At that moment the _Stella_ came alongside with a force which sent a
shiver through the _Rampallo_ from stern to stern; and the sounds of
the trampling of many feet on the deck above our heads followed.

“What’s that?” he exclaimed and started to scramble up.

“You’ll find it safer to stop just where you are,” I said curtly.

He glanced up at me and, not liking my looks, abandoned the attempt.
“What is the meaning of it all?” he asked sullenly.

“I was on this boat the night before last when you were all discussing
your plans and I decided to play the king’s part in this business.”

“You?” and he ran his eyes over my much slighter form.

“You’ll find the remainder of His Majesty under the bunk here; the
shot-weighted clothes and all the rest of it.”

“And what’s your object?”

“Never mind. I had one and have gained it. My yacht, the _Stella_,
followed us all through the night; and the row up there means that my
men have just come aboard.”

The racket on deck was dying down now and I soon heard Burroughs
calling my name loudly and anxiously.

“Donnington! Ralph! Where are you?”

I opened the cabin door and answered him.

“Is all well with you?” he cried, eagerly. “I was getting worried about
you.”

“It’s all right, Jack, but it was touch and go, owing to Captain Gompez
here, the leader of the lot.”

“Been making trouble, has he? Have you left any kick in him?”

“What are you going to do with us?” interposed Gompez.

“Send you to sea for a week in charge of my friend here, Mr.
Burroughs--and a crew chosen from my own yacht. At the end of that
time I shall probably hand you over to the authorities with a full
statement of all this.”

“I protest----” he began angrily.

“Waste of time,” I cut in laconically. “Bring him along to the rest,
Jack.”

We went to the yacht’s saloon where the other prisoners were. Burroughs
had done things thoroughly. There were seven of them, and he had
handcuffed them all and put a couple of men over them, with loaded
revolvers.

“I’m taking no risks, Ralph,” said Burroughs in explanation, and then
fastened Captain Gompez’ wrists in similar fashion.

A more dejected forlorn set of men I had never cast eyes on. Grimed
from head to foot, worn out with sleeplessness, toil and anxiety, they
were broken by the utter defeat of their scheme and the certainty that
ruin, disgrace, dishonour and possibly death was all they had to face.
Two or three had dozed off, and the rest turned as I entered and looked
at me with lack-lustre eyes without even the energy to show anger.

Among those who were asleep, or feigning sleep, was Sampayo. He was
in a corner at the far end, his face averted and his head sunk on his
breast. The arrival of the _Stella_ had warned him that I was at the
bottom of the trouble, and he and the red-headed young fellow who had
tried to draw on me before had been the only ones to give trouble; but
they had gained nothing by it except a crack on the head.

Sampayo was not of course aware that I knew he was on board, and his
present attitude was probably due to the hope that he would escape my
notice.

“You can tell your companions my decision, Captain Gompez,” I said, and
went away with Burroughs to arrange for the stores to be transferred
from the _Stella_ and discuss the steps he was to take to guard against
any trouble from the prisoner-passengers.

“I shall run no risks, Ralph. I’ve been looking round and I can
separate them and shall keep them fastened up. The old man and I
discussed the course I’d better lay. There’s none too much coal on
board, so I shall steam due west for a day and if the weather holds
good shall just crawl about until the time’s up, and I’ve arranged
where he can pick us up if you want to before the week’s out. And of
course I shall keep well away from any vessels that may came along.”

The two yachts were still roped together, and while the stores were
transferred I went down to the “king’s” cabin and told Burroughs to
send Sampayo to me.

“I have sent for you to write a brief letter to Dr. Barosa telling him
what has occurred,” I said without preface.

“What use are you going to make of it?”

“Just what I decide. It is possible that I may not speak of this thing
at all.”

“I’ll tell you everything if you’ll put me ashore,” he said after a
pause.

“Characteristic, but out of the question.”

“Then I won’t write a word.”

“Very well. Then I’ll get one of the others.”

He looked at me eagerly, as if my words suggested a hope that matters
would be made easier if he complied. “Why do you want to hound us down?”

“So far as you are concerned, your old companion, Prelot, will do that.”

He caught his breath with a shudder at the mention of the name. “That
letter to Barosa will do no good. After you showed you knew about me,
I begged and prayed him to do the only thing that would get rid of
you--and he refused.”

He paused as if waiting for me to question him.

“He is mad with his love for Mademoiselle Dominguez,” he continued
after a pause. “I said that if he would let me break with her, you
would go away. He would not. It was he who planned that attempt on
your life the same night. He was with Henriques. He is mad, I say.
And nothing, not even this, will turn him from his purpose. He knows
something about that South African affair of mine, but not all. He has
had nearly all my money, he forced this farce of an engagement with
Mademoiselle Dominguez, and his intention was to use the influence he
would have if a revolution was provoked to force her to marry him.
That’s why she has been dragged into it, and he would sacrifice every
man of us rather than lose her. He would have been betrothed to her
openly, but he could not break with the Contesse Inglesia. Now you know
everything.”

“I knew most of that before,” I replied drily. “But how did you get the
visconte’s consent?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “He could not help himself. He was in this
thing also to some extent, but Barosa found out that he had been
stealing his wife’s money and I was put to threaten him with exposure
if he refused. I have been Barosa’s slave for months, curse him.”

There was no mistaking the bitter sincerity of this.

“You will do no good with the letter you want. It is more probable
that you will find that he fled from the city the moment he knew this
thing had failed and took Mademoiselle Dominguez with him. But if he is
still there, and still hopes to provoke a revolution, your only means
of dealing with him will be through the Contesse Inglesia. Rouse her
jealousy, and you may succeed. I would have done it, but I dared not.”

I did not let him see my alarm at his suggestion that Barosa had forced
Miralda to fly with him, but I determined to get back to Lisbon as fast
as the _Stella_ could carry me.

I took Sampayo back to the rest, wrote a line:--“We are prisoners in
the hands of Mr. Ralph Donnington, who knows everything;” and obtained
the signatures of them all to it; and then hurried up on deck.

The _Stella_ was just casting off, and with a last handshake with
Burroughs, I jumped on board.

“How long will it take us to get back to port, captain?” I asked the
skipper, who had good news for me.

“We’re not much more than thirty-five knots out,” he said. “These
fools couldn’t get more than a few knots an hour out of the _Rampallo_
and didn’t even know enough to keep a straight course. They’ve been
zigzagging about all night. Never saw such lubbers.”

“Well, let her rip. I must be back at the earliest moment. Get all you
can out of her.”

Sampayo’s words had fired me with impatience. A burning fever of unrest
had seized me and I should not know a second’s peace until I had
assured myself of Miralda’s safety.

The bare thought that she might be in Barosa’s power and that the very
act by which I had striven and risked so much to win her, might prove
to be the means of losing her, was torture unutterable.

The instant we were in the river I had the launch lowered and jumped
into her and shot away to the quay.

A few minutes now would tell me the best or the worst.




CHARIER XXV

ILL NEWS


Sampayo’s statement had not only roused my fears for Miralda’s safety
but had also decided me not to have any further dealings at all with
Barosa. As soon as I had satisfied myself that she was not in any
danger from him, I would go straight to Volheno and tell him about the
abduction plot and how it had been frustrated.

I could make a full statement of that without in any way violating the
pledge of secrecy I had given to Barosa. That pledge did not include
either my previous knowledge that he was an agent of the Pretender, Dom
Miguel, or anything I had overheard on the _Rampallo_ and the results.

I would keep my word in regard to all that had occurred in the Rua
Catania house and in the other house in the Rua Formosa, where I had
been subjected to the “test”; and should not give the names of any
one whose connexions with the plot I had learnt before my spy work on
Captain Gompez’ yacht.

My intention was to make one condition--that Miralda, her mother, the
visconte, Vasco and, if possible, Dagara, should be pardoned for their
complicity in the affair. They had been forced into the net by Barosa’s
tortuous cunning, and that I could prove if put to it.

I felt that I had a perfect right to impose such a condition as the
price of my services. I had thwarted the abduction plot, and my
own experiences proved that, but for me, nothing would have saved
the king. Moreover, I had risked my life--had very nearly lost it,
indeed--and, although I had chosen my own method instead of turning
informer in advance, that was my own concern. But the result had been
entirely successful, for it had led to my taking a batch of the men in
it red-handed.

In making this decision to go at once to Volheno, I had none but
personal considerations. I had no interest in the political issues
involved in the struggle between the Throne and the people. They were
nothing to me. The Government managed their own affairs in their own
way; and if I had been fool enough to have offered them suggestions,
they would have laughed at me for an impertinent interfering puppy.

At the same time, the part of informer was a profoundly hateful one to
play, and if I could have gained my end as easily and safely by dealing
direct with Barosa, I should have preferred that method.

But he was too dangerous a man. I had far too high an opinion of his
ability, shrewdness and resource to believe for an instant that I could
pit myself against him. It was much more by accident than anything else
that I had obtained the whip-hand over him now; and it would be sheer
folly to run the risk of giving him an opportunity to outwit me, when a
word to Volheno would lay him by the heels.

I took Bryant and Simmons ashore with me. I sent the latter up to my
rooms and, as I deemed it best not to go about alone, I drove with
Bryant to Miralda’s house and left him in the carriage to wait for me.

My anxiety on Miralda’s account rendered me nervously uneasy. This
feeling quickened into alarm when the servant told me she was not in
the house. The viscontesse was at home and I sent a message begging her
to see me at once.

The instant she entered the room I read ill news in her manner and
looks. She was greatly agitated, her face was white and drawn, her
eyes full of trouble, and she appeared both surprised and angry to see
me. She drew back and would not take my hand. “You asked for me, Mr.
Donnington? I wonder you dare to come here, sir.”

“Dare to come?” I repeated, bewildered by this reception.

“Why is not Miralda with you?”

The question filled the cup of my alarm and amazement.

“There is some mistake, viscontesse. I have just landed from my yacht
and have come straight here to see her.”

“For Heaven’s sake do not try to deceive me. I know what has happened.
It was cruel and shameful. I have been beside myself with grief and
suspense.”

“I give you my word of honour I have not seen Miralda since the day
before yesterday.”

She stared at me as if unable to believe or even understand me. “Have
not seen her?” she repeated hoarsely, after a pause. “Oh, that cannot
be true.”

“I assure you most earnestly and solemnly that it is true.”

As the conviction of my sincerity was forced upon her, her expression
changed. The trouble in her wide, staring eyes gave place to
unmistakable terror inspired by her new thoughts. Suddenly she reeled,
threw up her hands in despair, and then clasped them distractedly to
her face and sank on a couch with a moan of anguish.

“Then she is arrested or dead. Heaven have mercy upon my dear, dear
child,” she cried, a prey to overpowering emotion.

I was scarcely less alarmed by this most disconcerting news, and while
the viscontesse was striving to recover some measure of self-command, I
tried to realize all it meant and to think what to do.

“Don’t go, Mr. Donnington,” she said at length in the midst of her
sobs; and I waited, tormented by a thousand vague fears.

“I beg you to tell me all as soon as possible. Even minutes may be of
vital importance,” I said earnestly.

She made an effort to check her wild sobs. “But we cannot do anything,”
she wailed helplessly.

“Not unless you can let me know what has happened,” I replied sharply.
“If anything is to be done, it must be at once.”

“I will try to tell you,” she said a minute later, sitting up.

“I know that Miralda was here yesterday,” I said, “because I sent to
her and received a letter from her. That was early in the afternoon.
Will you tell me everything that occurred after that?”

“I know very little, Mr. Donnington. In the afternoon Inez came and
the two were alone together. Miralda came to me afterwards and I saw
that she was both greatly excited and distressed. It was in some way
connected with this miserable conspiracy business. She told me that
something very important was to happen; but that she herself did not
know what it was. She was to go for the evening to Inez. I was in great
trouble about Vasco, you know. He was in bed ill--he had been drinking
heavily the night before, I must tell you.”

“Did he leave the house yesterday?” I interposed.

“No. He was getting better toward the evening and said he had to go
out; but I went up later and found him sleeping so soundly that I could
not rouse him.”

“Was Miralda in the house then?”

“No, she had been gone about half an hour. Well, I waited by his
bedside for a long time, an hour or more--I could not say how long.
When Inez arrived I went down to her, and she asked me where Miralda
was. I said she had gone to her house. She had never reached there,
however; and then Inez said she had something very serious to tell me.
It was that Miralda had been in secret communication with you, and that
as some of their friends suspected you of having betrayed them in some
way, Miralda had also fallen under suspicion. She had disappeared, and
one of three things must be the cause. She had been arrested, or had
got into the hands of those who suspected her, or had run away with
you.”

“Can you fix the time the contesse was here?”

“Not that first visit, but she came again about ten o’clock, bringing
the news that your yacht had left the river and that it was plain that
Miralda had gone with you.”

So the _Stella_ had been missed, it seemed.

“What I tell you is true, viscontesse; I have not seen Miralda.”

“You think she has been arrested then?”

“It is impossible to be certain--but I do not think it.”

“Oh, but don’t tell me you believe she has fallen into the hands of any
of these people who will do her mischief? They would kill her.”

“Oh, no; I am certain that there is no fear of that.” I was, for it was
as clear as anything could be that Barosa would not allow anything of
the sort.

“You are so positive. Do you know anything that makes you so?”

“Yes; but I cannot tell you.”

“You get to learn so much. I suppose you know that my husband has left
the city.”

“No. When was that?”

“You warned him one afternoon that he was under suspicion; and he left
the next night. He has gone to Paris.”

“Would to Heaven you and Miralda had gone with him,” I exclaimed.

“We were going; but Miralda was prevented.”

“How prevented?”

“Dr. Barosa and Inez arrived when all was ready, and after what they
said to her, she told me she could not go.”

“But they let the visconte go?”

“And I could have gone too--but I could not leave my dear child.”

I began to get a grip of the situation now.

“And Vasco? Can I see him?”

“He is on duty this morning. He is better. What are you going to do?”
she asked as I rose.

“To find Miralda.”

“Pray God you may be successful. You will let me know?”

With a promise to do so, I left her. I had very little doubt that I
should find Miralda with Inez. She had been taken away from her home
as the result of that attempt at flight; and Barosa had used Inez for
the purpose. The thing must have been planned before the failure of the
previous night’s scheme was known; and being uncertain of the issue, he
was still afraid to break with Inez.

Under other circumstances he might have employed different
means--getting Miralda into his own hands; but he would shrink from
rousing Inez’ jealousy until he felt strong enough to set her at
defiance.

What the effect upon him would be of the failure of the scheme was of
course very difficult to say. But it was not of much consequence unless
he had already got Miralda away and I should know that as soon as I saw
Inez herself.

The lie which had been told about my having carried Miralda away was
intended merely to blind her mother’s eyes. It offered a plausible
reason for Miralda’s absence.

As I drove to Inez’ house I told Bryant to wait for me, but not to
remain in the carriage, as I did not wish him to be seen; and as soon
as the servant opened the door, I pushed my way in, lest Inez should
refuse to see me.

She did make the attempt. In reply to my message, she sent word that
she was unable to see me then, but would do so an hour later.

“Then I will wait,” I told the servant; and down I sat in the hall.
Inez’ unwillingness to face me confirmed my opinion that Miralda was in
the house; and nothing short of force would have made me leave.

After perhaps a quarter of an hour the servant came with another
message--her mistress would receive me in a few minutes. She was
leading the way upstairs when I stopped her, saying bluntly I preferred
to remain where I was until the contesse was quite ready.

I did not intend to give Inez a chance of smuggling Miralda out of the
house while I was cooling my heels shut up in a room upstairs. Whether
or not any attempt of the sort had been planned, I do not know; but
while I was close to the door and had a full view of the staircase it
was impracticable.

Another delay followed, and then the servant said Inez was waiting for
me; and she herself appeared at the top of the stairs, cool, smiling,
and apologetic.

“I am so sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Donnington,” she said as
she gave me her hand, and led the way into an adjoining room; “but your
call at this unusual hour found me quite unprepared to come to you.”

“It is not a conventional purpose which has brought me, madame,” I
replied as she settled herself gracefully upon a couch.

“No? Ah, well, I am grateful to any purpose which leads you to find
your way at last to my house,” she said with another smile.

I was in no mood for this kind of thing; so I said rather bluntly: “My
purpose is to see Mademoiselle Dominguez.”

Her start and look and gesture of extreme surprise were well acted. “My
dear Mr. Donnington! Miralda?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“But----” she paused, and then those strange eyes of hers expressed
perplexity and trouble and rising alarm. “I am afraid I--I don’t
understand.”

“Yet my words were very simple. I wish to see Mademoiselle Dominguez.”

“I heard that, of course. But is it possible, you believe she is here?
Do you mean you do not know what has occurred? You find out so many
things, you know,” she added with a quick thrust.

“I know that she came here last night. I have seen her mother this
morning; but, as you suggest, I do find out things. You were under the
impression last night that she did not reach your house; but”----and I
paused as I made a shot, speaking very meaningly--“I know how she came
to the house.”

A single swift up-lift of the deeply fringed lids told me that the
unexpected shot had pierced the armour-plate of her defence; and
when she looked up after a pause all the assumption of surprise had
disappeared.

“You have only yourself to blame, Mr. Donnington,” she said, tone and
manner both very earnest. She had as many moods as an actress has
costumes and was able to change them much more quickly.

“And that means--what, if you please?”

“I am genuinely sorry for you. I knew from the first that your object
here was Miralda; and you will remember that I warned you. You would
not heed the warning. You set to work to win back Miralda; and had she
been free, you would have succeeded. But she was not free; and when you
took the mad step of driving Major Sampayo from the city you--well, you
can understand what was sure to follow.”

“On the contrary I do not understand, madame.”

“You precipitated matters, of course. Miralda is Major Sampayo’s wife
and is now with his friends.”




CHAPTER XXVI

IN SIGHT OF VICTORY


Inez’ face as she said this was full of excellently simulated
solicitude for me; but had she been aware of all I knew about Sampayo’s
movements, she would certainly have chosen some other fairy tale with
which to fool me.

“I am afraid some one has been misleading you,” I said drily; “unless,
of course, you were present at the wedding?”

Her own instinct or my manner warned her that she had blundered. “I
was--not present, Mr. Donnington.” She began the reply quickly, and the
slight pause in the sentence came when she suddenly changed her mind;
and the last words were spoken in a very different tone.

“When is the marriage said to have occurred? I don’t wish to question
you in the dark, and will tell you that I know precisely all Major
Sampayo’s recent movements. Let me suggest, therefore, that it is quite
useless to fence with my questions.”

She fixed her eyes on me with a steady searching look. “Are you
threatening me, Mr. Donnington?”

“I am asking you to let me see Mademoiselle Dominguez at once, madame.”

“I have told you she is with Major Sampayo’s friends.”

“You are one of those friends. Mademoiselle Dominguez is here,” I said
as positively as if I knew it for a fact.

For a moment I thought she was going to give in; but her features set
and she threw her head back with a toss of defiance. “You must have
seen a yacht in the river for the last two days, the _Rampallo_. It is
Major Sampayo’s; and Miralda joined him there last night.”

“The _Rampallo_ belongs to Captain Gompez, and I passed last night on
board her.”

She sat bolt upright and stared at me, every muscle and nerve strained
and set, her face as white as her lace and the pupils of her weird eyes
dilated with sudden fear and wonder. For several seconds she was unable
to utter a word, as she realized all that must lie behind my words.

“You will now, perhaps, deem it prudent not to refuse any longer to
bring Mademoiselle Dominguez here to me,” I said very meaningly.

She lowered her head with a deep sigh and sat thinking, then rose with
a little shiver of fear. “I will fetch her,” she murmured and went out
of the room.

I breathed a sigh of satisfaction at my victory. It was a telling proof
of the strength of my hold over her and all who were leagued with her
in this persecution of Miralda.

I had to wait about a quarter of an hour before she returned, bringing
Miralda, who was pale and worn and nervous.

Inez did not enter the room, but closed the door, leaving us alone, as
I took Miralda’s hand.

“Oh, why have you come here, Mr. Donnington?”

“To take you away. I have come straight here from your mother and am
going to take you back to her.”

“I--I cannot go,” she replied, shaking her head.

“Why not?”

“If I attempt to leave here, I shall be arrested.”

“Is that the tale they have told you to keep you here?”

“It is true. Do you know what happened last night?”

“Yes, indeed; a great deal better than you or any one else in this
house. I urge you to come away at once with me; and I will tell you
everything that occurred.”

“I--I dare not,” she said, shrinking away from me.

“But I tell you that you have absolutely nothing to fear. You can trust
me?”

“Oh yes, yes. You know that; but I--dare not go.”

It was evident that by some means they had succeeded in breaking down
her nerve. “Let me urge you to come at once--just as you are.”

“Do you know that a mad attempt was made to make the king a prisoner;
that it failed and has been discovered; and that all concerned in it
are now in danger of their lives? I had no idea of such a shameful
plot, or I would never have done what I have. There is no hope for any
of us but flight; and Dr. Barosa is arranging for us to fly secretly
this afternoon.”

“I know much more than that. I know why it failed. I have every reason
to know, because I myself prevented the attempt.”

“You?” she cried in amazement.

“Yes, I. No one else.”

“And you knew this terrible thing and did not warn me? And yet you knew
I was implicated! Oh, how could you?”

This was a point of view which had not occurred to me. She had good
reason to blame me; and for the moment I was silent.

“You have no answer? If you had told me, do you think I would not
have given a warning of it even at the risk of my life?” and with a
despondent sigh she dropped into a chair and sat staring helplessly at
the floor.

“You are forgetting that I myself prevented it.”

“Yes, but my life is now in danger. You do not understand what it is
you have done. You did what you deemed best, of course; but you do not
understand. They are hunting the city for us all now.”

“These people have merely told you that to frighten you. No one has
been even to your house.”

“Oh, how little you understand. They are waiting because it is known
that I have left there. The instant I leave here I shall be arrested.”

“Then how could you escape this afternoon?”

“Inez and Dr. Barosa have arranged that. We shall go in disguise, of
course.”

“Who told you that the plot had been discovered?”

“Do you think they do not know that? M. Dagara sent them warning last
night, and told them the names of those who are to be arrested.”

“Everything you tell me only confirms what I say to you--that these
lies have been coined in order to frighten you. M. Dagara is not in
Lisbon. He left yesterday evening. I gave him money to take him and
his wife to Paris. He did not even know that the abduction had been
planned; and he left the city before he could hear of its failure.”

She shook her head. “I know you think that--but I have the list of
names.”

“Will you show it me?”

She took it out of the bosom of her dress and handed it me.

“The trick is obvious,” I said with a smile. “It is not his
handwriting.”

“Inez made a copy for me.”

“But did not show you the original. It is a lie--the whole thing. Do
try to understand it all by the light of what I tell you. Why, here on
the very face of it is a proof of its falsehood. Your mother’s name is
mentioned.”

“Do you think I have not seen it?” she cried, intensely moved.

“Yes, but I have come straight from her to you. If she had been listed
for arrest, should I have found her at home?”

“She is left at liberty because they expect me to return to her, when
we should both be arrested. That is why I have not gone home.”

“But surely you can see that that is inconsistent with the other thing
they told you--that you would be taken the moment you left this house?
They have put your mother’s name on this concocted list in order to
frighten you, and vamped this utterly false explanation. If the police
are watching your home, you can safely leave here; if, on the other
hand, they know how to find you without your going home, why is not
your mother already arrested?”

This made some impression. “I do not know what to think,” she murmured.

“There is another thing. If you are to run into danger the instant you
leave here, it means that the police know where you are. Do you suppose
that, in such a case, they would not have raided this house?”

“Inez is not on the list.”

“Another proof that the whole thing is a fabrication. If the police
had such intimate knowledge of the plot that they knew of your slight
connexion with it, would they not know of the leaders?”

She considered a moment. “But you yourself knew that the visconte and
all of us were suspected. You told him.”

“I ascertained afterwards that I was wrong. Dagara told me.”

“But why should Inez be so false as you suggest?”

“She is instigated by Dr. Barosa.”

“And what is his motive, then?”

It was an awkward question. “I know the motive; but you may doubt the
truth. Let me tell you first what has occurred. When I learnt the truth
as to the abduction plot----”

“When did you learn it, and how?”

“I was present on the _Rampallo_ when they all met there, and I
overheard the whole matter discussed and settled. I then planned
matters so that I should be mistaken for the king and carried off in
his stead. That was done last night. I was taken to the _Rampallo_ and
was on her all the night. My own yacht followed; and this morning my
people boarded the _Rampallo_, released me and made prisoners of every
man on the yacht. Under the charge of my friend, Mr. Burroughs, the
_Rampallo_ has been sent off with the men and I came back to free you.”

“But how could that free me?”

“In one of two ways. Either by forcing Dr. Barosa to free you from all
connexion with the conspiracy; or by making your pardon a condition of
my handing over these men to the authorities with a full statement of
what had occurred. Now, except myself and those in my confidence on the
_Stella_, there is not a man in Lisbon, outside those in the plot, who
knows the facts.”

She listened in rapt attention, sat thinking a few moments, and then
put out her hand. “Can you forgive me for hesitating to go with you? I
have been distracted with fear.”

“There is nothing to forgive. All I ask is that you come with me at
once. You would be safer in the hands of the police than here.”

“Tell me why? And you have not explained Dr. Barosa’s object. He has
been kindness itself in all this trouble.”

“He stopped you from leaving with the visconte,” I reminded her.

“There was a reason. My presence was still necessary to get the
information from M. Dagara. But Dr. Barosa and Inez are going to take
my mother and myself away to-day to join the visconte in Paris.”

“They will do nothing of the kind. They are false to you right
through. The contesse herself is being deceived by Barosa. Sampayo is
among the men on the _Rampallo_; and I got from him to-day the real
truth why you were compelled to betroth yourself to him. It is not a
pretty story, but you must hear it. He----” I stopped abruptly as Inez
entered.

She was smiling, but far less collectedly than usual. “Well, have you
persuaded Mr. Donnington that you must remain here, Miralda?”

“No; I am going with him, Inez.”

“You must do as you please, of course, but you know the danger.”

“I am going home.”

“You do not think we can take care of her, Mr. Donnington? What have
you told her to cause this change of plan?”

“I will gladly tell you all I have said if you will accompany us.
Miralda is naturally anxious to reassure her mother as soon as
possible.”

“I do not wish to do so, thank you; but we shall have a minute or two
while Miralda gets ready. And I wish to have a word with you privately,
Mr. Donnington, after what you told me.”

“I shall be ready in a minute,” said Miralda with a smile as she went
away.

“What are you going to do, Mr. Donnington?” asked Inez. “There can, of
course, be only one meaning to your statement--that you were on the
_Rampallo_ last night. Are you going to betray us?” She was greatly
agitated and made little attempt to conceal it.

“Not necessarily. I have no concern with your politics or plots.”

“Yet you have interfered in this?”

“For the sole purpose of making sure of Miralda’s liberty. When she has
left the city, and if she is not implicated any further, and a full
explanation is made in writing of the means adopted to force her to do
what she has done--a statement which must also include the persecution
of the rest of her family--there may be no reason why I should not keep
silent.”

“May be?”

“Will be--if you prefer it put more definitely. But that statement,
signed by both yourself and Dr. Barosa, must be in my hands within an
hour.”

“And Major Sampayo?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I care for nothing but Miralda’s welfare in
this.”

“You are a generous enemy, Mr. Donnington. There will be no difficulty
in doing all you ask. May I--may I thank you?” and she held out her
hand. “I have not forgotten that you saved my life, and only regret
that I have been powerless to help you with Miralda until you have
forced me. I hope you will bear me no malice.”

“It is not my way, I assure you.”

“Will you tell me how you learnt of last night’s plot?”

“I would rather you did not ask me.”

“Some one betrayed it to you?”

“No. But you must not press me to give you any more details.”

“But you cannot have done it alone; and you will see that for Miralda’s
sake we ought to know if any traitor is amongst us. He might carry
information in the future to others, and then all this would come out.”

“I repeat I do not know of any traitor in your ranks. I cannot say any
more.”

“But who knows beside yourself?” she persisted.

“No one on whose silence I cannot rely as surely as you may rely upon
me.”

“But, Mr. Donnington----”

“I can say no more. And now Miralda should be back.”

“I am agitated and had actually forgotten her. I will go and see what
is keeping her;” and she went away.

I was now very impatient to be out of the house. I had gained all I had
striven for so desperately; and there was really no solid reason why I
should turn informer. If this abduction scheme was not discovered by
the Government, no suspicion in any future plot would fall upon Miralda.

Her flight from the city would not be connected with any trouble of the
sort; and when we reached Paris, it would be my fault if in a few hours
she was not my wife.

The Sampayo complication was ended; and he would never dare to cross my
path or hers again. If he did, the means of getting rid of him would
still be available, so long as Prelot’s thirst for vengeance lasted.

There was Vasco. I could not see at once what to do in regard to him.
But Miralda and I could discuss his future with the viscontesse.
Probably the best thing would be for him to throw up his commission and
join us. He had been a fool and must pay for his folly.

There was also Barosa. If Sampayo had spoken the truth about his love
for Miralda, he would be mad with Inez for letting her go. It was all
for the best, therefore, that he was not in the house. I might have
found much more difficulty in getting Miralda away.

Yet he could not have prevented me. The weapon I held was too strong.
Not only his liberty and even his life were in my hands, but those of
Inez and of every one associated with him in the plot. My silence was
worth infinitely more than the price I asked. At the same time I was
more than glad that I had had to deal with Inez instead of him.

While I was occupied in these thoughts several minutes passed, and my
impatience at Miralda’s delay in returning mounted fast and I began to
grow uneasy. She had promised to be back almost at once; and had now
been absent more than a quarter of as hour.

I recalled the former suspicion which had led to my remaining in the
hall, and reflected that it might be best to go down there again.

Then the door opened and with a sigh of relief I turned to meet her.

But instead of Miralda, it was Dr. Barosa who entered.




CHAPTER XXVII

DR. BAROSA SCORES


Barosa was carrying a sheet or two of writing paper, and in the glance
I caught of his profile as he shut the door carefully behind him, I
noticed that his hard strong features were paler than usual. His set
determined expression and manner were those of a man who knows he is
face to face with a grave crisis.

“You are surprised to see me, Mr. Donnington,” he said as he turned to
me; and his voice, deep and vibrating, confirmed my diagnosis.

“Yes, I am.”

“Let me explain. The Contesse Inglesia has told me what has passed
between you and that you desire to have a written statement from me
concerning Mademoiselle Dominguez and her relations; and I thought it
could be more conveniently drawn up at once.”

“I am waiting for her to leave the house with me.”

“I am aware of that. She will no doubt be here in a moment and can
perhaps assist us in writing this. Will you tell me what you wish
written?”

“I have told the contesse; and you are quite able to do all I need,” I
answered shortly.

“You will understand how profoundly I myself am concerned by all this.
My liberty, my life, and what is far more to me than my life, are at
stake. You have ascertained all our plans, and I feel it imperative to
ask what use you intend to make of anything you compel me to write.”

“It will never be used at all unless it should become necessary in
order to explain Mademoiselle Dominguez’ connexion with your plot.”

“Become necessary?” he repeated. “What does that mean?”

“If the plot should be discovered and she should be in any danger.”

“But it has been discovered already. It has failed. You discovered it
because of the facts which had come to your knowledge as the result of
the Rua Catania affair.”

“I do not intend to discuss the matter with you, Dr. Barosa. You can do
as you please about writing what I require.”

“And if I refuse?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “You must infer what you will.”

“I will put it on another ground. I accepted unconditionally your
pledge of secrecy and was instrumental in saving you subsequently from
very serious consequences at the hands of those who questioned your
good faith. As a return for that service I ask you to tell me exactly
what you know.”

“The service of which you speak was followed by your secret visit to
my rooms--with Henriques; and Major Sampayo told me this morning the
object of that visit,” I said very drily. “Sampayo was very frank about
you.”

“What did he say?” he asked, quite unruffled by this thrust.

“You can ask him on his return. And now, I am going.”

He had remained close to the door and he turned and locked it and put
the key in his pocket.

“Our interview cannot end in this abrupt way, Mr. Donnington. The cause
I have at heart may be ruined by you. You have told Contesse Inglesia
that you were on the _Rampallo_ the night before last, and I must know
what you overheard and what use you intend to make of that information.”

“Open that door or give me the key,” I said sternly.

“I shall do neither. I am armed, as probably you are; and if you wish
to force a struggle you must do so.”

Like a fool, I had come without a revolver; but I clapped my hand to my
pocket as if I had one there; and then paused. “I don’t want your blood
on my head,” I exclaimed.

But he was not deceived. “Ah, I perceive you have not thought that
precaution necessary,” he said quietly. “Well, I mean you no harm, but
we must talk this thing out and then I pledge you my word to open the
door. Will you answer my questions?”

I was, in a mess, and if I was to get out, it would not be by force;
unless I could succeed in catching him off his guard. So I threw myself
into a chair and laughed. “You are right. I am not armed. But the
weapon I have is stronger than a revolver. I had my suspicions roused
about the _Rampallo_, and I got on board her in time to hear all your
discussion on the news which M. Dagara sent you.”

“Ah, as a spy!” he sneered.

“Yes; as a spy, if you like. As a result, Captain Gompez and his
companions carried me off instead of the king; and this morning my men
from the _Stella_ came aboard and I returned here.”

“Where are my friends now?”

“On the _Rampallo_ in charge of my people.”

“Why did you interfere? What could it matter to you?”

“You know perfectly well. Sampayo told you, after my interview with
him three days ago. He begged you to cut the net in which you had
involved Mademoiselle Dominguez. He told me this morning what I had
only suspected before and what the Contesse Inglesia does not even
suspect--your real motive.”

“He has lied to you of course.”

“Lies or truth, it doesn’t alter the present situation. Even if you
draw your revolver and put one of its bullets in my head you won’t help
matters. I have taken that precaution, you may be perfectly certain.”

“You mean to betray us all to the Government?” he asked after a pause,
during which he drew his hand slowly from his pocket.

“I tell you what I have already told the contesse. My object is
entirely personal. You can fight out your battle with your Government
in your own way; but I mean to gain my end. When once that is gained, I
shan’t be more minutes in Lisbon than I can help.”

Again he paused. He realized no doubt that he had to choose between
giving up Miralda or sacrificing his cause and all concerned in it. A
dilemma searching enough to make him thoughtful.

“You will give me your pledge to keep absolutely silent?” he asked at
length.

“It is for me to impose conditions, not for you.”

“How do I know that all has occurred as you tell me?”

“You can please yourself. I have a paper signed by Sampayo and Gompez
and all the rest of them.”

“Show it me.”

“Certainly.”

This might offer me the chance I sought. I took it out and held it
toward him, intending to close with him the instant he came near
enough. But he was too wary. “Throw it to me,” he said.

“You can read it from there,” I replied, and held it up so that he
could do so.

“And where is the _Rampallo_ now?”

I smiled and shook my head. “I have been very frank as to what has
occurred; but what is going to occur is my own business.”

“You say these men have let you make them prisoners?”

“They say so themselves here.”

“And they are absolutely in your power to deliver them up to the
Government when you please?”

“Absolutely. And they will be given up and a full statement of the
facts made, unless I determine otherwise.”

That hit him as hard as I intended.

“When?” he rapped out.

“That also I must leave you guessing. If you are under the belief that
by keeping me here or doing me any sort of mischief you will prevent
all this getting out, you are merely deluding yourself.”

He paused once more and then tossed up his hands. “You have left me no
option,” he said with a sigh. “What do you wish me to write?”

“That Mademoiselle Dominguez and her brother were forced into this
affair by you and that she was never aware of the nature of the
communications she received from Dagara.”

“I will write it,” he said at once. “Here is the key of the door;” and
he threw the key to me as he crossed to a table and sat down to write.

I drew a breath of relief. I had won more easily than I had
anticipated. Whatever his intentions had been at the outset of the
interview, he had apparently abandoned them on learning that to do
anything to me would not avert discovery or save his companions.

He found some difficulty in wording the paper and tore up a couple of
sheets with an exclamation of impatience. Several minutes were spent in
this way.

When he had finished the writing he handed it to me. “Will that do?”

I read it carefully. It was almost in the words I had used, and I
folded it up and put it in my pocket, well satisfied that, should
any emergency arise requiring its use, it would prove a sufficient
confirmation of the story I had to tell.

“I am satisfied,” I said.

“You will leave Lisbon at once, Mr. Donnington, and will keep
absolutely silent as to all that has occurred?”

“Yes, unless circumstances arise in which I am compelled to use this
document on Mademoiselle Dominguez’ behalf.”

“I quite understand that, and can accept your word absolutely,” he
replied. As I went toward the door, he added: “You will pardon the
means I adopted to secure this interview, and will understand how vital
it was that I should know the position precisely?”

“So long as you recognize it, that’s enough for me.”

“Oh, wait one moment,” he cried, as I put the key in the lock. “We have
forgotten one very important point. I have been intensely disturbed by
all this, as you will have seen; and that is the cause of my oversight.
You will arrange for my friends to be set at liberty at once?”

“Certainly; as soon as practicable.”

“To-day, I mean?”

“That is not possible. The _Rampallo_ is out at sea. I will send the
_Stella_ after her; but it will be at least two days before the two
yachts can be back in port.”

His face clouded. “That is very serious. These officers are absent from
their regiment without leave and exceedingly awkward questions may be
asked. It may mean ruin for them.”

“I presume they knew the risk they were running.”

“Had they succeeded there would have been no risk of course. On the
contrary, they would have had their reward. Had the cause of their
failure been other than it was, they would have been able to return
to duty at once; but as it is----” he broke off and paced the room in
great perturbation. “Could you have them put on shore somewhere along
the coast so as to save time?”

“No. The _Rampallo_ has steamed straight out into the Atlantic.”

He tossed up his hands with an exclamation of despair. “I beg you to
remain a minute while we consider this. I can think of but one way. It
may be two days, you say?”

“Possibly less,” I replied. “We parted company this morning about seven
o’clock. The _Rampallo_ makes about eight or nine knots under easy
steam and was about forty miles out. The _Stella_ covers two knots to
her one; and if we assume that the _Rampallo_ has nine hours start, and
allow for the time necessary to pick her up, the _Stella_ should reach
her in about twelve hours. The _Rampallo_ would be about twenty-four
hours on the homeward run and should make the river the day after
to-morrow in the early morning.”

“If they returned in your yacht they would be here sooner.”

“But the _Stella_ will not return here.”

“Could you not let her do so? The matter is very serious indeed.”

“No. I shall send orders that my men are to return to the _Stella_.
Those who took the _Rampallo_ to sea must bring her back.”

“You will not be surprised if I press you to let them return in your
yacht. I do press it, very earnestly indeed.”

“I can’t do it, Dr. Barosa.”

“Well, then, I must fall back on my first thought. The _Rampallo_ must
be wrecked, and Gompez and the rest take to the boat. That would give a
plausible reason for their absence.”

I smiled. It was certainly ingenious. “The weather has been rather
against anything of that sort,” I reminded him.

“That is not serious. As I gather it, you will send out an order at
once to your boat to go after the _Rampallo_ and just take off the men
you have on her. Will you let me send a letter by--your captain will it
be?”

“Captain Bolton.”

“Well, will you let me send a letter by him to Gompez?”

“Yes, if you give it me at once.”

He began to write it at once and, as before, found difficulty in
framing it, and tore up several sheets. “I can trust your captain to
deliver it unopened?” he asked.

“Of course you can. But I must ask you to get it done,” I said
impatiently.

He made a fresh start; wrote a dozen lines or so, and again tore up the
sheet, this time with a muttered oath of vexation.

“I am sorry to try your patience so, Mr. Donnington; but I have been
so disturbed that I am scarcely master of my thoughts. Will you let me
send this to your boat later on? Or will you write your instructions to
your captain and let me send them both together?”

“Yes, that will do as well,” I said.

He got up from the table and made way for me. I began a note to the
skipper telling him to hunt up the _Rampallo_ and take off Burroughs
and the men; and was proceeding to add that he should then steam to
Plymouth, when it occurred to me that I might possibly persuade Miralda
and her mother to leave on the _Stella_ at once.

I paused and by chance glanced in a mirror just opposite me, in which I
saw Barosa. He was watching me with a look of cunning, gloating triumph
that in an instant my suspicions awoke. He was fooling me. All his show
of concern for his companions, his inability to master his thoughts,
his suggestion about wrecking the _Rampallo_ and all the rest of it,
were tricks, nothing more, to fool me to put this order into his hands
so that he might get his friends at liberty.

Careful not to let him know that I had seen him, I resumed the writing.
But after adding a couple of lines I scribbled the word “Cancelled” in
big sprawling letters right across the paper, rose with a laugh and
tore it into minute fragments. “I’m like you, Dr. Barosa, I cannot
write. I’ll see my skipper and tell him personally; and you can send
your letter to him later. I’ll tell him to wait for it.”

“That will answer the same purpose, of course,” he said, not quite
successful in hiding his chagrin. “I will send it to the yacht in less
than an hour.”

“Will you see that Mademoiselle Dominguez comes to me?” I said, and
unlocked the door.

As I threw open the door he caught me by the arm. “Wait a moment, there
is another----”

The sentence was not finished. I turned at his voice and a cloth was
thrown over my head, I was seized before I had a chance to resist, my
arms were pinioned and a gag thrust into my mouth; and I was carried
down the stairs and flung on the floor of a room the door of which was
locked and bolted.




CHAPTER XXVIII

“YOU SHALL DIE”


I was not left alone very long, but it was quite enough for me to
curse my own folly for having allowed myself to be trapped in this
way. I ought never to have entered the house at all without taking
ample precautions. I could have brought half a dozen of the _Stella’s_
men with me. That was the first stupid blunder; but even in the house
itself, I had acted like an idiot.

I could see the whole business plainly enough now. Everything had been
done to secure delay. The instant I had arrived Inez had sent for
Barosa, and her talk to me had been merely intended to create delay
until he arrived. Then in order that the two might consult together,
Miralda had been brought to me.

They had filled her with the fear of arrest, calculating that she
would hesitate long enough to serve their purpose; but of course they
had never intended to allow her to leave the house. Then as their
preparations were not complete, Barosa had come to me to cause more
delay.

He had first detained me with a threat in order to gain more time; and
as soon as the trap for me was ready, he had affected to submit to
defeat. This was to learn precisely how matters were on the _Rampallo_,
and the steps necessary to secure the freedom of his companions.

He had gulled me so completely that I had been within an ace of giving
him the authority to the skipper, which would have sent the _Stella_
racing off to bring the men back to the city, while I was kept a
prisoner.

Fortunately I had pulled up in time to checkmate that move, and thus
was still so far master of the position.

What would be Barosa’s next step? What did he mean to do with me? It
would not do him much good to keep me a prisoner. Nor, so far as his
conspiracy was concerned, would he gain anything even by knocking me on
the head or putting a bullet in it.

I had rubbed the fact in well that, if anything happened to me, there
were others who would give the information which would blow his plans
into the air and send him flying for his life. There was a certain
amount of grim satisfaction that I was worth more to him alive than
dead; and in my present plight any consolation at all was welcome.

There was another source of consolation, too. Bryant knew where I
was, and when I did not return to him he would do something. He was a
sharp fellow, and quite shrewd enough to make matters unpleasant for
my gaolers. Fortunately, I had told him that I was coming to the house
in search of Miralda; and as he knew about Barosa and the attempt the
latter and Henriques had made, he would soon scent danger.

He would be in a desperate fix, however, what to do and when to do it;
urged, on the one hand, to immediate action by his alarm for me, but
restrained on the other by fear of acting too soon and so interfering
with my plans. But I might safely reckon that he would not let many
hours pass without taking some vigorous measures on my behalf. In that
case I might still escape without any more serious trouble than those
hours of discomfort.

Barosa was ignorant of the fact that Bryant knew of my presence in
the house, and thus would not have the very strong incentive to hurry
matters which that knowledge would have given him. If my guess was
right--that his object was to force me to send an order to Captain
Bolton to go after the _Rampallo_ and set the prisoners at liberty--he
would be chary of doing me any injury which would prevent my sending
for them.

I had reached that point in my speculations when the door was unbolted,
and two or three persons entered. They carefully examined the cords on
my arms, and then hauled me to my feet, and half led, half carried me
up several flights of stairs to a room where the gag and cloth over my
head were taken off.

I found myself in a small room, the one window of which was barred.
A pallet bed stood in one corner with a mattress, but without sheets
or blankets, and by the window a chair and a small table with writing
materials on it.

I lay down on the bed, intensely glad to be able to breathe freely
once more, but both sick and dizzy from the pressure of the gag. I
recognized the men who had brought me upstairs. I had seen them on the
night of the “test,” and I judged that they had been intentionally
selected by Barosa in order that I might see I was in the hands of men
who would have scant mercy for a traitor.

He meant to play on my fears, and the writing materials ready to hand
showed me I had guessed his purpose. I was to be forced to write the
necessary instructions to the skipper.

Not a word was spoken by the men. As soon as they had finished with me
they went outside, leaving the door open and remained close to it.

Some few minutes passed, and then Barosa came into the room and closed
the door.

“Now, Mr. Donnington, you must understand what we require you to do,”
he said very peremptorily. “You have chosen to interfere in our plans,
and your interference has brought you to this pass. You are absolutely
in our power; and I tell you at once and frankly, that your life will
depend upon your decision. You will write the instructions to Captain
Bolton to go after the _Rampallo_, and take our friends to Oporto with
all speed. As soon as they are safe, you shall be set at liberty. Not
here in Lisbon; but you will go on board a steamer which will take you
straight back to England, and you will have to give your word of honour
not to speak a word of anything you know until you reach your country.
You will also order your captain to take your yacht straight to England
the moment that our friends are landed.”

“I shall do nothing of the sort, Dr. Barosa.”

“I think you will change your mind. The penalty of refusal will
be--death,” he replied, as sternly and impressively as he could speak.

“Very well. I refuse absolutely,” I said, in quite as firm a tone as
his. As a matter of fact, I did not believe in his threat. His object
was to get his friends at liberty with the least trouble and in the
quickest time, and he was bluffing me.

But if it was only bluff, he made it very realistic. “I shall give you
five minutes in which to do what I require, and at the end of that time
if you persist in your refusal you shall die. That I declare solemnly
on my honour.”

With that he called in a couple of men and ordered them to unfasten my
right hand and bind my left arm to my side, and as soon as they had
done so, he sent them out again.

“I will tell you what you do not seem to know. The attempt last night
on the king has become known, many arrests have been made, and we are
all in danger of the same fate. At present the men who have brought you
up here do not know the part you have played in betraying them; but
when they learn it you know enough of them to judge how they will feel
towards you, and what they will be eager to do in revenge. If on my
return in five minutes from now those instructions are not written, I
shall tell them everything.”

With that he went out, leaving me extremely perplexed and profoundly
uncomfortable. Every one knows the trying effect of suspense on one’s
nerves; and he had no doubt carefully calculated how it would act upon
mine.

Did he mean to make his threat good, or was it a blank cartridge? I
did not believe that the attempted abduction had been discovered, and
that statement of his threw doubt on everything else. Moreover, he had
told and acted lie after lie in the former interview, and had done so
cleverly enough to hoodwink me completely.

He had declared on his honour that he was in earnest now, and his
manner had been tremendously earnest. But a man who could lie as he
had would probably not hold his word of honour much more highly than
his word without such a pledge. So I put that aside as a mere touch of
play-acting.

As I thought it all over, it seemed to me that he had overplayed his
part. If he had meant to shoot me, that reference to his associates
founded, as I believed it to be, on a lie about the plot having been
discovered, was an unnecessary exaggeration of my danger, intended to
appeal to my fears.

Yet, if I were wrong, my shrift was to be a very short one. To form a
judgment on a man’s probable motives, when the penalty of a mistake
means death, is a very ugly task, and I seemed to have scarcely begun
to think when he came back.

I was still sitting on the bed and a glance at the paper showed him it
was blank.

“You persist in refusing, then?”

“I haven’t had time to decide.”

“I won’t give you any longer,” he said, very sternly.

“There’s one point you must clear up. About Mademoiselle Dominguez,” I
said firmly.

“I will answer you with your own words this morning. It is for me, not
you, to impose conditions. But her safety will be secured.”

“Then you can have my decision. As soon as she and I are across the
frontier, you can have the letter you want.”

“You mean you will not write it otherwise? I warn you.”

“I mean I will not write it otherwise,” I replied; “I’ll see you hanged
first. Do what you will.”

He called in the three men who were waiting at the door, and in a very
few words told them the part I had taken on the previous night, and
that I intended to betray everything I knew to the authorities.

Before he had half finished there was no question about their
verdict. I read it in faces dark and fierce as a cyclone cloud; in
the threatening looks from eyes ablaze with wrath; in the execrations
hissed and growled between teeth clenched fast in hate, and in the
gleam of the half-drawn weapons as the strenuous fingers clutched at
them instinctively.

White-hot with passion they were, and possessed with but one common
motive and resolve--to defend themselves by exacting the uttermost
penalty for my treachery. Jury and judges and executioners in one,
Barosa knew how to play upon their feelings, and I saw that I was
condemned and sentenced almost as soon as the first words had left his
lips.

They were some of those who had been suspicious of me when the “test”
of my good faith had been made, one of them being the young fellow who
on that night had endeavoured to draw a statement from me by pretending
that he had been arrested and had turned informer. He was the most
vindictive of them all now; and while Barosa was still speaking, he
broke in with a loud fierce oath, and, carried away by his rage, he
drew his revolver and fired point-blank at my head.

Barosa saw him and struck up his arm. “Marco!” he thundered. “Are you
the sole judge?”

“The dog shall die,” he growled, in a muttered snarl of hate; and the
other two scowlingly agreed with fierce and savage oaths.

Barosa turned on them, his eyes snapping with rage. “Do you follow your
own lead or mine?”

“He shall die,” said Marco sullenly, and was raising his revolver again
when Barosa snatched it from him and flung it to the ground.

All three quailed before his fierce look and masterful assertion of
his leadership; and Marco fell back a couple of paces, his gaze at me
more vengeful and bitter than before, as if I had been the cause of his
humiliation.

I could understand Barosa’s action. With men of this class among his
followers his rule must be absolute and inflexible. Independent action,
even when amounting to no more than an anticipation of his orders,
could only be fraught with danger in such a cause as his; and for his
own sake and that of the end he had in view, he was bound to exact
literal and implicit obedience.

For a few seconds there was dead silence.

“Well, is it my lead or yours?” he asked them.

There was no longer sign or sound of disobedience.

“Pick up your weapon, Marco.”

The young fellow obeyed and put it back in his pocket.

“Now your decision?” he asked.

“Death,” all three exclaimed together.

“Bind his free hand,” he ordered next.

But I was not going to submit tamely. I sprang to my feet and seized
the chair. If I was to die it should be in hot blood, not like a sheep.

“Resistance is useless, Mr. Donnington. You must see that.”

My reply was not in words. I swung the chair up--it was a stout heavy
wooden one--and struck at him with all my force. He jumped back and
escaped most of the blow, but one of the legs struck him on the side of
the head; and then a very hot five minutes followed. I laid the young
fellow, Marco, senseless, and gave the other two something to remember
me by before the chair was torn out of my grip, and I was seized and my
right arm bound to my side and my legs lashed together.

Barosa had kept carefully out of the fight, but as soon as I was
helpless he saw that the cords were tied very securely.

“Stand him against the wall there,” he said, indicating a spot at the
foot of the bed.

They placed me as directed and then drew back.

He stooped over Marco, who was only stunned for the moment, drew the
revolver from his pocket and handed it to one of the men. “You have
yours,” he said to the other.

The fellow drew it out with a swift under glance at me, full of
sinister thirst for revenge and gloating satisfaction.

Then Barosa looked across at me. “We are all agreed that this is our
only course, Mr. Donnington.”

I met his look firmly. “You can murder me if you will, but it will not
help you. You know that,” I replied.

“Will you write what I require?”

“No.”

“Now,” he said sharply to the others.

They looked to see that the revolvers were loaded, glanced at each
other and raised them slowly, pointing them at my head and waiting for
the word to fire.

“I give you one last chance, Mr. Donnington,” said Barosa.




CHAPTER XXIX

MIRALDA’S APPEAL


Whether I was really so near death as it appeared when the two
pistols were levelled close to my head and the men were waiting for
the word to fire, or whether it was no more than a well-played and
realistically-staged bluff to frighten me into writing the instructions
to Captain Bolton, I have never been able to decide. I think now, it
was only pretence from beginning to end; but I believed it was grim
earnest then, and that when I answered Barosa’s question with another
refusal, I was signing my own death-warrant.

But in the pause before he gave the order to fire there was a sound of
rapid footsteps on the stairs, and Inez rushed into the room. With a
cry of horror she dashed between me and the levelled weapons.

“What does this mean?” she asked Barosa.

“You can see for yourself,” was the reply.

“You shall not do this in my house. Lower your pistols, you,” she cried
to the men.

They looked to Barosa, who hesitated a second, and then signed to them
to leave the room.

At that moment the strain told on me. I turned dizzy and weak, and sat,
or rather slid, down on to the foot of the bed, and lolled helplessly
against the wall.

An angry altercation followed between Inez and Barosa, but I paid no
attention to it. I could not; and some minutes passed before I was able
to pull my wits together sufficiently to hear what passed.

Barosa was about to leave the room. “The responsibility is yours, not
mine,” he was saying. “I tell you that while that man is alive, not
one of us is safe. You know how the police are hunting for us. They
will come here to a certainty, and then----” and he threw up his hands
angrily and went out.

Inez sat down and leaned her head on her hand in thought, and presently
turned and looked at me, with a deep despairing sigh.

The interval gave me time to think. It was beginning to dawn upon me
that the whole thing was play-acting, and that Inez herself had had her
cue to enter for her part in it.

“Mr. Donnington?” she began at length.

I turned very slowly and looked at her. For the present it was
evidently my best course to lead her to think that I had no suspicion
of the unreality of the proceedings.

“You are ill.”

I gave a feeble smile and wagged my head slowly.

“Can you listen to me?”

“Yes. I--I thank you,” I said, in a half-indistinct mumble, and with a
sigh as heavy as hers.

“It is horrible,” she replied with a shudder. “But they shall not do
you any harm. If I could get you out of the house I would. Oh, why, why
have you done all this?”

“I owe you my life,” I said, inconsequently.

“If I can save you,” she cried. After a pause she jumped up and began
to pace the floor excitedly. “You are mad to set Barosa at defiance.
You must see the uselessness, the folly of it, the utter madness.
The whole city is up in anger against us. We are in hourly danger of
discovery, even here in this house. There is nothing left for any of us
but flight; and you choose such a moment to drive him to extremes;” and
she continued in this half-distracted manner, as if speaking partly to
me and partly to herself, and giving me a very vivid picture of their
desperate situation.

But it did not agree with what Barosa had said. He had declared that
if I gave the order for the officers on the _Rampallo_ to be set at
liberty, I was to be set free on their arrival. That meant a delay of
nearly two days, and was therefore absolutely inconsistent with Inez’
statement that they were in hourly danger of the police raiding the
house.

However, her long excited tirade gave me time to think things out;
and when at last she ended with an appeal to me to write what Barosa
required, I had decided how to reply.

“You ask me to have these men set at liberty, contesse; but if I
were to do so, what object would be gained, as everything has been
discovered?”

“They are our friends and we must save them. Their ruin will not help
you.”

“Miralda is my friend, and I must save her.”

“But you will not help her by destroying them.”

“Why is Miralda kept a prisoner here?”

“She is not a prisoner, Mr. Donnington.”

“But she was not allowed to leave the house this morning.”

“Because after she had seen you we learnt other facts about her danger.
She is not a prisoner, and she stayed because it was not safe for her
to leave the house. That is all. You persuaded her to consent, but when
I saw her afterwards she realized her mistake in having given you the
promise. She will tell you so herself. She is as anxious as I am that
you should do what Dr. Barosa requires.”

This was all part of her parrot-like lesson, of course, but it was no
use to tell her that I knew that. So I tried another tack. “Do you know
Major Sampayo’s history?”

“What has that to do with this?” she asked in surprise.

“A great deal, as I will show you. Do you know it?”

“No, except that----”

“Anything about his South African career, I mean?” I broke in.

“No,” she replied, shaking her head.

“Then I’ll tell you.” And I told her enough to let her understand why
he went in such fear of me. “That is the secret of Barosa’s hold over
him,” I added.

“Why do you tell me this, and at such a time?” she asked suspiciously.

“Three days ago Sampayo offered to take any oath I pleased that he
would never marry Miralda; and this morning on the _Rampallo_ he told
me he had all but gone on his knees to Barosa, to induce him to set
Miralda free from all this, in order that I might be induced to leave
the country.”

She began to understand me now. The catch of the breath, the dilating
nostrils, the quick movement of the head, and the involuntary gripping
of the hands, were signs as easy to read as print.

“Within the last hour or two, here in this room, I offered to write
all that he needs if Miralda and I were put across the frontier. He
refused. I asked myself--why? I ask you the same question?”

In the pause she sat gnawing her lip; her bosom rose and fell quickly
under the strain of her quickened breathing; her colour began to wane;
her brows were drawn together in a frown, and the pupils of those
curious eyes of hers dilated as if her pent-up feeling had acted upon
them like atropine. “Why do you tell me this?” she repeated, her voice
down almost to a whisper.

“This morning Sampayo swore to me that his betrothal to Miralda was a
sham and a pretence, never intended to culminate in marriage, but only
meant to cover another man’s plans and passion.”

“Why do you tell me this?” she asked, for the third time.

“Because Manoel Barosa is the man you love.”

She winced as if I had struck her in the face, and for a few seconds
sat speechless and overwrought. Then with a great effort she mastered
her emotion and laughed. “It is all false, all ridiculous, all
laughable.”

“Then why will he not let Miralda go?”

“I have told you we are not preventing her.”

“Ah, stop that pretence. If you will not answer that question to me,
answer it to yourself.”

But she had regained her self-command, and concealed all sign of the
jealousy I knew I had roused. “She shall come to you herself and tell
you that what I say is true,” she said. She went to the door, paused,
and then turned. “You have done yourself an ill turn by this. Until now
I have been your friend,” she said, clipping her words short in her
anger; and with that she went out.

I cared nothing for her anger. I knew that I had started a fire which
would soon rage furiously enough to burn up Barosa’s scheme in regard
to Miralda. The question I had told Inez to put to herself was one to
which the roused devil of her jealousy would soon supply the answer;
and when it was answered, Barosa would have his hands full in looking
after himself.

Moreover, I was now all but convinced that the whole show of force
had been nothing more than an ingenious and well-acted bluff. Barosa
had realized that without my help he could not get Gompez and his
companions set at liberty, and it was quite probable that he had been
to Captain Bolton. I smiled as I thought of the reception he would meet
with from the old skipper.

As his dramatic show of force and Inez’ appeal following her
aptly-timed rescue, had both failed, the next move was to send
Miralda. But it was very long before she came, and the afternoon began
to wane. I watched the fading light with eyes greedy for the darkness,
for I knew that I might then look for some results of Bryant’s action.

I was suffering considerable pain now. The cords which bound my arms to
my sides had been so tightly drawn that all the blood in my body was
congested, and I tossed and turned on the bed in vain efforts to find
relief from the pressure.

All my own worries were forgotten, however, when Miralda came, and I
struggled up into a sitting posture and greeted her with a smile, as
she crossed the room.

Her face was very pale and careworn, her manner nervous and hesitating,
and her eyes very troubled. She had no smile in answer to mine.

“Inez tells me that you believe I am a prisoner here, Mr. Donnington.
I have come to assure you that is not so. I did not return to you this
morning because I found it would be useless for me to attempt to leave.”

She said this nervously in a sort of monotone, and with the air of
one repeating a lesson and afraid of forgetting the lines. The very
tone contradicted every syllable; and as she finished, she whispered
hurriedly in English: “Caution.”

I understood the position instantly and played up to it. “I told you
there was no danger. You might have trusted me,” I replied aloud in a
tone of reproach; and then with a glance toward the door which she had
left wide open, I whispered in English: “Listening?”

She nodded quickly, and said in her own tongue: “You did not know. You
could not know. Everything about last night has been discovered, and
the city is being ransacked to find us.”

“Not a bit of it. I am sure that nothing is yet known of the failure.
This is said to frighten you;” and again I whispered quickly in
English: “Are you a prisoner?”

Again she answered with a quick significant nod, as she went on with
her lesson. “I have come to beg of you to do what Dr. Barosa wishes.
Inez says you are refusing because you think you can help me. But you
can help me much better by doing this. I beg you with all my heart not
to refuse any longer.”

She was now able to speak with a much greater appearance of sincerity
and earnestness; and as she finished this last appeal she whispered in
English: “Don’t do it.”

“You say I can help you better by freeing these men. Prove that to me,
or let others prove it. Do you know that Dr. Barosa has told me that
even if I yield to him I am to be taken from here on board a vessel
sailing straight for England? How is that to help you?” and I laughed
incredulously.

Under cover of the sound of my laugh she whispered “Brazil, not
England,” and then added, with a well-acted note of concern in her
voice: “You are placing me in danger from some of these desperate men
who believe that I am in league with you to betray them.”

“But that cannot be so. No one knows that I told you anything about the
position of things on the _Rampallo_,” and I questioned her with my
eyes.

“I tell you you will ruin me if you persist in refusing, Mr.
Donnington,” and added under her breath: “We were overheard.”

“I can’t believe that. These people are merely seeking to frighten you.
Of course if I thought you were really in danger the thing would be
altogether different,” and again my eyes questioned her.

She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. “How can I prove it to
you? I am. I know that. Even Dr. Barosa is alarmed, lest he may not be
able to protect me from their violence.”

“But he has already arranged for your escape and your mother’s.”

She shook her head again meaningly. “These men have made that
impossible to-day. We were prevented when everything was ready.”

Once more the silent question from me, answered by the significant
shake of her head, told me the real truth beneath her words.

“But what you say only confirms my opinion--that by doing what is asked
I should not help you,” I said.

Her eyes signalled assent, but her lips uttered a quite emotional
protest. “Is my safety nothing to you, then? If I beg and implore you
to do what I have asked; if I tell you, as I do, that my liberty, and
probably my life, depend upon your decision, is this all nothing to
you?”

Her look explained the double meaning of her words. She believed that
not only my safety, but her own, depended upon my doing what she had
asked--but asked not in words, but by her looks and whispered English
asides.

“You distress me more than I can say,” I replied, adopting a similar
equivocation. “If it were possible I would tell you precisely how I
feel.”

“You appear to think you can set these men at defiance with impunity,
and that they will not harm you or me so long as you refuse!” A swift
interchange of glances told me that this was actually her belief.
Then she added with passion: “How can you be so infatuated, so mad,
so reckless? You will pay for refusal with your life.” Once more the
significant gesture of the head denied the truth of her words.

“What you have said has moved me deeply. Heaven knows, I have no
thought in all this but to save you from harm. I must make you
understand that. I have already told Dr. Barosa that if he will put
you and me across the frontier, I will do what he asks and keep silent
about everything. In that way your safety would be assured. But he
refused, believing that he can force me to agree to his terms. He
cannot. I have so arranged that even if he took my life--as indeed he
all but did to-day--he cannot tear his companions from my grip, and
will have to answer for my murder in addition to these other charges.
There are two beside myself who know everything about last night’s
attempt--they helped me in it--and they will hand over the prisoners
I took. Aye, and more than that. They know of his hatred of me; and
should anything happen to me they will not rest until they have
hunted him down and avenged me. No; it is useless to plead longer,” I
exclaimed, as if she had been going to do so, while in fact she had
listened with mounting interest and pleasure to every word.

“But I must,” she broke in, taking the cue readily. “I beg----”

“I cannot listen to you. I have stated my terms. The moment you are out
of the country, or on my yacht and in safety, I will do what is wanted;
but until then neither entreaties nor threats shall make me yield.”

She gave me a last bright glance of encouragement, her heart in her
eyes, and then burying her face in her hands she cried despairingly:
“You do not care, you do not care. You will ruin us all in your
madness;” and as if overwhelmed by her emotions, she rushed out of the
room.




CHAPTER XXX

JEALOUSY


The interview with Miralda left me in better spirits than I had been
at any moment since my imprisonment. She had confirmed my own view
that my life was safe so long as I refused to release Gompez and his
companions, and had assured me that she herself was in no serious or
immediate danger.

But best of all she had given me another proof of her trust. A fresh
bond was created between us and the old one cemented more firmly
than ever. Despite the fact that those who had sent her to induce me
to yield were actually listening to every word that passed, she had
contrived to let me know the real truth of the position.

I could understand the pressure which had been applied to force her
to come on such an errand. Her manner when she entered and uttered
the first lines of the part in which she had been carefully drilled
had revealed her feelings; and the nervous, quickly whispered word of
warning told me why she had yielded.

She knew the risk she was running should her act be discovered, but she
had faced it unflinchingly for my sake, resolved to put me on my guard
let the consequences be what they might to her. Barosa and Inez had
little dreamt that the trick of forcing her to try and mislead me would
result in the strengthening of my resistance! And it was Miralda’s own
shrewdness and care for me which had brought it all about.

The thought was infinitely sweet; and all the discomfort and pain I was
enduring were forgotten in the delightful contemplation of Miralda’s
courage and zeal for me.

The discomfort would soon be over now, moreover. Many hours had passed
since Bryant saw me enter the house, and I was certain that he was now
at work to secure my liberation.

If I had not been blinded in the morning by my alarm for Miralda I
should have taken the precaution to tell him what steps to take. But I
had not thought there would be any danger in Inez’ house. I ought to
have foreseen that she would send for Barosa, and have given Bryant
definite instructions what to do if I did not return to him.

What was he likely to do? He would keep a watch on the house of course.
He would thus see Barosa arrive, and probably also the men who must
have been sent for afterwards. I read the thing in this way. Inez had
sent word to him almost as soon as I was in the house. He had come at
once and then had probably sent Miralda to me in order to overhear what
passed between us.

Recognizing the danger, he had then sent for such of his companions
as he could thoroughly trust and had laid the trap into which I had
fallen. But he saw that unless he could get the men on the _Rampallo_
free, I still held the key to the situation. He had tried first to
trick me with that pretence of submission, and when that had failed,
he had fallen back on threats, carrying the threat to the very
extreme limit in the hope that I should yield when death appeared the
inevitable alternative.

Then, threats having failed, he resorted again to cunning. Inez rushed
in and saved my life, and then Miralda had been sent again.

When Bryant saw first Barosa and then the men arrive, he would be
shrewd enough to understand that I was in danger. In an hour or two
he would be in a parlous fix what to do. Unwilling to leave the house,
lest I should be brought out of it, he would have to devise some way of
getting it watched; and it was an easy guess that he would solve the
difficulty by finding a messenger of some kind to carry word to the men
on the launch to fetch the skipper.

The question they had to settle was whether they would enter the house
themselves or put the police on the track. The skipper would be for
doing it themselves--that was his blunt way; but Bryant’s was a much
more cautious nature, and he was far more likely to make up some yarn
and set the police to work.

All this would occupy a lot of time, but I felt certain that the night
would still be young when they would act.

I lay back on my mattress no longer fretting and chafing at the slow
passage of time. I had ample food for thought. I pieced together these
speculative doings of Bryant in the intervals of giving rein to the
fresh hopes and new delights engendered by my interview with Miralda. I
recalled word by word all she had said, treasuring her little asides,
her significant glances, her changes of tone and manner, as jewels
whose every facet reflected her trust, her courage, and above all her
care for me.

I was confident now of success, and it was she who had given me
confidence. As the darkness deepened I rejoiced. Each minute was
bringing nearer our delivery and reunion.

Some long time after she had left me--perhaps an hour or perhaps two
hours, I had no means of reckoning the time, but it had long been quite
dark--I heard footsteps approaching the room; and I guessed the curtain
was to go up for the next scene.

Barosa and Inez entered together. He carried a lamp, and I could see by
its light that the faces of both were very pale. He set the lamp down
on the little table and then bent over me.

“Mr. Donnington!” he said. His voice was low and slightly husky, either
from suppressed passion or anxiety.

I made no reply, and when he repeated my name and shook me I moaned as
if in great pain. There was little enough pretence about it indeed, for
the tightness of my bonds was causing acute suffering.

I rolled my eyes upon him, uttered another moan, shook my head feebly,
and then closed my eyes.

“He is almost unconscious, Manoel,” said Inez.

I read that use of his name to mean much. She had been asking herself
the question I had suggested--about the real reason for detaining
Miralda--and finding it unanswerable had passed it on to him.

“Mr. Donnington!” he said again angrily.

It was my object to waste time, of course; so I took no notice except
to sigh heavily, open my eyes again and close them instantly as if the
effort tried my strength.

“You are not so bad as all that,” he said, and shook me again very
roughly. When this had no effect, he felt my pulse, and in doing so put
a finger under the rope which bound my left hand.

“See how swollen the hands are, Manoel,” said Inez, holding the lamp
close to me. “It must be torture.”

But Barosa knew better than to be taken in by my malingering. “He can
speak well enough as he is if he pleases. Mr. Donnington, we have come
to set you at liberty.”

Then why didn’t he do it, was my natural thought. But I went through
another little pantomime. I showed slightly more strength this time, as
if invigorated by the news, but sank back again exhausted.

“He is only shamming, curse him,” muttered Barosa.

“These cords are cruelly tight, Manoel. Ease them, and see the effect.
I’ll go and fetch some brandy.”

She went away and Barosa began to unfasten the knots. He was very
suspicious and went to work cautiously. But he need not have feared.
The instant the cords were released and the stagnant blood began to
course again through the veins, I was not only helpless but in positive
agony, from my aching head to my throbbing feet.

Inez had been back some time before I could bear to move and when I
strove to sit up in order to take the spirit she had fetched, I fell
back like a log, sick, dizzy and as helpless as a new-born babe. Barosa
held me up while she poured a little brandy between my chattering teeth.

The pain subsided slowly and the brandy stimulated me, and after a long
interval--I made it long enough to try Barosa’s patience sorely--I
struggled to a sitting posture.

“What is this you have told Contesse Inglesia?” he asked.

I passed my hand across my forehead and stared at him vacantly.

“You know well enough what I mean. Repeat it to me.”

“What about?” I muttered.

“About Mademoiselle Dominguez. Some lie Major Sampayo is said to have
told you.”

I looked from him to Inez, and met her eyes fixed upon me intently.
“Tell me,” I said to her.

“What Major Sampayo said about the reason why Miralda was betrothed to
him.”

I turned slowly to Barosa. “If the contesse has told you, why bother me
about it?”

“Repeat it,” he said sternly.

I shook my head. “You know already.”

“Repeat it,” he cried again furiously. “And then admit you lied.”

“I do not lie,” I answered and turned again to Inez. “So you have asked
that question?”

“Repeat it, I say,” he thundered. “If you dare.”

“Oh, I dare. Sampayo told me that you had him at your mercy because you
found out the facts about his South African doings and threatened to
expose him. I had the same knowledge with an addition which frightened
him even more. He said that you had forced this betrothal, but that it
was only a sham and that you did not mean him to marry Miralda because
you yourself loved her.”

Out came a storm of oaths and denial, with fierce and passionate
threats against Sampayo for having coined the lie and against me for
having dared to repeat it.

Inez was scarcely less moved; and from what passed it was clear that
there had been a very warm quarrel between them before they had come up
to me. I learnt that she had threatened to sacrifice everything and go
straight to M. Volheno.

It was a long time before I could get a word in, and then I brought
them back to the real point. “Sampayo told me that after my interview
with him he begged you to get rid of me by doing what I wanted--freeing
Miralda from all this trouble. But you refused and tried to get rid of
me in another way--by inciting Henriques to murder me.”

“It is a lie, a lie. It is all lies,” he exclaimed furiously.

“Well then, why have you kept Miralda in the toils? If Sampayo lied,
what is the truth?”

That roused Inez again, and another altercation followed, fiercer even
and more prolonged than the first. He had evidently tried to answer the
question with fifty subtle pretexts, but Inez was jealous and knew too
much not to be able to see that there was no reason except the true
one.

In their anger they let out other valuable facts. The plot to abduct
the king had not been discovered, and Miralda had been prevented from
flying on the pretext that no discovery was likely to be made and
that she would be wanted for the next scheme which might be hatched.
My arrival with the news that I could reveal the whole conspiracy and
meant to do so had cut even this ground from under Barosa’s feet,
and then my repetition to Inez of Sampayo’s story had completed his
discomfiture.

I was delighted to find that Inez was now as anxious as I was that
Miralda should fly the country; and instead of making her my enemy, as
she had declared, she was resolved that I should take Miralda away.

Barosa was equally determined that I should do nothing of the kind, and
hence the bitterness of both and the _impasse_ to which matters were
brought.

Another result of the quarrel was that it gave me time to recover my
strength, and as that increased, I began to see whether I could not
take advantage of the position to escape. I was more than a match for
Barosa even after my experiences in that room. It was probable that
he had a revolver on him, and if I could get that, I could soon put a
different complexion on matters.

But he and Inez had crossed to the other end of the room, she had
closed the door lest the sound of their angry voices should be heard by
others in the house; and I could not get to him, however quick my rush,
before he would have time to draw his weapon.

In his present frenzy he would shoot me the instant he drew, and things
were going too favourably for me to take that risk.

I waited therefore in the hope that he would return to my end of the
room and give me the chance I sought.

But before I had such a chance, some one knocked hurriedly at the door
and Marco rushed in.

“I must speak to you at once,” he said excitedly to Barosa, and the two
men went out together.

Inez was literally convulsed with jealous rage. Her face was white,
her features drawn and haggard, her hands fiercely clenched, and she
was shaking from head to foot. As the two men went out, she watched
Barosa, her strange eyes gleaming like those of a tigress watching her
prey. And when the door closed behind them, she crossed to me, her hand
pressed tightly to her heart.

“Get Miralda from this house or I will not answer for myself,” she
said, her lips shivering and her voice low and hoarse with passion.

I threw up my hands with a gesture of helplessness.

With fingers that shook so violently that she could scarcely command
them, she tore open the bosom of her dress, took out a revolver and
thrust it into my hands.

“Wait here a few minutes until I return. She shall be ready to go,” she
whispered and then turned to the door.

“Inez! Quick. For God’s sake!” cried Barosa; and the next moment I was
alone again.

I rose and paced the room to shake off the lingering effects of the
cramp caused by the cords. My legs were still stiff, but a few turns
across the room put me all right.

Presently I opened the door and stood listening for Inez’ return.
Although I was within a few minutes of complete success, I was in a
fever of impatience.

There was no sound anywhere in the house, and it was all dark. I
fetched the lamp from my room and went to the stairhead.

Was it after all nothing but some fresh ruse?

I examined the revolver Inez had given me. It was loaded.

I was mystified.

I began to descend the stairs, but paused.

If I carried a light I should be an easy mark for any one having a
fancy to make a target of my body.

Setting the lamp down I felt my way by the balustrade and crept down in
the dark, careful to make as little noise as possible and halting every
now and again to listen.

In this way I descended two storeys, and tried in vain to remember how
many flights I had been carried up, that I might know on which floor I
stood.

Feeling in my pockets I found my matches and was about to strike one
when I heard a footstep followed by a smothered exclamation, as if some
one had stumbled in the dark. The sound came from some distance below.

Instinctively I shrank back against the wall and stood holding my
breath and listening intently.

All was as still as a vault.

My eyes had now grown sufficiently accustomed to the dark to enable
me to make out that I was on a wide landing on to which several rooms
opened. I felt my way round and listened cautiously at each. Not
a sound. Two of the doors were ajar, but each of the rooms was in
darkness.

I hesitated when I reached the stairs again what to do. That stumbling
footstep below had been full of unpleasant suggestion. But it was
useless to stop where I was, so I continued my descent, more cautiously
and slowly than before.

When I reached the next floor I paused again, waiting a long time and
straining my ears for some clue to the baffling situation. Not hearing
a sound, I again made a circuit of the landing, feeling my way by the
wall. There were three doors here, and each was ajar, and all three
rooms in darkness.

Feeling my way back to the stairs, I stumbled against a low pedestal
placed at some little distance from the wall. There was a large plant
on it and in preventing it from falling, the leaves shook with a
rustling noise almost disconcerting in the dead stillness of the house.

I crouched as still as a statue behind it, listening and holding my
breath again. Then I heard other rustling with a curiously regular beat
or infinitesimal throbbing. For a long time this puzzled me; until at
length I discovered that the throbbing was that of my own heart and the
rustling due to the movement of my coat lapel against the stiff edge of
my collar.

I crept on then to the stairs and descended, still using the same
caution. I reached the bottom. I was now in the hall. The feel of the
marble under my foot told me this.

I remembered the direction of the front door and turned toward it.

But I had not taken two steps in its direction before I was seized, a
hand was pressed on my mouth before I could utter a sound, and my hands
were wrenched back violently and pinioned behind me.




CHAPTER XXXI

A NIGHT OF TORMENT


My first thought when I was seized so suddenly in the darkness was that
a fresh trap had been laid for me and that I had blundered into it; and
that all the fierce wrangling between Inez and Barosa in my presence
had been mere pretence, to lead up to her saying what she had about my
leaving the house with Miralda.

But why all that trouble had been taken when I was already in their
power and, above and beyond all, why she should have given me a loaded
revolver, was utterly baffling.

I had not more than a minute or two to worry over that, however, for my
captors dragged me in silence to a room close by, which, like the rest
of the house, was in darkness.

“Don’t speak above a whisper,” said one of them fiercely, putting his
lips close to my ear.

An electric lamp was flashed in my face and the sudden light set me
blinking and winking like an owl.

“Do you know him?” asked a voice out of the darkness.

A murmur of dissent from the rest followed.

“Where are the rest of you?” was the first question asked of me.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I replied after a pause.

“Answer my question at once.”

I was at my wits’ end to know what line to take. I had had such
dramatic proof of Barosa’s methods of testing my good faith, that the
suspicion flashed across me that this was just another of them. He
and Inez might have patched up their quarrel--if it had been one in
reality--and he might have devised this means of seeing whether I meant
to keep my promise of silence, before he allowed Miralda to leave the
house with me.

My hesitation appeared to provoke the man who had put the question.
“Answer at once, you dog,” he said. But whether his anger was real or
assumed, I could not tell.

“There is some mistake----” I began.

“You’ll find that out if you don’t answer at once,” he broke in.

“I am an Englishman, Ralph Donnington, and have been kept a prisoner in
this house since this morning.”

“Answer me instantly,” he repeated with an oath.

“I have given you the only answer I can.”

The lamp was directed at my face the whole time--the only gleam of
light in the whole room. And to me everything was, of course, just one
huge blur of utter darkness.

“You refuse to tell me? You will repent it, I warn you.”

“I have answered,” I said again.

“You say you were a prisoner?”

“Yes.”

“When did you come to the house?”

“This morning. I came here from my yacht, the _Stella_. She is in the
river now.”

“Who made you a prisoner, and why?”

To answer that involved the telling of all I knew. And whether this was
sham or reality, it meant danger to Miralda. “You may be sure I mean to
find that out,” I said, fencing.

A pause followed and I heard some whispering. Then the man’s former
question was repeated. “You say you were a prisoner?”

“Yes.”

“A prisoner at liberty to roam about the house armed with a loaded
revolver? Is that what you mean?”

“Some little time ago a woman came to me--I was locked in a room at the
top of the house--and gave me the revolver and told me I could leave.”

This was the truth; but it sounded like a preposterous lie--as the
truth sometimes will.

“And that was just at the moment when you were all hurry-scurrying
for your lives on our arrival. Of course you don’t know who the woman
was, any more than why you came sneaking down the stairs in the pitch
darkness with her revolver ready to put a bullet into any one who
prevented your escape.”

“What I tell you is absolutely true. I was trying to get away, of
course, and came down in the dark fearing some trick on the part of
those who had imprisoned me.”

“You know whose house this is?”

“Oh, yes. The Contesse Inglesia’s.”

“Oh come, you know something,” he sneered. “I suppose she is a friend
of yours--just in a social way?”

“I was presented to her at the house of the Marquis de Pinsara
just after my arrival in Lisbon. I came to Lisbon on a mission of
considerable importance in which the Marquis and others of his friends
are greatly interested.”

“Do you include His Majesty the King in your circle of friends?”

I disregarded the sneer and replied gravely, “No, but I can give you
a list of those who are interested in my affairs;” and beginning with
M. Volheno, I rattled off a number of names. It was no good having
well-placed acquaintances without making some use of them.

“You are an impudent scoundrel,” was the hot reply. “Why did you come
to this house to-day?”

“On matters closely connected with my object here in Lisbon.” This was,
of course, my real object--Miralda--but it was not necessary to split
hairs or trouble with too much explanation.

“Whom have you seen here?”

“The Contesse Inglesia and the woman who gave me the revolver.”

“No one else?”

“I should not identify any one else.” This was very close to a direct
lie; and as I had no intention of either telling what I knew or of
committing myself to a direct denial, until I was certain about the
nature of the whole proceedings, I added: “I have said that I am an
Englishman. I have given you my name and have told you I am a friend
of M. Volheno, amongst others. You do not believe what I say, and I
claim my right as a British subject to communicate with my country’s
representatives here in the capital. Let me send to them or yourselves
send to M. Volheno. I shall not answer any more questions.”

“Tell me at once where to find the rest of your companions,” he said
very sternly.

“I know no more than yourself. I have no other answer to give.” I spoke
very firmly and half expected that my experience of the former test
would be repeated and that the men would be satisfied.

But nothing of the kind followed. After a pause the light was suddenly
put out, a whispered command was given, and I was hurried out of the
room and then out of the house, dragged with no little violence into a
carriage and driven away.

This might still be part of a drastic test, of course; so I held my
tongue and let them take me where they would. As I left the house I
glanced about me in the hope of catching sight of Bryant; and was
considerably troubled when I could not see him.

But I was soon to learn that it was no mere test. The carriage pulled
up before a gloomy building and I was half led, half dragged inside,
where I was confronted by a number of men in police uniform. I was
searched and everything taken from me; my name was entered; and without
more ado I was led away to be thrust into an unmistakable prison cell
with other equally unmistakable prisoners.

The experiences of that night live as an ineffaceable memory--worse
than any nightmare horrors; worse than one’s worst imaginings of any
nether world.

The cell was a large one in which perhaps twenty or thirty could have
been confined without any undue crowding. There were more than that
number already there when I was thrust inside; and many others were
brought in afterwards, men and women indiscriminately, until we must
have numbered over sixty altogether.

Had all been approximately clean or approximately sober, the air
would still have been too foul to breathe and we should have been too
crowded to move without shouldering one another. By the exercise of
strict discipline and mutual arrangement and forbearance, it would have
been possible, by taking turns, for some to have slept while the rest
huddled together.

But there was neither cleanliness nor discipline. Most of the
men and some of the women were of the scum of the gutter; filthy
beyond description and evil-smelling to the point of nausea--the
incarnation of all that is offensive and abominable in humanity. And
to add to the horror, many of the men were in different stages of
drunkenness--hilarious, quarrelsome, brutal or obscene, according as
the drink developed their natural or unnatural temperaments. But all
were noisy and equally loathsome.

Some dozen of the men and most of the women--of whom there were
about fifteen--were of a better class. But two or three of the women
were too hysterical from fear to be capable of anything approaching
self-command. Their cries and moans of anguish were heartrending; and
their occasional piercing screams and vehement outbursts of sobbing,
not only added to the general din and racket, but provoked the anger of
the drunkards and drew from them a flood of obscenity and abuse.

Wherever a dozen women are brought together in trouble, however,
you may confidently look for at least one “ministering angel” among
them. There were two in that awful den that night. In appearance they
afforded the extremes of contrast. One was a tall buxom woman in the
forties with a hard forbidding-looking face, but with a heart as stout
as her big body and courage as strong as her bared brawny arms. The
other was a pale frail slip of a girl who looked as if a breath of wind
would have knocked her down; and it was an act of hers which brought
matters to a crisis.

On my entrance two or three fights were in progress, and as I had no
wish except to avoid trouble, if possible, I pushed my way to a corner
near one of the small barred windows, and stood leaning against the
wall, watching the unruly crowd in dismay at the prospect of a night to
be passed in such company and in such utterly foul surroundings.

Whenever the door was opened and fresh prisoners were thrust in, their
entrance was hailed by raucous shouts of welcome or hoarse oaths and
jeers of anger according to the feelings which the newcomers’ looks
inspired. Those who were known favourably were hailed by their names,
while others were received with yells and curses and immediately seized
and buffeted and kicked and mauled, dragged hither and thither like
a big bone by a pack of yelping curs, until bruised, battered and
half-dead with fear, they found rest and obscurity in a corner; or
until some new arrival distracted the attention of their persecutors.

I had been watching one of these affairs when I turned to find the
girl I have mentioned at my side. Her fragile form and pale face
moved my pity, and I made way so that she could stand just under the
window. She thanked me with a smile, and we stood thus for a long time,
exchanging an occasional glance.

Later on, one of the noisiest of the hysterical women drifted our way
and the girl instantly left her place and began to try and comfort
the woman. There must have been magnetism in her touch and eyes, for
the effect was remarkable. The other’s cries ceased and her sobbing
subsided, and she soon regained a measure of composure.

She was a good-looking woman and her face attracted the attention
of a drunken brute of a bully who shouldered his way up and with a
coarse oath tried to put his arm round her waist to kiss her. Without
a second’s consideration of her own risk, the girl thrust herself in
his way and pushed him back with all her little strength, and stood
guarding the woman like a young lioness at bay.

The beast swore viciously, glared at her and raised his hand for a
blow; then his look changed, his eyes blazed with animal passion and he
tried to seize her, swearing he would kiss her instead of the woman.

I shouldered my way to her rescue, but before I could reach her, the
big woman intervened. She grabbed the brute from behind and dragged him
off, with a voluble torrent of language which, “ministering angel” as
she afterwards proved, had very little of the minister and nothing of
the angel in it.

The drunken bully, powerful though he was, had much difficulty in
shaking her off, and by the time he had succeeded, I had reached the
girl and stood in front of her. Finding a man to deal with and one much
slighter than himself, he elbowed himself clear of the throng round him
and prepared to knock me into the next world. But I knew how to use my
fists and he did not; and as he struck at me I easily parried the blow
and gave him an undercut on the jaw which sent him staggering back, a
very much surprised bully indeed.

A fight being a welcome recreation for the prisoners, we were
immediately surrounded by a yelling, oathing crowd, and a sufficient
space was cleared for us to settle matters. It is no credit to batter a
half-drunken man, and I would gladly have avoided the thing if it had
been possible. But it was not. My antagonist was regarded as a sort
of champion by those who knew him; and as they were anxious to see me
mauled, they hounded him on with shouts and cheers of encouragement.
Five minutes finished it; and established a reputation for me which
proved of infinite value for the rest of that terrible night.

His friends led him away to the other end of the place; and when I
turned to go back to my corner, I found that the girl and her big
companion had taken possession of it for the benefit of the other
women. They had cleared a sufficient space to enable the women to lie
down; and by some magic of womanhood had comforted and soothed them
until comparative quiet had been restored.

Nor was that all. Such of the men as were sober and decent had drifted
to our end and stood in line as a guard over the women. A space of very
few feet divided us from the rowdies; and as they still persisted in
keeping up a racket, I determined to use the authority with which my
victory had invested me, to try and stop some of the din.

I picked out three of the strongest men near me, told them what I meant
to do, and asked their help. We were, of course, heavily handicapped in
numbers; but we were sober and capable of concerted action, whereas the
others were mostly drunk and at loggerheads even with one another.

Four of us crossed the dividing line and without a word seized four of
the noisiest of the crowd, dragged them from the midst of the throng,
shook and cuffed them soundly, and then ordered them to stop their
yelling and oathing.

They slunk off cowed and beaten; but a number of the others broke out
with volleys of curses and threats and showed fight. At this, the other
men from my corner came forward, and the manœuvre was repeated on a
larger scale. This time I took care to punish my man severely; and when
we shoved them reeling away and looked for fresh ones, we looked in
vain.

They all backed away, huddled together like sheep frightened by the
dogs; and for the rest of the night there was no recurrence of the row.
We went back to our side and resumed guard over the women; half our
number crouched on the ground and the rest of us did sentry work.

The rowdies across the dividing line gave very little trouble after
that. There were occasional wranglings among themselves, as they fought
for room to crouch or lie down, or struggled for space to breathe;
but they had had their lesson and were careful not to provoke another
attack from us.

Many of them were soon fast in drunken sleep, as their stertorous
breathing and loud snoring evidenced. But contrasted with the din and
racket in the past hours, this was comparative peace and silence.

How any one could sleep under such conditions baffled me. The reek and
noisome stench of the place were appalling; and although I stood as
near as I could get to one of the windows, I was almost suffocated and
felt sick, stifled, and overpowered.

The women also slept, all but the two who watched over them and tended
them with the care and vigilance of tender-hearted womanhood. The
endurance of the young girl was as wonderful as her staunch courage and
her magnetic handling of her troubled sisters. She even outlasted the
big brawny woman who fell asleep soon after the dawn broke. The light
struggled through the windows, and the abject wretchedness and squalor
of the scene were infinitely more depressing and horrible in the light
than they had seemed in the feeble rays of the gas jets.

Only once did she show even a sign of breaking down. That was about two
hours after the dawn when she was near me and I asked her why she was a
prisoner and spoke in praise of her conduct.

She told me that she was a political prisoner, and that her real name
was Pia Rosada, but she had been arrested in a different one. She was a
keen revolutionary, goaded into rebellion by the ill-treatment of her
relatives. She was only a suspect; but she knew much and looked forward
to some kind of torture being employed to force her to turn informer.
“They may do what they will, I shall tell nothing,” she said, her eyes
lighting with resolution and dauntless courage--a martyr in the making.

“I am sorry for you,” I murmured.

“I would die a hundred deaths first,” she answered. Then her look
changed. Her clear gaze was troubled and she glanced round at the
women. “Do you think we have no cause to revolt? Look at these poor
creatures;” and her eyes filled with tears. But she dashed them away.
“We cannot afford the luxury of tears,” she said hurriedly, and slipped
from me to go to one of her charges who woke and sat up and began to
weep. In a minute she was soothed and comforted by the touch of those
wonderful hands, the glance of the magnetic eyes, and the soft whisper
of the sweet calming voice.

My thoughts flew to Miralda, and with a shudder of fear I pictured her
in the midst of such a scene of abomination and desolate misery.

Death was a million times preferable to existence in such a hell of
life as this!




CHAPTER XXXII

A HUNDRED LASHES


I was not without apprehension that, as soon as the drunkards
and rowdies woke up, there would be some renewal of the night’s
disturbances, with trouble to follow for the women and for us who had
kept watch over them.

But the anticipation was unfounded. The men were too ill to make
trouble. The fearful atmosphere they had breathed, combined with the
effects of their intoxication, had sapped alike their strength and
their energy. Listless, sick both in mind and body, crushed in spirit
and utterly downcast, they kept apart from us and huddled together in a
compact companionship of weary, lifeless, dejected wretchedness.

Several of those at our end of the prison, men and women alike, were in
much the same condition. Daylight appeared to add to their sufferings,
instead of diminishing it. In the dim gas light they had been spared
the sight of the other’s condition; but it was revealed to them now and
made them the more conscious of their own evil plight. The pestilential
atmosphere had also enfeebled them; and the frail little Pia and her
strong helpmate were hard put to it to keep them from giving way. Many
of them fainted, gasping piteously for air; and Pia asked me to get the
men to help in holding one or two of them up to the windows that they
might breathe fresh air in place of the pestilence-laden atmosphere of
the gaol.

The men agreed readily, although themselves greatly weakened by
the night’s experiences, and I had just laid down one woman whom a
companion had helped me to revive in this way, when he began to speak
of Pia; praising her courage, her endurance and her resource.

“She is a little heroine and will be missed by our friends,” he said,
when I echoed his praises warmly. “I hope they can prove nothing
against her. How long have you known her?”

“I saw her for the first time here.”

“She is heart and soul in our cause and one of the staunchest workers
and the bravest.”

“What cause is yours, my friend?”

“You are right to be cautious; but my cause is yours, and yours mine.”

At this moment Pia touched me on the arm. “Will you come and look at
this poor soul here?” she asked; and as I turned and we bent over a
woman who had fainted, she whispered hurriedly: “That man is a spy. Be
careful what you say to him.”

I was astounded. It seemed incredible that any money, any reward
however lavish, could induce a man to face the horrors of such an
inferno as that gaol.

“Can you lift her to the window?” asked Pia, seeing my look of
incredulity; and she whispered: “It is true. I know. Be very careful.”

The man helped me hold the unconscious woman to the air; and when we
set her down somewhat revived, he was at me again, seeking to draw some
compromising admissions from me in response to his own violent abuse of
the Government.

“You are mistaken about me and should not speak so unguardedly to a
stranger even in this place,” I answered.

“I should not had I not seen how you sympathize with our friends here.
It is true we have not met before, and in that sense we are strangers;
but a fellowship of suffering in our common cause makes us all
friends--aye, and more than friends.”

“What I have done has been done for motives of mere humanity.”

“But they recognize a leader in you--and I proclaim myself as devoted a
follower as any of them.”

“I am no leader of any cause, man. I am an Englishman; my name is
Donnington; and I have been brought here through the blundering of the
police.”

“They are devils,” he exclaimed vehemently, and then tried to lead me
into joining in his abuse of them. But little Pia had put me on my
guard, and after a time he abandoned his efforts and fastened on to
another man, with results I was delighted to see.

The man listened for a while and presently, taking offence at something
which the spy said, answered hotly; the spy lost his temper and let
fall a remark which others beside the man he was pumping resented. They
closed round him and first thrashed him soundly and then knocked him
across to the other group. The latter glad to get hold of one of us
grabbed hold of him, and venting on his cowardly body all the rage they
dared not vent on us, they beat and kicked and mauled him unmercifully,
until his screams for help attracted the attention of the warders and
they entered and dragged him away.

Knowing that he would seek revenge by lying about us, I got from Pia
all the names of the men who had stood by me during the night, so that
when I was out of my own troubles, I might tell Volheno what had really
occurred.

Soon after that the door was thrown open and several officials entered.
They made a careful note of the unusual division of the prisoners into
the two groups, and at once ordered the removal of those with whom we
had had the trouble.

While this was going on I went up to the chief official and told him my
name and asked for food for myself and those remaining. I was famished
and parched with thirst. I had not had even a crust of bread for
twenty-four hours and only the sip of brandy which Inez had given me.

His reply was an oath and an order to hold my tongue.

I pointed to the women and asked for food for them, and the brute
raised his hand and struck me across the mouth.

Mad with rage at this, I sprang on him and pulled him down, dashing
his head against the stone flags. In a moment half a dozen of his men
rushed up and dragged me off, kicking and mauling me with the utmost
violence, and then put my wrists in irons.

Their leader rose livid with rage. “You shall have the lash for this,
you traitorous dog,” he hissed between his teeth. “Fling him in the
corner there,” he ordered. “The lash shall tear the flesh from your
back for this. Yes, the lash and plenty of it. That shall be your
breakfast. Yes, the lash, the lash;” and he repeated this several
times, each time with a fierce and bitter oath, as if gloating in the
prospective treat of seeing my flesh cut to ribbons.

I was flung into the corner, as he had ordered--the loathsome spot,
reeking with all the filthy abominations of the vile crew who had
passed the night in it--and the other prisoners were forbidden to
come near me under penalty of sharing my punishment. But the door had
scarcely closed on them before little Pia came straight across, with
gentle reproaches for my futile violence and words of sympathy for my
trouble.

I tried to send her away, fearing the warders would return and find she
had disobeyed their order; but she would not go. The skin of my face
was broken slightly where one of the men had kicked me--only a graze,
for the force of the kick was spent before his foot touched me; and she
insisted upon wiping the few drops of blood away. Her touch was that of
a hand skilled in healing; and as she did what she could to cleanse
the little wound, her eyes were full of tears and her face a living
mask of pity and sympathy.

[Illustration: “In a moment half a dozen of his men rushed up and
dragged me off.”]

“Go, go before they return and find you here,” I urged her.

“Is it not you who saved us all from the worst terrors of this awful
night? Shall I desert you now you have brought this trouble on
yourself?”

“Go, please go. You can do me no good and only harm yourself,” I begged
her; but she would not go, and was still with me when the men came back
to lead me out.

They seized her at once and, being brutes not men, handled her with
cruel violence. I would have cursed them in my empty rage had it not
seemed like a dishonour to her, in her calm quiet, almost saint-like
resignation.

We were taken out together into a large quadrangle, and I caught my
breath with a shiver of panic as I saw on the other side the whipping
post surrounded by a group of men, two of whom held many-thonged,
heavily knotted whips.

We were led across to it and a halt was made, and the two powerful men
with the whips eyed us both with sinister, half-gloating gaze.

I was ashamed of my cowardice then. Grit my teeth as I would in a
firm resolve to bear the awful punishment of the lash, I turned cold
and sick at the thought of it. But the frail creature by my side was
utterly unmoved. She was pale, but no paler than usual, and as calm and
unmoved as the whipping post itself.

To the brutalized ruffians, the tragedy was more like a pleasant farce.

“Only two this morning?” asked one of those holding a whip.

“May be more presently,” replied one of the men with us.

“I want more exercise than this,” was the growling answer, uttered with
a sort of snarling laugh.

“You’ll have plenty with this dog. He struck the captain.”

“He looks as if he had less stomach for his breakfast than the girl
here.”

The taunt bit like an acid and did more than anything could have done
to revive my drooped courage.

In this coarse way they jested until another prisoner was brought
out from a different cell and tied up for the lash. I will not dwell
on the sickening scene which followed. I shut my eyes and, had I not
been ironed, would gladly have closed my ears as well to keep out the
awful sound of the poor wretch’s screams, until the blessed relief of
unconsciousness silenced them.

Pia stood with her hands clasped to her eyes and her thumbs pressed
close to her ears, and did not look up until the unfortunate victim
was carried away, the blood dripping from his lacerated back making a
gruesome and significant track across the flags.

I thought my flogging would follow immediately; but it turned out
otherwise. We had merely been made to witness the terrible punishment
that our courage might be broken and our senses racked by the sight of
what was in store for us.

Instead of being triced up to the post, we were led away into another
part of the building; and one of the men with me explained with a
chuckle that such a number of strokes as I should receive for my
offence could only be ordered by the Governor of the prison himself.

As we were taken into the room I saw the officer I had struck, who was
addressed as Captain Moros, in close consultation with a tall, thin,
grey-bearded man in an elaborate uniform decorated with several medals.
This was His Excellency the Governor. He frowned at me over the rims
of his pince-nez; and I perceived at once that he had been already
informed of my heinous deed, and that the captain had made the case as
black as possible.

“This is the man, I suppose?” the Governor asked him.

“Yes,” said the captain, and he turned to the warders by my side.

“Is he securely ironed? He is a very desperate and very dangerous
ruffian,” he added to the Governor. “I have ascertained that he nearly
killed one of his fellow-prisoners in the night and instigated an
attack upon another of them this morning;” and he bent toward the
Governor and whispered to him.

He was describing the incident of the spy’s mauling, and he finished in
a tone loud enough to reach me. “There is no doubt he recognized him
and was at the bottom of the whole thing.”

“Who is he? Is he known to our men?”

“Oh, yes. I have made inquiries. He is one of the most violent
revolutionaries in the city. Altogether a most reckless, dangerous man.
I am able to vouch for all this personally; and there is no doubt he
meant to kill me. I had a most marvellous escape.”

“How do you say the attack was made?”

“Without a word of warning. I was watching as some of the prisoners
were taken out of the cell and he sprang on me suddenly from behind and
tried to throttle me. It took half a dozen men to drag him away.”

“Certainly a very bad case; as bad as it could be. And the woman, who
is she?” asked the Governor.

“A political suspect in league with the man. I have reason to believe
that she incited him to attack me. I had the fellow separated from
the rest and ordered them not to go near him on pain of sharing his
punishment. I really did that as a test to find out if he had any
close associates among them. She went to him at once in defiance of my
orders; and I find that they are old companions. They acted together
all the night in a very suspicious manner indeed.”

“She looks very young and fragile for such a punishment.”

“Your Excellency will see that flagrant disobedience of our orders such
as this woman was guilty of cannot be passed over. She knew the penalty
of disobedience; and if prisoners find that we can be set at defiance
with impunity, the difficulty of keeping them in subjection will be
very great. I feel that my sense of duty compels me to press this case.”

“I see that, of course. The doctor had better examine her to see if she
can bear the punishment.”

“You may of course leave that to me,” was the reply; and the Governor
was quite willing to do it.

A pause followed, and I was waiting to be questioned, for I had not
even been asked my name, when Pia’s clear young voice broke the silence.

“General de Sama.”

If a bomb had exploded suddenly in the room it would not have produced
much more astonishment. The Governor looked up with surprise; the
captain shouted “Silence her;” and the two men holding Pia shook her
angrily, one of them clapping a hand to her mouth. It was evident that
none but official dogs must bark in that place, and for a prisoner to
open her lips was a crime.

I made an effort to explain, but before a couple of words were out of
my lips, I was silenced as Pia had been.

When the commotion caused by this had subsided, the Governor addressed
me. “You have attempted the life of Captain Moros and you are evidently
a very dangerous and desperate man. The punishment for your crime under
the law is death; but your intended victim has interceded for you
and has mercifully asked that the case shall be dealt with, not as a
capital crime against the law of the land, but as an offence against
the discipline of the prison. As such I have power to deal with it. It
is a very grave offence, very grave indeed, and the punishment must
be in proportion to its gravity. You will receive a hundred lashes to
be administered twenty strokes at a time with such intervals between
each flogging as the doctor shall decide. You have every reason to be
grateful to Captain Moros for his leniency. As for you,” he added,
turning to Pia, “your case is different, but I am compelled to uphold
the discipline of the prison. You knew beforehand the punishment of
disobedience. But you are young and may have been led into this trouble
by your evil companion there. You will receive five strokes with the
lash.”

With that he signed to the men to take us away.

I was so dazed, stunned and overwhelmed by the terrible sentence that
even the gloating look of triumph and malice on Captain Moros’ face
failed to rouse my resentment, as my guards hustled me away.




CHAPTER XXXIII

THE LUCK TURNS


As it turned out, this same paralysis of despair which fell on me after
hearing my terrible sentence proved the means of saving me. I had tried
to explain who I was and had been silenced, and any attempt during the
proceedings would have failed in the same way.

But as I was being taken out, my condition of helplessness led the
warders to believe I was too feeble to offer any sort of resistance,
and their hold of me was very slight.

Just as I reached the door, through which Pia had already passed, my
wits awoke and my energy quickened in obedience to an instinct of
self-preservation. The Conte de Sama had been one of those to whom the
Marquis de Pinsara had introduced me on the night of the reception,
and the conte had written me subsequently that his brother, General de
Sama, the Governor of the prison, was anxious to co-operate with me.

I sprang back from the gaolers’ loose hold of me, therefore, and
darting toward the Governor I rushed out the words: “There is a
mistake. I am Ralph Donnington, the Englishman who seeks the Beira
Concessions. Your brother, Conte de Sama----”

I had no chance to finish, for I was collared by the warders, one of
whom silenced me as Pia had been silenced.

Captain Moros was furious and put himself in front of the Governor, as
if to protect him from my violence and ordered the men to drag me away
instantly.

But I had appealed to a far higher force than the law--the cupidity of
this Portuguese notable; and he had heard enough to rouse his fear of
losing a chance of fortune.

“Wait,” he said quickly to his companion. “Remain here with your
prisoner,” he ordered the gaolers; and then, as if to conceal his
personal interest in my statement, he was shrewd enough to cover
it with a reference to the law. “If the prisoner is an Englishman,
Captain Moros, as he says, you will see there may be somewhat serious
complications. I must question him. Have the female prisoner brought
back.”

“May I sit down?” I asked abruptly. My legs were trembling under me and
I was feeling faint from want of food and quite used up. He consented
and a warder placed a chair for me.

“If you are an Englishman”--and he affected to have forgotten my name,
stumbling over it--“how is it I find you here?”

“Ralph Donnington is my name. I was arrested last night by mistake as a
political suspect. I passed the night in this prison, and when Captain
Moros entered it this morning, I told him who I was and asked him for
some food. He ordered me to be silent. I then asked for some food for
the women who were lying ill from the effects of the awful night we had
all endured. His reply was a blow on the mouth, and I lost my temper
and grappled with him.”

The captain tried several times to interrupt me with furious outbursts,
but the Governor--thinking no doubt of the concessions--would not let
him interfere.

“If your statement is true, it puts a very different complexion on the
matter. You must see that, Captain Moros.”

“It is a pack of lies,” he declared.

“All the prisoners heard and saw what passed. Interrogate them singly
and they will corroborate every word. I have the honour of the
friendship of M. Volheno and I shall appeal to him to do so. I have
requested to be allowed to communicate both with him and with the
representatives of my country, but no notice has been taken. If your
Excellency will send to M. Volheno, you will be immediately convinced
that I am what I say--Ralph Donnington, an Englishman of great wealth,
enjoying the friendship of the Marquis de Pinsara and many other
prominent men in Lisbon, and here for the purpose of acquiring very
valuable concessions in your African Colony.”

The concessions won hands down, and the victory extended even to little
Pia who had been brought back and stood listening in amazement.

“This must be inquired into, of course,” said the Governor after a
pause. “Free the prisoner’s hands,” he added. Then to me: “Do you know
anything of the girl at your side?”

“I will answer for her as for myself. I know her to be innocent of
any wrong, and that she is about to leave the country. I am indeed
interested in making arrangements for her to do so.”

Pia moved restlessly and was about to protest, I think, so I placed my
hand on her shoulder and looked into her eyes: “You will bear out what
I say?”

To deny would compromise me, and that I was sure she would not do.
After a slight pause, she said simply: “That is so.”

At my mention of Volheno’s name the Governor had scribbled a line and
handed it to a subordinate who took it away.

“I am compelled to protest against this, your Excellency,” said the
captain at this point. “And having made this protest, I will, with your
permission, return to my duties.”

“The matter has taken a very grave turn, Captain Moros; you will be
good enough to remain until we know more. This may be serious for you.”
The subordinate returned then and handed a packet to the Governor who
whispered with him, and sent him away again. “I find that you gave your
name on being brought in last night, Mr. Donnington. Here is what was
found upon you. I shall return all except a paper which I may have to
deal with differently. I revoke both sentences.”

This was, of course, the confession of Gompez and the rest. “May I
ask that some of the money may be used to buy food for the wretched
prisoners in that cell?”

He granted the request and sent some one away for the purpose.

“I have telephoned to M. Volheno, and have no doubt, from what he
says, that all is as you represent. He desires to see you as soon as
possible.”

“May we go then? I have had no food since yesterday morning.”

“There is still one formality,” he replied. He turned then to Captain
Moros and said something which made the brute go white and set him
trembling, as he protested. But the protest was evidently unavailing,
and after some further words, he rose and went out at the back of
the room. I learnt afterwords that he was made the scapegoat for my
treatment and dismissed from his position.

Just as this incident ended, the door by which we had entered opened
and another prisoner was brought in. To my amazement I saw it was
Bryant.

“Do you recognize any one here, prisoner?” the Governor asked him.

Bryant stared all round. “Only my master, Mr. Donnington.”

“Was that the formality, your Excellency?” I asked.

“M. Volheno said you two were to be confronted, and I had no option but
to do so. You are now at liberty to leave.”

“And my servant?”

“Certainly. I trust you will let this most regrettable and
unintelligible series of mistakes pass out of your mind. Here are the
things taken from you--the paper I am sending to M. Volheno. And now,”
he added, as he offered me his hand; “I shall be glad if at some time
convenient to yourself you will afford me an opportunity of discussing
with you the matter in which you so interested my brother.”

Pia was at a loss what to do. So I laid my hand on her arm. “Come,” I
said.

“But----” she began.

“Come,” I repeated, more insistently, and she yielded, leaving the
place as if she where walking in her sleep. But as soon as we were in
the street and the gloomy gates had closed behind us, she paused to
take two or three deep breaths, her face raised skywards and her eyes
shining brightly in rapture, and then smiled, as if the very air itself
were at once the symbol and the proof of the liberty so unexpectedly
regained.

After that she turned and held out her hand to me.

“You are out of prison, Pia, but you are not free,” I said, shaking
my head. “I have answered for you; and you cannot return to your
associates here without falsifying my pledge.”

Her eyes clouded in embarrassment. “What can I do?”

“In the first place you are going to put absolute confidence in your
new gaoler and let him look after your future, as soon as he knows what
you wish to do. He is a very stern gaoler and will take no refusals,” I
added, interrupting a threatened protest.

“If you are anything like as famished as I am, your first desire will
be to eat something;” and we turned into the first hotel we reached.

Some objection was taken to our appearance--we were like three towsled
tramps--but money soon overcame that, and while I was doing what I
could to get rid of the results of the night’s imprisonment--Pia having
gone off with a servant for a similar purpose--I listened to Bryant’s
account of his experience.

It was pretty much what I anticipated, but with an unexpected result.
He had waited for me outside Inez’ house for some hours and had then
contrived to send a message to Captain Bolton. Together they had agreed
that the skipper should go and tell the police about my disappearance,
while Bryant remained on watch.

But in some way the abduction plot had become known. The police had
jumbled the two things up and, on reaching Inez’ house, their first act
was to arrest Bryant himself on suspicion, refusing to believe or even
listen to his explanation; and he had been in prison up to the moment
of his being brought in to identify me.

It turned out that Captain Bolton had been making inquiries everywhere
both for me and for Bryant; and Volheno had heard of the latter’s
imprisonment and had been on the point of ordering his release when
General Sama had communicated with him about me.

I told Bryant to hurry his breakfast and go down to the quay to send
word to the skipper that we were both at liberty, and then drive to
Miralda’s house for news of her, and bring me the result of his inquiry
to my rooms.

Pia’s story was soon told. She had no living relatives. She and
her only brother had lived together until he had been led to join
the revolutionary party. His arrest had soon followed through the
betrayal of a false friend who had tried to make love to her and
in revenge for his defeat had betrayed him. The brother, feeble and
delicate in health, had been questioned as to the plans and names of
his companions, and Pia declared that his refusal to speak had been
punished with the lash. He had died in prison, and this had driven her
into hot rebellion against those whom she termed his murderers.

She had been hunted for by the police; but her arrest on the previous
night had been an accident--she was caught as I had once been--in the
thick of a fracas between the police and the people. She had not given
her right name, but, feeling sure she would be identified, she looked
forward to sharing the same fate as her brother.

This fact explained the readiness of the Governor to liberate her.

“You have no friends anywhere?” I asked.

“I have only one friend in the world; but when my brother was arrested,
he had to fly for his life. That was almost on the eve of the day we
were to have been married,” she said simply.

“And where is he?”

“In America.”

“That settles it then. You will go out to him.”

She tossed up her hands. “Some day, perhaps.”

“There is no ‘perhaps’ about it and no ‘some day.’ Do you know that
if it had not been for you I should have had that lash this morning.
If you had not mentioned the Governor’s name, I should not have known
him and been able to do what I did. You will go out to New York by the
first boat you can catch, and you will leave Lisbon for Paris to-day,
and go to an address I will give you to wait in safety until that boat
starts.”

“Monsieur!” she cried tremulously.

“I am your gaoler, remember, and responsible for you. You must let
me persuade you to do what I say. And now, I must go. Hurry your
preparations and return to me here;” and I gave her the address of my
flat.

“But I--I cannot accept your money, monsieur.”

“But you can use it. I shall lend it to you, and when you are married
in the new world, you will soon be able to repay me. There is a place
for such a woman as you in the world and good work waiting to be done
by you. You promise to come to me?”

She could not speak. The tears, which no persecution, nor the horrors
of the past night, nor even the almost certain prospect of the lash
itself had been able to draw from her, were standing thick in her eyes
as I left her and hurried to my rooms.

I decided to go to Volheno as soon as I had changed into some decent
clothes, and secure a pardon for Miralda in return for a full statement
of what I knew, and then obtain his assistance in searching for her.
There was a faint chance that Bryant would bring back some news of her
from the vicontesse; but he did not arrive before I was ready to go to
Volheno.

I found him studying the paper which General de Sama had sent to him
from the prison, and his first question was about it.

“Why have you made prisoners of some of His Majesty’s officers?” he
asked.

“I have much to tell you and of very grave importance, but there is
a condition,” I replied. I told him enough to convince him that my
information was such as to place clues in his hand strong enough to
enable him to break up the whole revolutionary movement so far as the
Pretender’s friends were concerned; and then named my condition.

Without mentioning their names I described at length the means which
had been adopted to force Miralda, Vasco and Dagara into the scheme and
how they had helped me to thwart it, and asked for a written assurance
of pardon for them all.

He fought hard and tried every means to get the names from me. A long
and at times very heated altercation followed, in which I declared that
I would make all the trouble I could on the score of my own treatment,
and finally that I would seek an audience of the king himself and lay
all the facts before him.

I won the victory in the end, and I had the assurance in my pocket when
I gave him the story, confining my statement to what I had overheard on
the _Rampallo_ and all that had followed from it. We then arranged for
the _Stella_ to go out at once to pick up the _Rampallo_ and to carry
out Government agents to take over charge of her and the officers.

I purposely abstained from mentioning Inez, but the fact that I had
been arrested in her house led Volheno to question me about her. I
found that the house had been raided through a blunder of the police
who had mixed up some information they had received with Captain
Bolton’s statement that I was a prisoner there. Volheno had nothing
definite against her, and I would not give him any information.

Of Miralda’s whereabouts he knew no more than I. She had not been
arrested, however; and I returned to my rooms to learn the result of
Bryant’s visit to her house.

He brought no news of her. He had seen the viscontesse who was almost
prostrate with grief and anxiety at her absence.

There was only one inference to draw. Miralda must still be with
Barosa; and where to look for them baffled me.




CHAPTER XXXIV

ON THE TRACK


I racked my wits in vain to think of some clue to the place where
Barosa was likely to hide. I ransacked my memory to recall every
incident of my stay in the city, every word which had been dropped in
my hearing, and every man I had met, having any connexion with him or
any of his companions. But it led to no result.

All I could think of was to institute a house-to-house search of the
whole city; and I wrote to urge Volheno to have this done, declaring I
would cheerfully bear all the expense and give a liberal reward to any
one who brought me the information I craved.

But the thought of the length of time which such a search would involve
drove me to the verge of despair. I must find some means by which I
myself could take part in the search. To sit still with folded hands
was a sheer impossibility.

I thought of Inez. She might now be willing to help me. I had the key
now to what had so perplexed me during the last few minutes I had spent
in her house. While she and Barosa were wrangling, Marco had rushed
up with the news of the police raid, and this had prevented Inez from
keeping her promise to return to me.

She had meant to return--that was clear now--and she was in fierce
earnest that Miralda should leave the house with me. The loaded
revolver--which had proved such a Greek gift when the police had found
it upon me--had been honestly given, to provide me with the means
of overcoming any opposition, whether from Barosa or others, to our
getting away.

But the words she had used in giving it only pointed to greater danger
now. “Get Miralda away or I will not answer for myself.” With Barosa
and Miralda still associated, the devil of jealousy I had roused in
Inez might goad her to some act of wild rage against Miralda; and the
thought that I had placed her in this added peril stung and scorched me
with all the agony of a festering wound.

My helplessness was torture; and yet I could not think how to commence
my search, where to go, or what to do. Stay in the house I could
not, and I rushed out into the streets, wandering aimlessly about,
scrutinizing every one I met, as if I expected that some of those I
sought would stroll about publicly in the full light of day in order
that I might see them.

After a time I found myself close to Inez’ house, and as I loitered
about I narrowly escaped being once more arrested by the police. I went
from there to the house in the Rua Catania and then to the Rua Formosa,
where I had been subjected to the “test”--the most unlikely spots in
all the city, of course, where I should find any one. And that I should
go there at all only proved the fatuous vagueness of my thoughts.

From the latter place I was on my way back to my rooms when I
remembered where Henriques had been employed as a porter. I hurried
there at once, but without result. Not a trace was to be found.

I returned to my rooms in despair. It was now late in the afternoon,
and little Pia was waiting for me. She had finished her few
preparations and was ready to go.

“You are in great trouble, Mr. Donnington. What is the matter?” she
asked as I entered, her smile of welcome changing on the instant to a
look of deep concern and sympathy.

“Yes, I am in sore trouble. Wellnigh beside myself, but I will see to
your matters.”

“Tell me. Let me help you.”

“Could you help me, I wonder.” I had not thought of her. She might know
of some places where I could search, but on the other hand, she could
not give me the information without bringing those with whom she had
been associated into danger of arrest.

“Tell me. You can surely trust me,” she urged.

“You could only help me by betraying your former friends. Do you know a
Dr. Barosa?”

“By name, yes. There is nothing you can ask me I will not tell you. You
believe that as I am sure you believe I will keep everything you say
secret.”

A few seconds decided me to tell her enough to make the position
clear--that what I wanted was to know where to look for Barosa.

“I do not know that I could help you much in any case. It is very
difficult,” she murmured, her face troubled and her manner expressing
both perplexity and wistful anxiety.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“You said I might have to betray my former associates. Does that mean
that you will take the police with you?” She paused and sat biting her
lip in great distress. “If you ask me, I cannot refuse.”

“If I can find Mademoiselle Dominguez without the police it is all I
want.”

She brightened instantly. “Can you get me some disguise?” Seeing my
surprise, she explained, “I would go without it, but it would not help
you. Since we parted this morning, I have had a very narrow escape from
arrest in my own name. The police are swarming near my lodging, and
it is in that district we must search. I was on my way there when by
good fortune I met a friend--a girl who had lived in the same house as
myself. She warned me not to go near it because the police were in it.
Her brother had been arrested and she herself was flying. To go as I
am, therefore, would not help you.”

“You must not go at all. Tell me where to go,” I said.

She hesitated again. “If I hesitate, you will understand me. Let me be
frank. Some of the people have been very kind to me and to put them
into the hands of the police would be an ill return.”

“I will not take the police with me. Tell me where to search, and I’ll
find means of doing what I need without the police.”

“A little to the west of the Theatre of Donna Amelia and close to the
Square of Camoes is a nest of streets; and many of the houses are those
of our friends where any refugees are certain of a ready shelter. It is
there I should expect to find those whom you seek. But you must go not
as you are. It would be not only useless but dangerous, and you must be
careful to have help at hand. If your object were suspected, you would
look in vain for a friend in all that district.”

I opened a map and she pointed the neighbourhood out to me and
indicated a spot at the corner of the Square which would be the best
for my purpose.

“There are three theatres close there, and the hawkers always stand
about there to catch the people going to them. You could thus watch
without being suspected;” she explained.

I took her advice and set about my preparations forthwith, and while
getting ready, a thought occurred to me. I sent Bryant with a note to
Volheno telling him I had an important clue and I asked him, as I had
already had a narrow escape of being arrested, to give me a line or two
which would protect me from anything of the kind and enable me to call
upon the police to assist me if I should need their help.

Pia helped me to disguise myself as a pedlar of matches, suggesting
many clever touches--the result probably of her experiences--and when I
was ready not a soul in all Lisbon would have recognized me.

Volheno sent me the letter I asked for, and when Bryant returned with
it I told him to disguise himself also and to watch me from another
corner of the Square, and to have Simmons and Foster, who had not gone
in the _Stella_, in a liquor shop close at hand.

Then I slipped out of the house and shuffled off on my search in the
character of a match seller. I had about a mile to go across the city
to my destination, but I did not reach it. I had just turned into
the Rua da Carmo when a man carrying a bag and having the air of a
commercial traveller crossed the street and came up to buy a box of
matches.

His disguise was good, but as he lit his cigarette I recognized him. It
was Marco; and in a moment my other plan was abandoned and I decided to
follow him.

He made straight for the Central Station. After studying the
time-tables, he went to the booking place, entered into conversation
with the clerk and bought some tickets, turned away with a casual air
and left the building again.

Either Pia was all wrong in her guess as to the locality where Barosa
was likely to hide, or Marco was not going back to him. He sauntered
idly across the Square of San Pedro, turned into the Rua Bitesgo,
quickened his pace slightly as he reached the Rua da Magdalena, and
branching off to the left, when about half-way down, threaded his way
at a quick pace among the maze of streets which form the district of
Eastern Lisbon.

This was directly in the opposite direction from that which Pia had
suggested; but I was certain by the change from his former sauntering
pace to a quick stride, that he was taking me where I wanted to go.

His speed made it difficult for me to keep him in sight without his
discovering that I was shadowing him. Twice I nearly lost him as he
made a double turn in the short tortuous streets, and after that I had
to lessen the distance between us, doing my best to slink along in the
shadow of the houses.

Presently he turned into a very steep hilly street and, slackening,
began to look about him warily. I guessed that he was getting near his
destination, and redoubled my caution. About half-way down the hill he
stopped at the corner of a dark street somewhat wider than the rest,
where the houses were larger, and I slipped to cover in the wide porch
of a house on the opposite side.

Two men were in sight, one coming down the hill and the other up, and
lighting a cigarette as a pretext for loitering, Marco waited until
both men had passed and gave each of them a sharp searching look. As
soon as they were out of sight, he turned and hurried along the side
street.

I followed quickly, but when I reached the corner he had disappeared.

I had run him to earth; but which house he had entered I could not
tell, of course. I passed the mouth of the street and had a good look
at the houses. He had not had time to go more than fifty yards; and
within that distance there were only six houses, the two nearest of
which were detached and stood well apart from one another.

Keeping under the shadow of the buildings I walked the length of the
street and discovered that it had no outlet at the farther end. I
returned to the corner with the same caution, and then considered what
to do.

I felt at liberty to seek the help of the police if necessary. My
promise to Pia not to do so did not apply now, since my discovery was
not due to anything she had told me, but to the accidental meeting with
Marco.

At the same time, I did not wish to bring the police into it except
in the very last extremity. It was quite possible that they would
arrest every one in the house, including Miralda herself; and after my
terrible experiences of the previous night, the thought that she should
endure even for an hour the horrors of such a den of beastliness was
unendurable.

If it proved necessary for me to enter any house in search of Miralda,
it would be nothing short of sheer madness to do so alone; and in that
case I must have the help of the police.

But it might not come to that. Marco’s visit to the railway station and
his purchase of tickets was plain evidence that some one, presumably
Barosa, was meditating immediate flight from the city. But as there was
only the one outlet from the street, he could not leave without passing
me; and certainly he could not get Miralda away.

There was another consideration. The meditated flight suggested
that Miralda was not in any immediate danger. It might be better to
risk a little delay, therefore, rather than take a hasty step with
consequences which I might afterwards have bitter cause to regret.

Then I began to consider whether I could possibly find means of sending
a message to Bryant so as to bring him and the others to my assistance.
With them to help me, I should have no hesitation in entering the
house, if I could ascertain definitely in which Barosa was hiding.

I was puzzling over this when Marco came out of the second house, and
I noticed one little significant fact. In addition to the bag, he was
carrying an overcoat on his arm. This meant that he at any rate had
been staying in the house; and it decided me not to follow him.

He walked to the corner of the street and was turning up the hill away
from me when he changed his mind and came straight towards me. I drew
back against the wall to avoid him, and he had all but passed when he
caught sight of me. The start he gave showed that he recognized me as
the man from whom he had bought the matches.

He paused a moment, put his hand to his head, as if he had forgotten
something and turned to retrace his steps. He meant to warn the others
in the house, of course; and as I had to prevent this at any cost, I
stepped forward quickly and grabbed him by the wrist.

“What do you want with me, you old fool?” he said roughly, trying at
the same time to shake off my hold.

“You are my prisoner,” I said sternly. “Who are in that house there?”

“I don’t know what you mean. Which house?”

“The one you have just left. I know you. Answer at once.”

His answer was both clever-witted and quick. He flung the overcoat he
carried over my head and made a fierce snatch to break away from me,
while reaching at the same time for a weapon.

I held on, however, and managed to trip him up. As we fell together the
coat dropped away and I was in time to seize the barrel of a revolver
he had succeeded in drawing, and drag it out of his hand.

“It’s no use, Marco,” I said.

He knew me then. “The Englishman!” he cried with an oath of unbounded
amazement.

“Yes, the Englishman,” I said.




CHAPTER XXXV

THE PROBLEM OF AN EMPTY HOUSE


The discovery of my identity, combined no doubt with the fact that
I had disarmed Marco, put an end to any thought of resistance, so I
pulled him up and forced him against the wall, and kicked his bag and
coat close to his feet.

“Now, Marco, tell me who is in that house and be quick about it.”

“Will you let me go if I do?”

“I’ll hand you to the police if you don’t. You went to the railway
station to-night and took some tickets. I saw you and then followed you
here. You went into the second house across the road. Now who are in
there?”

“Barosa, Maral, Countess Inglesia and Mademoiselle Dominguez,” he said
sullenly after a slight pause.

“Who else?”

“No one.”

“What have you come out for now?”

“If I tell you everything, will you let me go?”

I repeated my question.

“To fetch a carriage. Mademoiselle Dominguez is in no danger,” he
added, thinking probably to appease me. “She is going to leave with us,
and her mother is to join us at the station. I took a letter to her
this evening. If I tell you everything, will you let me go?”

As a matter of fact I wished to get rid of him now that I had obtained
the information I needed. But I did not let him know it.

“No,” I answered fiercely with an oath. “You tried to murder me
yesterday, you villain, and you shall pay for it with your life. I have
the police in hiding close here and I’ll give you to them!” Then I made
a pretence of hauling him away, but at the time I stooped as if to pick
up his bag and loosened my hold of him.

He saw his chance and took it. He tore himself free, pushed me
violently away, snatched up his bag and coat and darted off. With a cry
of rage, I started in pursuit, but I went no more than a few yards,
just far enough to convince him I was in earnest, and then returned to
my corner well satisfied to have got rid of him so easily.

His information put a different complexion on matters. As he was going
for the carriage which was to take Barosa and the rest to the station,
the time for their departure must be drawing near; and when he did not
return, some one would probably come out to look for him, or they would
all have to start for the station on foot.

I could well afford to wait for either result. Miralda was safe thus
far, and, according to Marco, was willing to trust to Inez and Barosa
to get her away from the city. The two latter had probably patched up
a peace, and it was no doubt Inez’ plan to have the viscontesse with
them--as a useful check on Barosa.

About a quarter of an hour later the door of the house opened and some
one looked out. I could not distinguish whether it was a man or a
woman, however, as my attention had been distracted by three or four
men at some distance away who were coming down the hill in my direction.

I made out soon afterwards that they were police, and as I did not wish
to be seen and questioned at that moment, I slipped along the by-street
and hid in a doorway nearly opposite the house I was watching, to hide
there until they had passed.

Before they reached the turning, however, some one in the disguise of
an old man came out of the house and shambled along toward the corner.
It must be either Barosa or Maral, I knew; and as it would vastly
simplify things if I could scare him away as I had scared Marco, I
slipped like a shadow across the road and got between him and the house.

He heard me and turned.

“I arrest you, Dr. Barosa,” I cried, and started as if to run after him.

Taking me for a police agent, he paused a second, drew out his
revolver, and then, thinking probably he could both save himself by
flight and prevent the others in the house being discovered, he turned
round and bolted.

But in avoiding me, he ran right into the arms of the police who
reached the corner of the street at the same minute. There was a short
sharp scuffle, a cry or two of astonishment, a gruff call to surrender,
a pause, and then a shot.

One of the police fell, and I saw Barosa break away, reach the middle
of the road, and raise his hand to his head. A flash and a report
followed, he lurched heavily and then dropped, as a drunken man drops,
nervelessly and all in a heap.

Everything had occurred with such dramatic swiftness that I could
scarcely realize it. In a few seconds a number of people came hurrying
up, attracted by the noise of the shots, and as they crowded round the
police, I joined them and edged through to the front.

The man whom Barosa had shot was sitting on the doorstep of the house
at the corner, hatless and very white, but I heard one of his comrades
say that he was not seriously hurt.

Two others had carried Barosa close to the same spot and were bending
down, examining his wound and feeling his heart for the pulse.

“Dead,” announced one of them with an oath, and as he rose I saw
Barosa’s face. The false beard and wig he had been wearing had fallen
off in the scuffle; and the right cheek and temple were discoloured
with the powder, the blue-black mark showing plainly in contrast to the
grey pallor of the face.

He had chosen death rather than imprisonment; and after my experiences
of one night in that hell, I was not surprised.

The police did not recognize him and had no idea that he was a man of
any importance.

“Does any one know him?” was asked, and some half-dozen of those
present pressed forward, looked at him, and shook their heads.

I took advantage of the movement to back away, and as I turned I came
face to face with Maral. He had not seen Barosa, and I did not mean
that he should. Very much to his surprise, I linked my arm in his and
drew him away across the mouth of the street to the corner from which I
had kept my watch.

“Come with me or you are lost,” I said in a low voice.

“Who are you?”

“You are Sebastian Maral. The police are there. You must fly or you
will be taken.”

“Who are you?”

“A friend if you go, an enemy if you stay. My name does not matter. A
secret agent--but you once did me a good turn. I am going to raid the
second house over there. I give you a chance to fly; if you stay I must
hand you to my comrades.”

“But I----”

I cut him short. “Say which it shall be. Quick. I can’t give you
another moment or I shall be seen with you. Are there any men left in
that house? We have taken Barosa.”

An oath burst from him and he began to tremble. “There are only two
women there. But--”

At that instant there was a movement among the little throng across
the street. Two or three of the people went running past us and I saw
others hurrying in the opposite direction. They were sent by the police
probably in search of a conveyance.

“My men are coming. Which is it to be. Quick,” I said, and let go my
hold of him. He hesitated for no more than a second and then, tossing
his hands up in despair, he turned away, walked a few steps, then
quickened his pace, and at last ran at full speed.

Barosa having been caught as he was leaving the little side street, it
was possible that the police might take a fancy to search some of the
houses, so I deemed it prudent to hang about until they had gone and
the commotion caused by the affair had subsided.

Two carriages arrived almost together, one from each direction. Barosa
and the wounded man were placed in one and the police drove away. The
driver of the other was moving off, grumbling at having been brought
there for nothing, when I stepped into the roadway and hailed him.

“Drive away and come back in a quarter of an hour, and wait at this
corner for me,” I told him.

“Wouldn’t your highness like a four-in-hand?” he asked with a
contemptuous jeer at my poverty-stricken appearance.

A milreis changed his sneer to a glance of curiosity and amazement. “It
will pay you to do what I say and keep your tongue between your teeth,”
I said curtly.

“I’ll be here,” he replied, and rattled away down the hill.

I crossed to the house at once and knocked lightly at the door. No one
opened it; so I knocked again, a little louder; and again a third
time. Still with no result. The house was, as I have said, all in
darkness, and, although I listened intently, I could not hear a sound.

It was probable that either the three men had had keys or that the door
was to be opened only in response to some agreed knock. I did not know
it, of course, and might stay there rapping all night without being
admitted.

Both Inez and Miralda would be intensely alarmed by the failure of the
three men to return and if they had heard Barosa’s shot or had seen
anything of the commotion that followed, they would certainly conclude
that the three had been arrested and mistake my summons for that of the
police bent upon effecting an arrest.

It was a most provoking and unexpected check. I left the door and
fumbled my way round to the back to try and get admittance there. I
was no expert at burgling, but even if I had been I should have been
puzzled how to get into this house. There was a door at the back
letting out upon a small garden; but it was securely fastened, and
every window in the lower part of the house was protected by both
outside bars and inside shutters. It was hopeless to try and force them.

There was a stack pipe running up to the gutter at the roof; but it
was so placed that if I climbed it I could not reach any window except
one on the top floor; and an attempt to enter that way meant a very
considerable risk that I should break my neck. There was no urgent
necessity to run such a risk, so I went round again to the front of the
house to look for a chance of getting in there.

It was no more promising than the back, so far as the windows within
reach were concerned.

It was almost ludicrous to find myself in such a fix. Here was I able
and eager to save both Inez and Miralda; and there were they shivering
with panic and regarding me as an enemy bent on their destruction
and arrest; and only this infernal locked door and the barred windows
between us.

I tried knocking again, but with no better result than before, and then
it occurred to me that although I had examined the front and the back
and one side, I had not inspected the fourth side.

The chances of breaking in there were better. There was a small
projection built about half-way up the house with a window level with
the first floor, which did not appear to have either shutters or bars.
A stack pipe offered a chance of reaching this window, and although
the pipe was unpleasantly insecure I judged that even if it gave way I
could not hurt myself much, as there was a flower bed with some shrubs
on the spot where I should fall.

I began the ascent very cautiously, digging my toes into the courses of
the bricks where I could, and carefully testing the bearing strain of
the pipe before trusting my full weight on it. It was a very difficult
business, for part of my disguise consisted of a long overcoat which
hampered almost every step I took.

But I made the ascent safely and managed to get a grip of the window
ledge, and then, pulling myself up till my chin was level with the
window, I found a slender but sufficient hold for my feet on a ledge of
the brickwork.

To my relief the window was unfastened. I opened it very cautiously,
climbed in over the sill, into a tiny room quite bare of furniture.
I listened intently and, not hearing a sound, tried the handle of
the door. To my intense chagrin, it was locked. It seemed as if some
diabolical ingenuity was at work to prevent my effecting Miralda’s
rescue.

The door opened outwards and that made it easier for me to force it;
but I was loth to make the row which this would cause and so advertise
the fact that I was in the house.

It had to be done, however, so I put my shoulder to it and tried first
to force it open with quiet pressure. This proving unavailing I dashed
myself against it with all my weight and strength. At the third attempt
it yielded with a crash which echoed through the house, making a din
which would have roused the heaviest sleeper in the remotest part of
the building.

Then I stood listening again intently. Not a sound. I was close to the
head of the stairs. Fearing that the noise I had made would scarce Inez
and Miralda half out of their senses, I tried to reassure them.

“Miralda, Miralda. It is I, Ralph,” I called loudly, but only the echo
of my own voice replied.

Disconcerted at this, I lit a match and hurried through the rooms,
calling her name as I went. I searched first those on the floor where I
was; next those above, and then went below.

Save for the scanty furniture, the house was empty, and there was not a
sign that Miralda had ever been in it.




CHAPTER XXXVI

UNTIL LIFE’S END


Earlier in the evening, barely an hour before, indeed, the discovery
that the house was deserted would have alarmed me profoundly,
for Miralda’s disappearance might then have had a very sinister
significance. But she was no longer in any danger. Barosa was dead and
I had the assurance of the pardon for her association with his plot.

Instead of being alarmed therefore, I burst out laughing as the reason
for her disappearance flashed upon me.

She had obviously run away from me.

When first Marco, then Barosa and lastly Maral had left the house not
to return, Miralda and Inez would have been both desperately perplexed
and thoroughly scared. Waiting to fly in accordance with the plan which
Marco had explained to me, they would immediately conclude either that
the men had been arrested or had had to run from the police.

In this condition of fear they would naturally keep a sharp look-out,
and thus would have seen me. In my disguise their inevitable inference
would be that I was a police spy who had discovered their hiding-place,
and my movements had been just such as would tend to confirm that
belief.

When I broke into the house, therefore, they would realize that their
only chance was to fly from it, especially when they found that I was
alone and that no police were in the street to stop them.

A moment’s consideration prompted the conclusion that they would make
for the railway station in the hope that Barosa or one of the other men
would elude arrest and be there to meet them.

I hurried out of the house, therefore. The carriage was waiting, and
having questioned the driver and found that he had not seen any one
come out of the side street, I told him to drive to the station as fast
as he could.

It was fairly certain that neither Maral nor Marco would run the
risk of going to the railway. Barosa probably had the tickets in his
possession; and as I was resolved that Inez should leave the city, my
first act was to purchase a ticket and put it in an envelope together
with some banknotes, in case she should be without money.

Then I made a round of the building in search of them. They would
almost certainly be disguised, but I was confident that my instinct
would enable me to detect Miralda, however well disguised, while the
fact that the viscontesse was to be of the party would help me.

Neither the viscontesse nor any one even remotely suggesting Miralda
was in the station, however. A train was due out in a quarter of an
hour after my arrival, and I loitered near the barrier, keeping a sharp
but futile look-out, until it occurred to me that I myself might be
defeating my object. If the two had seen me as a spy getting into the
house, they would instantly conclude that I was watching for them now.
So I looked for a place where I could hide and still watch.

Five more minutes passed and I scrutinized every passenger and every
individual within sight. A rather lanky youth in the company of a
squat, stout, broad-shouldered market woman, apparently his mother,
appeared to be waiting to meet some one, but there was not another soul
loitering anywhere in the station.

As the time was now getting very short, I left my hiding-place to go
and look outside; and as I neared this couple, the boy put his arm
through his mother’s, drew her attention to something at the other side
of the station, and walked away with her. The woman was lame and rolled
in her walk with a most grotesque waddle.

After a dozen yards or so they paused and the young fellow looked
round. He appeared disconcerted to see that I was watching them, and
drew his mother forward again.

Then I nearly laughed aloud. The woman took two or three steps without
either the waddle or the limp; suddenly recollected herself and went
lame with the wrong foot.

I hastened after them and as they quickened their pace, I called out in
English: “You’ve forgotten which is your lame foot, Miralda.”

They stopped and turned, but even when I was close to them and saw
their faces clearly, I should not have recognized the market woman as
Miralda, nor the lanky youth as Inez, had it not been for Miralda’s
eyes. I had looked too often into them not to know them.

“It is I, Ralph; you’ve been running away from me the last hour or
more,” I added, laughing.

“Ralph!” cried Miralda. “What does it all mean?”

“You shall know all directly, but I must speak to your son there first.
He has not a moment to lose if he means to catch this train.”

“Mr. Donnington?” exclaimed Inez. “Where----”

“You must let me talk, please,” I interrupted. “When Dr. Barosa left
that house he ran into a party of police, but I managed to get a word
or two with him before he fled, and I have to give you this ticket
and the money with it. You are to leave by this train. If you remain
another hour in Lisbon, you will be arrested.”

“Where is he?”

“You haven’t a second to spare,” I cried, giving her the ticket and
pressing the envelope into her hand. “You will learn everything later.
Miralda is pardoned. And now go, or it will be too late;” and I urged
her away in the direction of the barrier, without giving her time to
question me.

She hesitated, walked away a few steps, paused in doubt, and was
turning back, when the call to the passengers to enter the train came.
She choked back a hundred unspoken questions, hurried through the
barrier and got into the train.

With a sigh of satisfaction I watched it move along the platform and
disappear in the darkness, and then turned to Miralda. Her disguise
was really wonderful. The complexion was darkened almost to the tan of
a mulatto, and the skin of the forehead, nose and upper half of the
cheeks was lined very cunningly and had the wrinkled look of age: on
the left side of the face was what looked like the cicatrice of a bad
wound or burn, and on the right a large disfiguring claret-coloured
birth-mark. Both mark and scar extended to the lips, and along the
edges of both and across the lower lip was fastened a cleverly moulded
skin-covered plastic pad which gave the appearance of the flabby cheeks
and fat double chin of a woman of middle age, the lower part being lost
in the folds of a neckerchief.

The effect was grotesque, and as I stared at her in amazement, the
upper part of her face crinkled, while the lower remained stolidly
impassive. “Are you trying to smile?” I asked.

“You look comical enough to make any one smile,” she replied, her lips
scarcely moving, as she spoke through her nearly-closed teeth.

“I suppose I do. But have you seen yourself in a glass? Whoever did
that, knew his business; but you--you are not exactly pretty, you know.
I can scarcely believe it is really you.”

“You are not even clean,” she retorted, tossing her head.

“I haven’t a hideous birth-mark and a double chin, at any rate.”

“But you’re a Jew with a hook nose and your grey beard is as dirty as
it is long.”

We must have made an odd-looking couple in all truth--a fat, waddling,
disfigured, old market woman and a dirty down-at-heels Jew pedlar, and
I saw the station people were beginning to eye us suspiciously.

“I think it’s time the market woman went home,” I said.

“She is waiting for her mother, Jew.”

“I think she’ll be found at home. Barosa didn’t mean her to leave
to-night or she would have been here. Nothing matters now except to get
you home.”

“Where is Dr. Barosa?”

“I don’t know.” This was true in the letter; I had never been down
where he deserved to be. “When I saw him last he was in the hands of
the police,” I added.

“But I may be arrested also at any minute.”

“Not by the police. You are pardoned, but the other arrest is imminent.”

“What other arrest?”

“This, by the old Jew,” I replied, linking my arm in hers to leave the
station. “Let’s see how fast the market woman can waddle.”

She was a willing prisoner and pressed close to me with a happy
unrestrained laugh, and then clapped her hand to her face with an
exclamation of dismay and let her head droop as we went out into the
street.

“Why did you cry out?” I asked.

“It’s coming off. What shall I do?” she cried. “You shouldn’t have made
me laugh. I didn’t expect to have to laugh when this was put on.”

“Thank Heaven, we can laugh as much as we like now--even at one
another. Can’t you get it all off? The Jew’s going,” I said, and I
took off my grey beard, eyebrows, nose and wig, with a sigh of relief.

“I’ve got all but the last bit off,” said Miralda, as she held up her
face under the light of a lamp and laughed merrily.

Cicatrice, birth-mark and double chin were in one piece and adhering
now by the mark. I peeled this back carefully, and then held her
upturned face close to mine.

“I thought the Jew who arrested me was gone,” she said.

“It was the market woman he arrested. Miralda is free--if she wishes.”

“It doesn’t seem much like it;” and she moved in my arms.

“Does she wish it?”

“She doesn’t wish to go to prison.”

“Does she wish to be free?”

“Do you think it would be safe for her to be free in the streets alone?”

“Is she willing to pay for an escort?”

“It depends on the terms.”

“There are several. The first is that you smile.”

“I can do that although my face is still very sticky;” and she smiled
and grimaced.

“The next is to say one word and promise to answer a simple question.”

“What question?”

“You must promise first. But the answer must be the truth.”

“Oh, what an insult! That’s the Jew back again. Anything more?”

“Yes, the proper corollary to the answer.”

“Don’t you think the escort is rather a coward to make all these terms
now?”

“Yes, but he insists all the same.”

“Well, what is the word?”

“Ralph,” I said.

“That’s easy--Ralph,” she said with purposeful unconcern. “I’ve done
two of the things--the escort ought to take me half-way home for that.”

“Now for the question.” I paused and her light assumption of
indifference changed under my earnest gaze. She made an effort to
release herself. But I held her fast. “Do you love----”

“Ralph!” A very different tone this as she hid her face against my
shoulder and then let me lift it that our lips might meet in the
rapturous ecstasy of the lingering betrothal kiss.

Roused by the sound of approaching wheels, we drew apart and walked on
hand in hand.

It proved to be the carriage which had taken me to the station and the
driver asked if I needed him.

Oblivious to all else save our happiness, I should have let him pass,
but the question brought me to earth, and I stopped him. He stared in
some astonishment at us both as I put Miralda into the carriage and
told him to drive first to my rooms.

I remembered that Pia was waiting there, and when I told Miralda about
her, she declared she would take her home.

When we reached my rooms, Simmons was there, Bryant having sent him
back when he did not see me, and I told him to go in search of Bryant.
Then I took Pia out to Miralda and drove home with her.

We found that the viscontesse had not heard anything of the projected
flight from the city. The letter which Miralda had written to tell her
about it had not been delivered, Barosa having substituted for it one
written by himself to say Miralda would be home that evening.

“You see I didn’t answer that question after all,” said Miralda as we
were alone and I was bidding her good-night.

“Which question?” I asked, as if I did not understand.

“You know I didn’t.”

“Didn’t you? I had an impression----”

“Not in words,” she broke in with a flash of happy laughter.

“That’s a challenge. You shall answer it now,” I cried, putting my arm
as far round her much-swathed waist as it would reach.

“You are developing a very masterful manner, Mr. Jew.”

“It is necessary with a rebellious market woman. Answer it now.”

“Which question?” she mocked, mimicking my indifferent tone.

“Do--you--love----”

She put her hand to my lips, and silenced me, and then lifting her eyes
to mine she threw her arms round my neck and whispered: “With all my
heart, Ralph, and for all my life.”

And again we sealed the compact with the all appropriate formalities.

The next morning M. Volheno sent for me and I was glad to find
him anxious to hush up the whole matter of the Abduction Plot. In
pursuance of this policy, two conditions were attached to Miralda’s
pardon--absolute silence about everything and a year’s expatriation
for her, her mother and the visconte. Vasco was to be transferred to a
regiment in Portuguese Africa.

I told him of Barosa’s death, and that he was really Luis Beriardos,
Dom Miguel’s trusted agent, and he was genuinely relieved. Barosa’s
fate was never publicly known and he was buried under a different name
as the result of a concocted identification.

The fate of his associates on the _Rampallo_ I never learned. The yacht
and the prisoners on her were handed over to the men whom Volheno sent
out in the _Stella_ with secret instructions; and when they returned
neither the skipper nor Burroughs knew anything.

By the time of the _Stella’s_ arrival, the viscontesse had completed
all arrangements for the year’s enforced absence; and a few hours after
the yacht’s anchor was dropped it was weighed again and I was taking a
farewell look at the city.

Miralda and her mother were below and Pia was with them. She was to
sail for America from Southampton.

I was heartily glad to go. It had been a strenuous love quest, but
all the trouble and the dangers were forgotten in that joyous hour of
success, in the glowing consciousness that I had won the woman I loved,
and the thrilling realization of my hopes.

As I stood dreaming of the happiness to come, there was the soft rustle
of a skirt and a hand was slipped into my arm.

“You are glad to go, Ralph?” asked Miralda. “You were smiling.”

“I was thinking of my fellow passenger,” I whispered. “And she is
smiling, too.”

But her eyes were very thoughtful behind the smile. It was natural. All
her young life had been passed in the city she was leaving.

She turned her eyes from me, let them roam over the glorious panorama
of the city and the hills beyond, and then turned to me again. “I was
trying to think if I have any regrets. I have not. I have not in all my
heart a thought that is not wholly happy at being with you. But it has
been my home.”

“I know,” I said, understanding; and I took her hand and pressed my
lips to it. “You will grow to love the new home, and it shall be one of
peace and content and, so far as I can ensure it, of happiness.”

“Is that all?” she asked, with half mischievous, half wistful glance.

“What more would you have, dearest?”

“That which draws me to it and makes me happy to go,” she said in a
whisper.

“Ah, our love. To last, please God, until life’s end.”

She caught her breath, pressed closer to me, sighed and then smiled as
she repeated in a whisper of prayerful earnestness: “Until life’s end.”

And then we stood together in silence too happy for words, until the
yacht had turned out of the river mouth and the city was hidden from
view.


THE END


Butler & Tenner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized or underlined text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.