For a few minutes the men toiled silently across loose, wet sand, and then, on reaching a belt of shingle near high-water mark, stopped to look about. Lights gleamed in the town across the bay, but except for that it was very dark. A clump of trees that fringed the end of a ridge of higher ground could barely be distinguished, but Grahame decided that this must be the spot Evelyn had mentioned in her note. Though the shingle rolled beneath his feet, the sound it made was lost in the roar of the surf upon the point. Dry sand blew past, pricking his face, and when he turned toward the sea he saw a group of indistinct objects still standing about the boat.
"What are they waiting for?" he asked. "I told them to push off."
"I guess old Miguel takes an interest in us and wants to see we're all right. He knows something about these fellows' tricks, and may not share our confidence."
"Well, I guess those are the trees where we should meet our guide."
"The fellow might have come down to the beach," Walthew remarked. "I was busy helping Mack duringthe run and hadn't much time to think, but it now strikes me as curious that Miss Cliffe was able to send the note and arrange for a guide when she was a prisoner."
"She must have got into touch with some of Don Martin's spies, and his friends would be ready to help. But we had better get on."
They crossed the shingle, seeing nothing that suggested there was anybody about, but Walthew grew uneasy as they approached the trees. The belt of timber was wrapped in gloom, and rolled back up the rising ground in shadowy masses that rustled in the wind. It had somehow a forbidding look, and the nearer he got the less he liked it. He was not daunted, and meant to go on, but his nerves were highly strung and his glances suspicious as he tried to pierce the dark.
They found a trail through tall grass and reeds, and followed it across a patch of boggy soil until it led them to an opening in the trees. Here a shadowy object rose out of the gloom, and Walthew instinctively felt for his pistol. The abrupt movement dislodged a small bundle of clothes which he carried by a strap across his shoulder, and it fell to the ground. Then he saw the man come forward, waving his hand.
"This way, señor!" he called to Grahame, who was some yards in front.
Walthew felt tempted to leave the bundle. He wanted to watch the man; but there was a packet of cartridges among the clothes he had dropped, and he thought they might prove useful. Stooping down, he felt among the grass, but had to move once or twice before he found the bundle; then, springing to his feet,he saw that Grahame and the other had vanished. The next moment his comrade's voice reached him, hoarse and breathless:
"Run!"
That Grahame said nothing more was ominous; but Walthew did not run back to the boat. Drawing his pistol, he plunged in among the trees, but as he reached them he felt a stunning blow on his head. He staggered and fell into a thicket, blinded by blood that ran into his eyes. A struggle seemed to be going on near by, and, getting upon his knees, he fired at random. He thought a man ran toward him, and he fired again, but his mind was confused and he could hardly see. For all that, he got upon his feet and stumbled forward, dazed but determined to rescue his comrade.
A few moments afterward it dawned on him that he was going the wrong way, for he seemed to have come out on the beach. Two or three men were hurrying toward him, but the pistol would not go off. Stumbling on with his hand clenched on the barrel, ready to use the butt, he tripped and fell among the rattling shingle. Then his senses left him.
The next thing of which he was conscious was a cool splash on his face, and while he wondered what it was, he felt that he lay upon something that moved in an erratic manner. It was not shingle, for it was smooth when he touched it, but a minute or two passed before he realized that he was lying in the sternsheets of the gig. She was plunging sharply, the spray flew aft in showers, and when he wiped his eyes he saw that the men were pulling hard. With some troublehe got to his knees, and the top of a wave that washed across the gunwale struck his face.
"Where is the señor Grahame?" he asked faintly.
"Who knows!" somebody answered. "It seems theruraleshave him. We came too late."
Walthew groaned, for his head was getting clearer. His comrade had fallen into a trap.
"Pull her round," he said. "We're going back!"
For a moment or two nobody replied. The gig lurched wildly, and a sea-top broke on board. Walthew dimly saw the men swing to and fro at the oars. Their blurred figures cut the sky as the bow went up, and then stood out against white foam as the craft plunged into a hollow.
"It is not possible, señor," Miguel said breathlessly.
Walthew scrambled to his feet, and stood swaying awkwardly with the violent motion, in danger of going overboard. The sea had got worse, and the savage wind lashed his wet face. It was blowing very hard, and the turn of the tide had brought broken water nearer inshore; he could hear the roar of the surf upon the beach. It would now be dangerous to land; but he must try to rescue his comrade. He seized the oar the man nearest to him pulled. The fellow pushed him back and, losing his balance as the boat plunged over a comber, he fell heavily upon the floorings.
"We will smash the boat if we land, and there areruraleson the beach," he heard Miguel say. "The sea is bad; perhaps we cannot reach the steamer."
Walthew realized that Miguel was right. The men were unarmed, except for their knives, and something had gone wrong with his pistol. Even if they escapedbeing swamped by the surf, it would be impossible to cross the beach in face of a hostile force. He lay still with a groan. He felt faint, his head ached excruciatingly, and blood still trickled into his eyes. He had not seen theEnchantresswhen he stood up, and the desperate way the men were rowing showed that they found it hard to drive the boat offshore.
After a while, however, a hail came out of the dark, the men pulled furiously, and then threw down their oars. There was a crash and a rope fell into the boat, which surged violently forward, grinding against the steamer's side. Walthew did not know how he got on board, and he imagined that he fainted soon afterward, for the next thing he remembered was trying to get up from the top grating in the engine-room, where Macallister sat beside him, holding a rag and a can of hot water.
"Keep still while I tie up the cut," he said.
"But they've got Grahame!" Walthew exclaimed, trying to rise.
Macallister gently pushed him back.
"I ken. A bad job, but we might have lost ye both." Then he took up a piece of linen. "It's lucky ye'll no' need stitching, but maybe this will nip."
Walthew's head smarted intolerably after the bandage was applied, but the dazed feeling left him when Macallister gave him something to drink, and he began to ask questions.
"Miguel heard a shot and ran back up the beach with the others," Macallister told him. "They found ye reeling aboot and brought ye down to the gig, with two or threeruralesno' far behind; the rest must have gone off with Grahame before our men came up. Theyhad just time to launch her before theruralesbegan to shoot, but nobody was hit. Looks as if ye had been knocked oot with a carbine butt."
"Where are we now?" Walthew asked.
"Steaming back to the lagoon as fast as I can drive her, and that's aboot four knots against the gale. The best thing we can do is to send Don Martin word, but ye'll go to sleep in the meanwhile. I canna' look after ye; I hae my hands full."
The clanging of hard-driven engines, which quickened to a furious rattle when the screw swung out, made the need for watchfulness plain, and Walthew crept away to his berth. He wanted to help, but knew that to attempt this would probably result in his falling among the machinery. Dazed by the blow on his head, he soon fell asleep, and when he wakened the vessel was at rest. There was no pounding of engines, and the water no longer gurgled along her side, but he heard voices behind the bulkhead.
Scrambling awkwardly out of the berth, he made his way on deck with some difficulty. The fresh air revived him, and he saw that theEnchantresswas anchored in the lagoon, but he opened a door close by instead of stopping to look about. Two or three of the revolutionaries whom he knew were sitting round a table in the saloon, and as Walthew came in, white-faced, with staring eyes and a red bandage round his head, one of them threw up his hands.
"Ave Maria!" he exclaimed.
Walthew sat down with a jerk and nodded to Macallister.
"I'm better."
Then he turned to the others.
"What are we going to do?"
"Nothing, until to-night," said one. "We must wait for dark before it is safe to move. They will not keep your comrade at Valverde, and we must try to find out where they have taken him."
"I'll be quite well in a few hours," Walthew declared. "But what is likely to happen to Grahame?"
The man shrugged.
"Who knows! The regular course would be to try him for smuggling arms, but I do not think the President will follow that plan. They may send him to Rio Frio, because it is some distance from the coast, and it is possible he will be given a chance of escaping on the way."
"Do you mean that they may let him go?" Walthew asked eagerly.
"He would not go very far. You must understand that theruraleshave authority to shoot a prisoner who tries to escape, and the Government finds this useful. Sometimes they arrest a man whom they think the court could not convict, and an excuse is found for not watching him very closely when he is being taken to the nearest jail; perhaps a guard is called away when they stop for food. There is cover near, and the prisoner makes a dash for freedom; then the guard, who has been hiding, fires and the administration is rid of an enemy. Sometimes theruralesbreak into the house of an obnoxious person and, taken by surprise, he gets angry. A threatening movement is enough; he is shot down. It is simpler than taking him before a judge who may be bribed to let him go."
"A gang o' bloodthirsty scoundrels! I'm thinking it's time ye turned on them," Macallister said, whileWalthew sat silent with a tense face and fury in his eyes. "But, so far as we ken, they havena' shot Mr. Grahame."
"No, señor," said another. "I think he is safe, for a time. He might prove too useful for them to shoot, at least, not until they have tried other means."
"If ye believe they can frighten or buy him——" Macallister began savagely; but the man waved his hand.
"Señor, I only think we must set him free as soon as possible, and you will agree about the need for that."
"I'm coming with you," said Walthew grimly. "If I'm not satisfied with your plans, I'll do the thing in my own way."
Macallister gave him a sharp glance. Walthew did not look fit to travel, but Macallister knew that objections would be futile. The boy had grown older and sterner in a night.
The revolutionaries began to talk about what had better be done, and it was decided that Macallister must remain in charge of the vessel, which he would hide in a creek, so as to provide a means of escape, if this should be needed. The others would start for Rio Frio as soon as it was dark and, if they could gather a strong enough force, try to overtake and attack Grahame's escort on the march. Failing this, they would follow theruralesto Rio Frio, and be guided by circumstances when they got there. Walthew took no part in the discussion, but when it was finished he got up and stood looking at the others sternly.
"We are going to save my partner, and not to do something that may help you in your politicalschemes," he said. "It may save trouble if you bear this in mind."
They assured him that Grahame's rescue was a matter of importance to them; and when, shortly afterward they left the ship, Walthew went to his berth and slept until the afternoon. He was getting better, for it was not the cut but the jar on his skull that had dazed him, and the effect of this was passing.
When the evening mist began to creep across the lagoon a canoe came off and a half-breed stood up in her as she approached the gangway.
"The señores are waiting," he announced.
Walthew shook hands with Macallister.
"I'll either bring him back or stop with him," he said grimly. "Your business is to be ready to take us off."
"Good luck to ye!" returned Macallister in a rather hoarse voice. "If ye're long aboot it, I'll come after ye myself!"
When Walthew got into the canoe and vanished in the haze, Macallister went down to his engine-room and fiercely set about some work that might as well have been left undone.
Cliffe had spent some time at Villa Paz when President Altiera sent for him one morning. It was with mixed feelings that Cliffe obeyed the summons, for his business had proved longer and more difficult than he expected, and he was anxious about Evelyn. Indeed, he wondered whether he should let the concessions go and return to the coast; but he determined to be guided by what took place during the interview.
It was getting hot when Altiera received him, and a glare of reflected light shone through the unshuttered window. Cliffe, looking out over the little town, thought there was an ominous quiet. An hour earlier he had watched a company of slouching, dusty soldiers, equipped as if for service, march through the narrow streets; but there was now no one about. It struck him as significant that all the green shutters were closed and the entrances to thepatiosbarred. This might have some bearing on his business, but it was not of the first importance, and he turned to the President and studied him closely.
There was a subtle change in Altiera since their last meeting. His manner was somehow less cordial, and suspicion seemed to lurk in his dark eyes. When he had indicated a chair he looked at Cliffe steadily.
"You have, no doubt, thought over the matter we talked about not long ago," he began. "It is necessary that I should know when we may expect the loan."
"That, as I think you understand, depends on when I may expect the concessions."
"I cannot sign the papers yet. It would provoke a storm of indignation that I cannot risk. My enemies have taught the people that I am robbing them when I make a grant to foreigners."
"In short, you mean to put down the rebels before you conclude the deal with me."
"You have guessed right. There will be no complaints when I have shown that I have the upper hand."
"If I had known your plans at the beginning, I'd have acted differently," Cliffe said.
Altiera gave him a piercing glance.
"Señor, I do not think you are justified in charging us with a want of candor, because there is evidence that you have not been quite honest with us. Our most dangerous enemy is Martin Sarmiento, and we find him staying at your hotel in Havana, where the señorita Cliffe helps him in an attempt to escape observation."
"I do not know the man," Cliffe protested with a puzzled air.
"Then it is strange that we should have caught a messenger bringing you a note from him," Altiera answered. "I think we shall gain nothing by fencing, señor."
Cliffe frowned.
"I've just got to say that I've never, to my knowledge, met Don Martin. What was the note about?"
"We will talk of that later. In the meanwhile, Iunderstand you have decided not to let me have the money that we need?"
"Not without a written promise that the papers will be signed and handed to me in a fortnight. Unless you consent, I must start for Valverde at once."
Altiera pondered for a few moments, knitting his brows.
"You are, no doubt, anxious to rejoin your daughter," he said slowly. "Perhaps I had better tell you that she is not at Valverde."
"Not at Valverde!" Cliffe exclaimed. "Then where has she gone?"
"I cannot tell you."
Cliffe clenched his hand, but would not let his alarm master him. He suspected treachery and knew that he must be cool.
"Your secretary assured me that Miss Cliffe would be safe with thealcalde'swife; I shall hold him responsible. Why did she leave Valverde?"
"It seems the señorita got tired of waiting, and set off to rejoin you. This is most likely, but it is said in the cafés that she ran away with the señor Gomez."
Cliffe looked up with his face set and an ominous sparkle in his eyes.
"That is a lie!"
"Personally, I think so; but having some knowledge of the sex, I would not care to predict what a romantic young woman might do."
"Get on with your tale!"
Altiera regarded Cliffe calmly.
"The señorita had my secretary's escort, but, finding the road dangerous, he made for Rio Frio, where he put her in safe hands. Her liberty was not interferedwith and one morning she left the house and did not come back."
Cliffe got up and advanced a yard or two across the floor.
"You mean she ran away? Why did she do so?"
"Your pardon, señor!" Altiera spread out his hands with a mocking smile. "There is no reason to believe she had any cause to run away; but, not knowing your daughter's character, I cannot tell you why she went."
"Very well," said Cliffe, restraining himself with an effort. "I must ask you for an armed escort to Rio Frio, where I will make inquiries. I want the men at once!"
"I am afraid that is impossible. We have news that there are rebels in the mountains. If I gave you a guard, the peons might be incited to attack you, and the trouble would spread before we are ready to deal with it. As President of this country, it is my business to think of its welfare first."
"I understand," Cliffe said very dryly. "If I promised to let you have the money you want, you might see your duty differently."
Altiera looked at him with thoughtful eyes. The American was shrewd, but did not seem as eager as he had expected.
"Señor, the need of funds that would ensure the maintenance of order and firm government justifies a risk one would not take without such a reason. I will give you a guard and send soldiers to make a thorough search for the señorita if we can agree about the loan."
"This means you really do not know where my daughter is. I was not sure of it until now."
Altiera saw he had blundered in admitting that thegirl was no longer in his hands; but while he considered how his mistake could be covered Cliffe resumed:
"It was a cunning plot, but you put it through clumsily, and you're going to find that kidnapping an American woman is a dangerous game for the President of a third-rate republic."
"One must make allowances for the excited imagination of an anxious father," Altiera answered with an indulgent smile. "I deny the plot. There is no need for one. We have a charming young lady left alone in a foreign town who finds waiting tedious and determines to join her relative. This is a simple and satisfactory explanation, without the other that she forms a romantic attachment for an officer of rank. We provide an escort because the country is disturbed, and part of the journey is accomplished. It is not safe for her to go farther, but she is rash, and, disregarding our advice, ventures too far from the house. Then she loses her way and is perhaps seized by the rebels, with the object of embarrassing the Government. We cannot be held responsible, but we are willing to attempt her rescue when we see an opportunity."
The explanation was plausible, and could not be disproved until Cliffe heard his daughter's account. But what he wanted was to find her.
"The opportunity is now, before the rebels begin to move," he said. "You refuse to seize it?"
"You understand why it is impossible. I cannot do anything that might plunge my country into a conflict, unless you show me some reason that would justify the risk."
"I cannot give you such a reason."
Altiera shrugged.
"It is for you to decide! We come to a deadlock; our negotiations break off."
"Very well," said Cliffe. "I leave Villa Paz in an hour, and it wouldn't be wise of you to interfere with my movements. My business with you is known to people who have some political influence in the United States, and if I don't turn up in good time, inquiries will be made."
He turned abruptly and went out. It seemed safer to move quickly, though he imagined the hint he had given Altiera would prevent any attempt to stop him. The President had found a plausible excuse for Evelyn's disappearance, but he would hesitate about detaining an American citizen whose friends could bring pressure to bear at Washington. This supposition was borne out when Cliffe found no trouble in hiring a guide and mules; but while he made the arrangements his brain was working.
He would willingly have met the demand for money, only that Altiera had incautiously admitted that he did not know where Evelyn was. Cliffe had acted on impulse in refusing to submit to further exaction, but calm reflection justified the course. Having a deep distrust of the man, he thought he might take the money and then not undertake the search for the girl. Cliffe determined to set about it himself and make a bid for the help of the revolutionaries. This would involve him in a serious loss, but that did not count. He must rescue his daughter, whatever it cost.
Then he remembered that the President had admitted having intercepted a message to him from the rebel leader. He had meant to insist on learning whatit was about, but had somehow omitted to do so, and it was now too late to reopen the matter. There was, however, a ray of hope in the thought that Sarmiento had tried to communicate with him.
When his baggage had been strapped on a pack-mule, he mounted and rode out of Villa Paz as if making for Valverde, but as soon as they had left the last of the houses behind he pulled up and quietly studied his guide. He was a sturdy, brown-faced peon, dressed in ragged white cotton, with raw-hide sandals and a colored blanket strapped round his shoulders, but he looked trustworthy. Moreover, Cliffe thought his willingness to assist a foreigner who was leaving the President's house without an escort, which must have shown that he had lost the autocrat's favor, had some significance. It was unfortunate that he could not speak much Castilian, but he knew that money talks in a language that is generally understood.
"I have changed my mind; we will not go to the coast," he said, stumbling over the words and helping out his meaning by pointing to the mountains.
The peon nodded.
"To me it is equal where the señor goes, so long as I am paid for the days we spend upon the road."
"Very well," said Cliffe, taking out a handful of silver. "Do you know Don Martin Sarmiento?"
The peon looked doubtful, and Cliffe saw that, as he had suspected, the fellow had some dealings with the President's enemies.
"Don Martin is known to many," he replied cautiously.
Cliffe jingled the silver and awkwardly explainedthat he was no longer a friend of the President's and wished to see Sarmiento as soon as he could.
For a time the muleteer did not speak; then he looked up with an air of decision.
"It may be difficult, señor, but we will try," he said, and jerking the pack-mule's bridle abruptly left the road.
They passed through a coffee plantation and a field of sugar-cane, and then as they reached thick forest the muleteer stopped and indicated the road that wound in loops down the hillside.
"It is well the President should think we have gone that way," he remarked with a smile. "He has, no doubt, been told how we left the town."
Cliffe looked back across the wide sweep of sun-scorched country to the shining streak on the horizon. His path led into the mountains and he longed for the sea. Then he thought of Grahame and wondered where he was. Cliffe felt sure the man would help him if he knew his need. He was beginning to suspect what business Grahame had on the coast. He asked his guide about theEnchantress, but the fellow did not seem to understand, and it was obvious that he had not heard of Grahame. Then Cliffe urged his mule on and plunged into the steamy shade.
Two days later they rode into a deep gorge filled with giant, creeper-festooned trees, and the guide moved forward slowly, glancing into the shadow that shut in the winding track. It appeared that his caution was justified, for presently a hoarse voice bade them halt, and as they pulled up two men with rifles stepped out into the sunlight.
For some time the muleteer disputed with them,using emphatic gestures and pointing to Cliffe; and then he went on with one while the other sat down watching the American, with his rifle across his knees. It was very hot, for the sun struck down through an opening in the branches, but although the perspiration dripped from him Cliffe did not think it wise to move. Indeed, he was glad that his mule stood quiet, whisking off the flies.
At last some one called in the forest and Cliffe's guard told him to ride on, though the man followed at a short distance, as if to prevent his escape. A few hundred yards farther on, the gorge widened into a level hollow, and Cliffe saw that he was in a camp.
It was not marked by military order. Men of various shades of color lay about, smoking cigarettes. Some were barefooted, and most were poorly dressed, but all wore red sashes, and good rifles lay ready to their hands. They looked more like brigands than soldiers, and it was hard to imagine they had been drilled, but while their attitudes were slackly negligent, their faces were resolute. In the background, climbing forest, choked with fallen trees and trailing vines, rolled up the steep hillside. It was very hot, and the hum of insects mingled with the sound of drowsy voices.
Two men, better dressed than the others, came forward, and Cliffe dismounted and followed them to a seat in the shadow, where they gave him some cigarettes.
"Now, señor, you will tell us why you came here," said one.
Cliffe had not expected to be addressed in good English, and he looked at the man with surprise.
The Spaniard smiled.
"With us, the consequences of trying to serve one's country is that one finds it safer to live somewhere else. But we will keep to the point."
"I am looking for Don Martin Sarmiento," Cliffe said. "I expect you know where he is."
"That is so, but it would be difficult to reach him, and we leave this place to-night. In fact, it is hard to see what we ought to do with you, but it might help if you told us what your business is with Don Martin."
"I guess you're surprised I should want to see him," Cliffe remarked with some dryness.
"It is natural," said the other. "We know you are a friend of the President's, and we suspect that you have been financing him. The money you gave him would be used to put us down."
Cliffe thought for a few moments. The man seemed a person of some consequence, and apparently commanded the band of rebels. His permission must be obtained before Cliffe could proceed, and since he meant to ask Don Martin's help there was, perhaps, no cause for reticence.
"Very well," he said. "I will tell you why I am going to your leader."
He related what had led to his quarrel with the President, and when he had finished, the man translated the narrative to his comrade.
"It is fortunate, señor, you refused the loan, because you will never get the concessions; Altiera's rule will be over in a day or two. But you believed him when he said he did not know where your daughter is?"
"Yes. He seemed to speak without thinking, and was sorry afterward."
"Then, as the señorita is not in his hands, she is probably in ours, but our forces are scattered, and at present we cannot make inquiries. However, I imagine you will find her quickest by remaining with us—and you will excuse my saying that it would not suit us to let you go. If you were seized by the President's soldiers, he might make some use of you. Have I your promise that you will not try to escape?"
Although the man was courteous, Cliffe thought an attempt to run away would lead to trouble, but this was not what decided him to stay. He had been bred to business, but now deep-rooted impulses were stirring. The President and Gomez had cheated him, and he felt very sore about it, but they had, moreover, carried off and, no doubt, terrorized Evelyn. The thought of this filled him with a fierce desire to get even with them.
"Señores," he said grimly, "you not only have my word not to attempt to escape but you have my pledge to help you in every way I can."
"We start for Rio Frio to-night," the rebel answered in a significant tone.
"Good!" Cliffe said, and glanced about at the little groups of determined looking men. "I'll confess I'm curious to know how you got such good rifles," he added.
The rebel studied him keenly for a moment; and seemed satisfied.
"A countryman of yours bought and landed them for us in small quantities."
"Grahame!" Cliffe exclaimed, and laughed, for he found the situation ironically humorous. He liked Grahame, and suspected that Evelyn was interested inhim; and now it was obvious that the man had helped the revolutionaries to ruin his plans.
"I know him," he said. "As a matter of fact, he's an Englishman."
"At present he is Gomez's prisoner. That is one reason we strike the first blow at Rio Frio."
"Ah! Well, if you mean to rescue him, you can rely on my doing the best I can."
The rebel changed the subject, but Cliffe imagined he had gained his confidence. He was invited to the officers' frugal four o'clock dinner, and afterward sat talking with them while the shadows filled the hollow. Although still anxious about Evelyn, he felt less disturbed, and was sensible of a strange but pleasant thrill. Feelings he thought he had long grown out of were reawakening; there would be no more trucking with the rogues who had cheated him and carried off his daughter. When they next met, he would demand satisfaction with a rifle in his hands. Cliffe admitted that there was something rather absurd and barbarous in the pleasure the thought of the meeting afforded him, but, for all that, the adventure he was embarking on had a strong attraction.
The sun had set when Walthew urged his worn-out mule up a narrow track that twisted along the hillside through thick timber. The evening was very dark, and thin mist drifted among the giant trees. Creepers streamed down from their interlacing boughs, damp brush projected from the sides of the trail, and Walthew growled savagely when he was buffeted by clusters of dewy leaves. His head ached, the perspiration dripped from his hot face, and he was sore in every limb, while he found the steamy atmosphere almost unbreathable.
The cut on his head was healing, but after a long, forced march from the coast, he had at sunrise left the camp where he and the revolutionaries had spent the night. The country ahead was reported to be watched by the President's soldiers, and as the party was not strong enough to fight, they had separated, hoping to slip past the pickets singly and meet at a rendezvous agreed upon. Walthew reached the spot without being molested, but although he waited for an hour nobody else arrived. It seemed possible, however, that he had mistaken the place, and he determined to push on to Rio Frio, trusting that his companions would rejoin him there. He had been told that as thePresident had dealings with foreigners he might be allowed to pass by any soldiers he fell in with when they saw he was an American.
He was, however, still a long way from Rio Frio, his mule was exhausted, and he doubted if he were going the right way. There was nothing to be seen but shadowy trunks that loomed through the mist a yard or two off, and faint specks of phosphorescent light where the fireflies twinkled.
Rocking in his saddle with a painful jar, Walthew thought that if the jaded beast stumbled again as badly it would come down, and he half decided to dismount. He felt that he would be safer on his feet; but the mule, recovering, turned abruptly without his guiding it, and a few moments later the darkness grew thinner.
The trees now rose on one side in a dense, black mass, the ground was more level, and Walthew saw that the animal had struck into a road that led through a clearing. He followed it, in the hope that there was ahaciendanear, and soon a light shone in the distance. The mule now needed no urging, and in a few minutes a building of some size loomed against the sky. Walthew rode up to it, and as he reached the arched entrance to thepatioa man appeared, while another man moved softly behind him as if to cut off his retreat.
"Can I get a fresh mule here and perhaps something to eat?" he asked as carelessly as he could.
"Certainly, señor," said the man. "If you will get down, we will put the beast in the stable."
Walthew hesitated. There was no obvious reason why he should distrust the fellow, but he imaginedthat he had been watching for somebody coming down the road. The mule, however, was worn out, and he did not think he had much chance of escaping if treachery was intended.
"Very well," he said, dismounting, and when another man came up, he stumbled after the first into the passage.
"You have ridden far, señor, and will enjoy a rest," his guide remarked. "One does not lose time by stopping for food on a long journey."
Walthew felt more suspicious. They were now near a lamp that hung in the arch, and although his companion was dressed like a peon his voice suggested some education. The feeling that his arrival had been expected was stronger, but it was too late to turn back and he went on, surreptitiously making sure that his automatic pistol was loose. He was taken across thepatio, up an outside staircase, and along a balcony, where his guide opened a door.
"The house is at your disposal," he said with Spanish politeness, bowing to Walthew to enter.
The door was closed sharply and Walthew wondered if he had been trapped as he cast a quick glance about. The room was large, badly lighted, and scantily furnished. Two of its windows were open, but he remembered that they must be some distance from the ground. There seemed, however, to be no reason for alarm. At the far end of the room a table was laid for supper, and a girl and a priest sat near it. They rose as he came forward.
Walthew gasped.
"Blanca!"
The girl seemed equally astonished.
"Señor Walthew!" she exclaimed, and her tone indicated both perplexity and concern. Walthew's clothes were gray with dust, his pose was slack with fatigue, and a dirty bandage covered his forehead.
"You seem surprised," he managed to say; "I guessIam." The gleam in his eyes showed the pleasure he felt. "I didn't expect to find you here."
"But where do you come from?"
"From the San Lucar lagoon; traveled as fast as I could, but lost my companions in the bush. They belong to your party."
The priest came forward and Walthew recognized Father Agustin.
"There has been a mistake," the priest said to Blanca, and bowed to Walthew. "You will excuse me; I have an order to give."
Walthew thought it had something to do with his arrival. He was no longer suspicious, but puzzled. He was among friends, but they had received him in a curious manner.
He turned to Blanca with a smile.
"It looks as if I'm intruding, but I hope you won't turn me out."
"Oh, no," she said with a compassionate glance that thrilled him. "You seem ill and tired. Are you hurt?"
"Not much; a scratch on my head. But are you safe here? They told us the woods were full of the President's soldiers."
"We shall be gone at daybreak, and we have a guard." Blanca paused and resumed with an air of relief: "It was fortunate you did not pass the house."
"That's a sure thing," Walthew agreed. "However,I guess I know what you mean. When I pulled up I fancied your friends were watching for me, and I'd have found the road blocked if I'd gone on. Don't you think you had better tell me what it's all about?"
Blanca hesitated with some color in her face, but just then Father Agustin returned.
"I have warned the men," he informed the girl.
"Señor Walthew wishes to know what is going on," she said.
"It might be better that he should know, and he is to be trusted; but you must decide whether you will tell him or not."
Blanca was silent for a moment, and then began in a rather strained voice:
"We have a spy in the President's household, and word was sent us that a man would leave Villa Paz with some important despatches for Gomez. We believe they contain instructions about what he must do when the fighting begins, but, to avoid suspicion, Altiera is sending a foreign trader to whom he has given some privileges. We expect him to stop and change mules here, because thehaciendabelongs to one of the President's supporters."
"I see!" said Walthew. "He would not have carried the despatches past this house. But where is its owner?"
"Hiding at ahaciendasome distance off. He is a timid man, and we had him warned that the rebels were coming to burn the place. An hour after he left with his family we took possession."
"But why did Don Martin send you?" Walthew asked sharply. "Hasn't he men enough?"
Blanca blushed and looked embarrassed, but thenext moment she lifted her head with an air of pride. There was a sparkle in her deep blue eyes.
"I am a patriot, señor, and ready to make a sacrifice for my country. We must seize the despatches, but we do not wish to use force on a foreigner, because this might lead to trouble. Our plan was to change the papers for others and send the messenger on without his knowing that he had lost them. It would not be an easy matter——"
"In short," Father Agustin interposed with some dryness, "the señorita thought she might succeed where a man would fail."
The blood rushed to Walthew's face, for he understood. Blanca meant to use her personal charm to trick and rob the messenger. It seemed to him an outrage; but she fixed her eyes on him, and they had a haughty, challenging look. She was daring him to deny that the course she meant to take was warranted. He was furiously angry, but he tried to be just, and he knew that she would not go too far.
"It seems you do not approve!" she said.
Walthew felt a thrill. In a sense, she had admitted that his good opinion was worth something; but he saw that he must be careful. She was proud and had the fiery Spanish temperament. He might lose her by a hint of doubt.
"No," he said, "I don't approve; but I can conquer my prejudices, as you must have done. It is hateful to think of a woman's doing such work, but one must admire the courage that has helped you to undertake it. I dare say the cause demands the sacrifice."
The girl's expression softened, and she smiled as she turned to the priest.
"Do you not think Señor Walthew has answered well?"
"It is obvious that he has tact, and I think he has feeling," said Father Agustin. "But has he not some news for us, perhaps?"
"I have," said Walthew. "I want your help."
He began with the arrival of Evelyn's message, and Blanca started as if about to speak, but Father Agustin stopped her by a sign. Her face grew intent as Walthew told how they had driven theEnchantressbefore the gale, and her eyes sparkled when he deprecatingly related the struggle on the beach.
"I think you have no reason to apologize," she said. "They must have sent a strong guard, and you tried to rescue your friend alone. Miguel was right; there was nothing to be done by two or three men with knives." Then she paused with a thoughtful look. "It seems you do not know that Miss Cliffe is safe with us."
"It is a relief to learn that," Walthew said with feeling.
"Since she was at Rio Frio when she sent the note, it is plain that Gomez added the few lines that led you into the trap. But we must think how we can rescue Mr. Grahame. You suggest that the men who came with you from San Lucar have no plans?"
"No. They expected to gather a force on the way, but the peons had already gone off to join Don Martin. We meant to steal into Rio Frio and then see what could be done. All I know is that I'm not going back without my partner."
"We may find a way to set him free, but it will need some thought," Father Agustin remarked. "When athing looks difficult, force is not always the best means."
"It doesn't seem likely to be of much use now," Walthew gloomily agreed. "I'd six of your countrymen with me until I lost them, and we were told that Gomez was filling Rio Frio with soldiers.... But how did you come to take a part in this affair?"
Father Agustin's eyes twinkled.
"I came as duenna. You were surprised when you heard what the señorita had undertaken, but it appeared that my presence might be something of a protection and, perhaps, a guarantee. One concludes that this did not strike you."
Walthew looked embarrassed, but Father Agustin smiled.
"You look as if you need refreshment," he said. "We will have our supper now."
When the meal was finished, Father Agustin kept Walthew talking while Blanca leaned back silently in her chair. Her look was strained, and once Walthew surprised her cautious glance at the clock.
"I had forgotten the despatch-carrier," he said with some sharpness. "He doesn't seem to be coming."
"There is another road; longer and at present dangerous," explained Father Agustin. "We have had it watched, but this is the obvious way for a messenger to take."
"For all that," said Walthew steadily, "I hope the fellow will choose the other."
Neither of them answered. Blanca lay back in her chair; the priest sat with one elbow on the table, his cheek resting on his upturned palm. He was very tired.
Walthew studied him for a moment and then put his thoughts into words.
"It is curious, Father Agustin, that whenever I have met you things began to happen."
"It is possible. Perhaps a priest is most needed where there is trouble, and my mission is not always peace. One looks forward to the time when lust and greed and cruelty shall no longer rule the hearts of men, but it has not come yet."
Walthew lighted the cigarette his host passed over to him. Though Father Agustin had told him nothing new and his manner was by no means dramatic, he felt impressed. The quiet priest in his shabby cassock and clumsy, raw-hide shoes, had somehow a dominating personality. It was hard to tell what part he took in the revolution, but even if it were not directly active, Walthew thought him a moral force that must be reckoned with.
For a time nothing was said. There was no sound in the room except the ticking of the clock, and it seemed to Walthew that the house had a deserted feeling; he imagined that there was nobody in it except themselves. He grew angry and pitiful by turns as he glanced at Blanca. It was a hateful task she had been given, but he saw that she meant to carry it out. He wanted to get on, because Grahame might be in danger, but he could not leave until the despatch-carrier came. One could trust Father Agustin, but Walthew felt that he must be on hand.
It got cooler, and a faint, earthy smell crept in through the windows. Now and then the lamp flickered in a passing draught, and once or twice they forced themselves to talk, but the effort was obviousand the voices presently died away. After this the quietness became oppressive, and by degrees Walthew grew drowsy. Rousing himself, he felt ashamed as he glanced at the girl. She did not move, but her pose was tense, and he knew that she was watchful. He resented the craving for sleep when she was bearing a heavy strain, but he had traveled fast since he left the lagoon and his exhausted body demanded rest.
He would not give in, and at last he started as a faint throbbing sound reached him from outside. It came from a long way off, but grew plainer, and he saw Father Agustin lean forward. Then Blanca stood up with a tinge of color in her face and a tightening of her lips. Somebody was riding hard down the road. There was a shout and a sharp answer.
For a few moments the three stood waiting with forced calm, and then a man hurriedly entered.
"Pepe is here, señor," he announced.
"Ah!" said Father Agustin quietly. "Bring him in." He turned to Walthew. "It is one of our men who watched the other road. Something has gone wrong."
Walthew saw Blanca's expression change. Although she had meant to get the despatches, he knew she felt relieved.
Pepe entered. His face was wet with perspiration and he spoke with a breathless quickness that prevented Walthew's following what he said. Still, it was plain that his news was bad, for his manner was apologetic, and Father Agustin looked thoughtful.
"Wait outside; we may want you," he said and turned to Walthew after dismissing the fellow. "The messenger must have been suspicious and our menhave blundered. It was very dark and he came upon them suddenly. One was shot as he seized the mule and the messenger escaped before they could mount, but he was forced to turn back."
"Could he pass them by making a round?"
"It is not likely. There is this road and the other, with thick forest between, and both are guarded. The man must wait for daylight, and I do not think he will reach Rio Frio. We may turn this to your advantage, but it needs thought."
He sat down and lighted a cigarette, and Walthew waited in silence until he looked up.
"It is possible that Gomez will offer your comrade his liberty in exchange for information he can use against Don Martin."
"Grahame will give him none," Walthew answered emphatically.
"Then I imagine he is in some danger. You would take a risk to rescue him?"
"Of course!"
"Very well. Gomez is waiting for instructions and probably knows that the messenger is a foreigner. I suggest that you impersonate him. The guards will let you pass, and Gomez will, no doubt, receive you alone. Then you must try to extort an order for your friend's release."
"I'm a pretty good shot," said Walthew meaningly. "I might get him covered before I begin."
Father Agustin made a sign of impatience.
"Your best argument will be this—if you are detained for more than a few minutes, there will be a tumult in the town. Gomez will hesitate about forcing a rising before he gets his orders. Then as soon asyou enter the house some of our people will find an excuse for loitering about the door. The soldiers are not well drilled; it might not be difficult to surprise and disarm the sentry, and then the house could be seized. For all that, there is a risk. Success will depend upon your nerve and coolness."
"I can't think of any better plan," said Walthew.
Blanca gave him a quick glance, and he thrilled as he saw a hint of trouble in her face. He thought she was unwilling that he should run into danger, but the next moment her eyes sparkled.
"It will work!" she said. "I am coming to help!"
Walthew made a sign of protest, but she would not let him speak.
"I promised to get the despatches, and the messenger may arrive while you are with Gomez. Then somebody must make arrangements for the door to be watched, and I am known in Rio Frio. I can find trustworthy men." She raised her hand imperiously. "You need not object, señor. I am going!"
Walthew was forced to acquiesce, and an hour afterward they left thehaciendaand rode through the dark bush with two well-armed men behind them.
The sun hung low in the western sky, with a peak of the black cordillera cutting its lower edge, and Rio Frio shone in the glaring light. Seen from the road across the valley, the town had an ethereal look, for the tiers of square, white houses rose from a gulf of shadow and clustered upon the hillside, glimmering with a pearly luster, picked out by clumps of green. Behind were barren slopes, deepening in color to dusky purple as they ran back to the foot of the mountain wall.
Walthew pulled up his mule and sat gazing at the town. He had been riding beside Blanca, while Father Agustin and two others followed at some distance.
"Five minutes ago you could hardly see the place against the background and now it glows as if it were lighted up inside," he remarked. "Looks more like an enchanted palace than a collection of adobe houses. One could imagine that some magician had suddenly conjured it up."
"I'm afraid there's not much enchantment in Rio Frio," Blanca answered. "It's very prosaic and rather dirty."
"Well, I don't know," said Walthew, looking boldly at her. "I'm not given to romantic sentiment, butsomething very strange happened to me one night in your town. Must have been glamour in the air, for I've been a changed man ever since. You wouldn't expect a matter-of-fact American, who was on the hunt for money, to trail round the country trying to act like Garibaldi, unless he was bewitched."
Blanca smiled prettily.
"You have, at least, chosen to follow a great example, señor."
"I don't think I chose him," Walthew returned dryly. "I'd have looked for somebody easier."
"But you were free to give up the part if you found it too hard for you."
"No; that's the trouble. I wasn't free."
The girl knew that he was not talking at random to hide nervousness. There was an underlying gravity in his manner and she secretly thrilled to it. Although he still wore the dirty bandage and was dusty and unkempt, she thought he had a very gallant air. His eyes were bright and intent, and his thin face was very resolute. The faint smile with which he regarded her somehow emphasized his determined, highstrung look.
"Señor," she said, "it is better to aim high. Achievement is not everything; the effort counts, and it is a generous errand you go upon to-night. But we will talk of something else. Look; there is the house where I spent the only happy years I can remember, until my father heard the call of duty once more and obeyed. Higher up, you can see the green gap of thealameda; beyond it the church of San Sebastian." She paused for a moment with a shiver. "The white line beneath it is the top of thepresidio, where Gomez lives. Butthe light fades quickly, and now, see—everything has gone."
The sun had sunk behind the cordillera, and the white town, changing suddenly to gray, melted out of sight as the shadows rolled up the hillside.
"You must see that it's enchanted," Walthew remarked. "The magician has waved his wand and blotted it out."
"It will shine again to-morrow," Blanca answered in a quiet voice. "The shadows have long rested on this country of ours, but one looks for the dawn."
The others were close behind them, but the party was smaller than it had been. Ragged men with dark, determined faces had been picked up on the way, but it would excite suspicion if they entered Rio Frio in a body, and they had separated during the last hour. Walthew did not know what their orders were, but he thought they would act upon some plan already made if he failed to secure Grahame's release; and Blanca presently bore this conclusion out.
"You will not be left unsupported, but it will be better if you can make Gomez set your comrade free without our help," she said. "We do not wish to strike the first blow to-night, but if it is needful, thepresidiowill be attacked. Gomez's position is like ours: he is not quite ready to force a conflict. You see how that strengthens your hand. He cannot altogether trust his soldiers, and a shot would rouse the town." Her voice sounded rather strained as she concluded: "But if you are careful, the shot will not be fired. Gomez is cruel, but he is a coward, and will give way if you use moral force."
"It's a big thing," Walthew answered thoughtfully."Still, I must put it over somehow. I have to get my partner out."
Darkness fell before they reached Rio Frio, and Blanca stopped her mule on the outskirts of the town.
"We must separate here," she said. "I do not think the entrance is carefully guarded, because it is not Gomez's policy to admit that an attack is possible, but there may be spies, and aruralor two on watch." She paused and held out her hand. "I wish you good fortune, señor, and I do not think your nerve will fail, but if the worst comes, we will not leave you in Gomez's power."
Walthew, bending down, kissed her hand and then lifted his hat.
"Until I see you again, señorita," he said and quietly rode on.
There was no moon and the air was still. The town rose before him, vague and shadowy, with a faint musky smell drifting out from it. As he reached the first of the houses, a wave of heat, rising from the rough pavement, surrounded him. The walls looked blank, for there were no lights behind the lattices, but a ray of brightness fell across the street a short distance in front. As he crossed the illuminated strip a man in white uniform stepped forward and seized his bridle.
"Who comes?" he asked, looking hard at Walthew's face.
"A messenger for thesecretario."
"Pass, friend," said the other, letting go the bridle.
Walthew rode on, but checked the mule as soon as he was out of sight. It looked as if he had been expected, but he had been warned that he must givethe revolutionaries time to communicate with their friends in the city. They might have some trouble in entering it, although he believed they meant to do so through the house of some sympathizer on the outskirts. When he turned a corner he stopped to listen, but heard nothing behind him, and the street in front was quiet. It seemed that nobody had been sent to announce his arrival, and he could proceed slowly without rousing suspicion.
Leaving the direct line, he wound in and out through narrow streets, the mule's shoes clanging on the hot stones. He passed one or two dimly lighted cafés where men, roused by the clatter, looked up, their figures showing indistinct about the small tables between the pillars. Farther on, shadowy groups were sitting close together on the pavement, and though their voices were quiet they had somehow an air of excitement. Men appeared and vanished in the gloom, moving softly and quickly, as if afraid of loitering. There was a mysterious hint of tension about all that Walthew saw, and he felt his heart beat as he rode on.
Crossing the plaza, he dismounted at the hotel he had previously visited, and sent for the majordomo when the hostler grumbled something about the stable's being full.
"You will remember me," he said. "I want to leave my mule here and perhaps spend the night."
"I am sorry, but we have no room; there are a number of strangers in the town. They are not so full at the Golden Fleece."
"I'd rather stay here if I have to wait until to-morrow," Walthew answered. "You take care of the mules well, and I may have a long ride. Then oneputs up at a place one knows, with more—confidence."
The majordomo looked hard at him.
"We must try to make room, señor, since you have—confidence."
"Exactly," said Walthew, smiling. "Now I want the mule fed but not unsaddled. I may perhaps need it in an hour, and it would be an advantage if you could find me another."
"It might be possible," the majordomo replied in a thoughtful tone. "Still, there are spies about and they may watch this house. With permission, I will send the mule to Ramon Silva in thecalle Pinastro. He is a carrier, and it is known that he buys pack-animals; he will have both mules ready, if you ask for them with confidence."
Walthew thanked the man and set off for thepresidio. It was a long, square-fronted building with a sentry-box at the entrance, and an untidy soldier sat smoking outside. Another stood a little farther on in a slouching attitude, a rifle raking across his shoulder and hiskepistilted to one side. Discipline is seldom marked among Spanish-American soldiers, but Walthew was somewhat surprised to note that the fellow was bantering a group of loiterers. They were dressed like peons, and one carried a tray of sweetmeats and another a quantity of cigarettes, apparently for sale. As Walthew passed, the former hurriedly moved his tray, as if to prevent its being upset.
"Be careful, señor!" he exclaimed, giving Walthew a warning glance.
Walthew understood it. The men were not there by accident, and he saw that one was within leapingdistance of the sentry. He knew that the Spanish knife is almost as dangerous as the rifle at close quarters; and can, moreover, be thrown a short distance with effect.
"I have a message for thesecretario," he told the sentry with a careless air.
The man let him pass, and he saw that he was expected when a dusky steward met him at the door. Since the despatch-carrier was known to be a foreigner, it was easy to enter thepresidio, but he wondered what would happen before he left. Now that the dangerous game was about to begin, he clearly recognized the risk he ran. For all that, it looked as if he held the trump cards, and he hoped that he had nerve enough to play them well. Pulling himself together, he followed his guide across thepatioand up an outer stair, until the man stopped and knocked at a door.
"The messenger, señor," he announced.
Walthew held his breath until he heard the door shut behind him; then he turned to Gomez, who had risen from his seat at a table. It was a small room and the table stood between the men. Walthew felt his nerves tingle and his skin grow damp with perspiration as Gomez looked at him. There was surprise in the secretary's face and he seemed puzzled, as if he were trying to revive a memory.
"You are not the man we were told would come, but I think I have seen you somewhere," he said.
Walthew stood still, his hand in his jacket pocket, as if about to take the despatches from it.
"The other messenger was detained, but we have met. I once dined at your table at the International, in Havana."
Gomez gave him a quick, suspicious glance.
"Then there is something I do not understand, but it is not important now. You bring the President's orders?"
"No; I bring this."
He took his hand from his pocket and the barrel of an automatic pistol glinted in the light.
Gomez flinched, but recovered his calm with a quickness that showed Walthew he had a dangerous antagonist.
"Push your chair back from that open drawer and then keep still!" he ordered.
Gomez obeyed, and Walthew sat down on the edge of the table, where, if necessary, he could spring up more quickly than from a chair. Besides, the position helped him to keep both Gomez and the door in sight.
"You are uselessly dramatic, señor," Gomez remarked with a forced sneer. "You dare not use the pistol, and I am not to be frightened by so cheap a trick."
Walthew did not put down the weapon.
"Rather stale, but it has served its purpose by stopping you from calling out, and that's all I wanted to begin with. Now I'm going to show you how we stand."
"Your position strikes me as very weak."
"Well," said Walthew coolly, "I don't know. There are some chances in my favor."
"Not many, I think. A shot or a call from me would lead to your immediate arrest."
Walthew lowered the pistol.
"I'm not going to shoot and you won't call. One of your sentries is smoking cigarettes, with a wiry liberator ready to put his knife into him, and something would happen to the other before he could throw up his rifle. Then, a number of my friends are waiting to seize the gate."
"What would they gain? They could not hold the building. In a few minutes the soldiers would arrive."
"Just so. Still, they'd have a few minutes, and there's reason for believing they're not fond of you. Then, I don't mean to be made a prisoner and, if I'm forced to, I'll shoot straight."
This was not an idle threat. Walthew's nerves were steady, and he felt a rancorous hatred of the man. He had been guilty of unspeakable cruelties, he had carried off an American girl, and he now had Grahame in his power. Walthew's face was pale, but his lips were firmly set, and there was an ominous gleam in his eyes. Gomez began to grow uneasy.
"However," Walthew went on, "the important point is that the first shot starts the revolution. My friends won't have much trouble with the sentries at the door, but if your soldiers try to break in afterward, it will rouse the town. You may take this for granted, because you must see that I'd make sure of being supported outside before I ventured here."
Gomez pondered. The American's position was certainly strong. The lad was not a rash fool, and his having made the venture proved his statement about the likelihood of a revolution to be correct; moreover, Gomez had other reasons for not questioning it. As he looked up, Walthew made a warning gesture and Gomez heard footsteps outside.
"Don't move!" said Walthew in a low, tense voice. "If that fellow comes in it will make trouble for bothof us. You'd better think how you're going to keep him out!"
The secretary's lips twitched, but he sat motionless. The steps drew nearer, echoing down the passage; in another moment the man outside would reach the door. Walthew held his breath; but the steps continued and passed. Then they grew fainter, and Walthew saw his antagonist's pose relax; the strain had told on him. Gomez was weakening and the game was nearly won.
"What do you want?" the secretary asked.
"An order for Grahame's release."
"Impossible! My signature would make me responsible to the President."
"You'll take a bigger responsibility if you refuse; the men I left waiting will begin the trouble if I'm not outside very soon. You haven't got your master's orders yet, and the liberators have headed his messenger off. I guess you'll have to answer for it if you spoil his plans. Remember you'll have to face a revolution unless you let Grahame out."
Gomez was silent for a few moments and then made a sign of acquiescence.
"Very well," he said, and pulling his chair to the table began to write. Then he gave Walthew the paper. "Are you satisfied?"
"Not quite," said Walthew, glancing over the message. "Ring for one of your men and send it off with this note." He handed both papers to Gomez. "Order him to deliver them at once!"