“Callous destruction of human happiness also for profit. I suppose the same type of mind would commit both crimes. It is an interesting parallel. I should like to consult our dear friend Poiccart on that subject.”
“Can he be touched by the law?” asked Manfred. “Is there no way of betraying him?”
“Absolutely none,” said Leon shortly. “The man is a genuine agent. He has the names of some of the best people on his books and they all speak loudly in his praise. The lie that is half a lie is easier to detect than the criminal who is half honest. If the chief cashier of the Bank of England turned forger, he would be the most successful forger in the world. This man has covered himself at every point. I had a talk with a Jewish gentleman—a pathetic old soul named Goldstein, whose daughter went abroad some seven or eight months ago. He has not heard from her, and he told me that Lynne was very much surprised to discover that she had any relations at all. The unrelated girl is his best investment.”
“Did Lynne give the old man her address?”
Leon shrugged his shoulders.
“There are a million square miles in the Argentine—where is she? Cordoba, Tucuman, Mendoza, San Louis, Santa Fe, Rio Cuario, those are a few towns. And there are hundreds of towns where this girl may be dancing, towns which have no British or American Consul. It’s rather horrible, George.”
Manfred looked thoughtfully across the green spaces in the park.
“If we could be sure,” said Gonsalez softly. “It will take exactly two months to satisfy us, and I think it would be worth the money. Our young friend will leave by the next South American packet, and you, some time ago, were thinking of returning to Spain. I think I will take the trip.”
George nodded.
“I thought you would,” he said. “I really can’t see how we can act unless you do.”
Miss Lilah Hacker was amazed when she boarded the Braganza at Boulogne to discover that she had as fellow passenger the polite stranger who had lectured so entertainingly on the geography of South America.
To the girl her prospect was rosy and bright. She was looking forward to a land of promise, her hopes for the future were at zenith, and if she was disappointed a little that the agreeable Gonsalez did not keep her company on the voyage, but seemed forever preoccupied, that was a very unimportant matter.
It was exactly a month from the day she put foot on the Braganza that her hope and not a little of her faith in humanity were blasted by a stout Irishman whose name was Rafferty, but who had been born in the Argentine. He was the proprietor of a dance hall called “La Plaza” in a cattle town in the interior. She had been sent there with two other girls wiser than she, to entertain the half-breed vaqueros who thronged the town at night, and for whom “La Plaza” was the principal attraction.
“You’ve got to get out of them ways of yours,” said Rafferty, twisting his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “When Señor Santiago wanted you to sit on his knee last night, you made a fuss, I’m told.”
“Of course, I did,” said the girl indignantly. “Why, he’s coloured!”
“Now see here,” said Mr. Rafferty, “there ain’t no coloured people in this country. Do you get that? Mr. Santiago is a gentleman and he’s got stacks of money, and the next time he pays you a little attention, you’ve got to be pleasant, see?”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” said the girl, pale and shaking, “and I’m going straight back to Buenos Aires tonight.”
“Oh you are, are you?” Rafferty smiled broadly. “That’s an idea you can get out of your head, too.”
Suddenly he gripped her by the arm.
“You’re going up to your room, now,” he said, “and you’re going to stay there till I bring you out tonight to do your show, and if you give me any of your nonsense—you’ll be sorry!”
He pushed her through the rough unpainted door of the little cell which was termed bedroom, and he paused in the doorway to convey information (and there was a threat in the course of it) which left her white and staring.
She came down that night and did her performance and to her surprise and relief did not excite even the notice of the wealthy Mr. Santiago, a half-bred Spaniard with a yellow face, who did not so much as look at her.
Mr. Rafferty was also unusually bland and polite.
She went to her room that night feeling more comfortable. Then she discovered that her key was gone, and she sat up until one o’clock in the morning waiting for she knew not what. At that hour came a soft footfall in the passage; somebody tried the handle of her door, but she had braced a chair under the handle. They pushed and the rickety chair creaked; then there was a sound like a stick striking a cushion, and she thought she heard somebody sliding against the wooden outer wall of the room. A tap came to her door.
“Miss Hacker,” the voice said. She recognised it immediately. “Open the door quickly. I want to get you away.”
With a trembling hand she removed the chair, and the few little articles of furniture she had piled against the door, and opened it. By the light of the candle which was burning in her room she recognised the man who had been her fellow passenger on the Braganza.
“Come quietly,” he said. “There is a back stair to the compound. Have you a cloak? Bring it, because you have a sixty-mile motor journey before we come to the railway.”
As she came through the door she saw the upturned toes of somebody who was lying in the passage, and with a shudder she realised that was the thumping sound she had heard.
They reached the big
