“You visited my room last night.”
“Yes. But, on second thought, I decided that today would give me the better opportunity. Had you waited a second longer, your friends would have had a hard time tracing your fate. An excuse to my father-in-law, that you had returned to Acapulco without stopping, by a nearer route, would have ended inquiry here.” He set his teeth, as he concluded, unable to conceal how much he regretted that this convenient denouement had been interrupted. “Was it chance caused you to turn?” he continued, after a moment’s silence.
“It was watchfulness. I thought I saw murder in your eyes once before, today, when I met them suddenly; but as I believed myself unknown to you, I could hardly credit my own impression. It grew upon me, however, as we proceeded, and ‘by the pricking of my ribs,’ I turned in time to prevent the compliment you were about to pay me. But this is wasting time. Write what I expect of you. I shall permit no lies. I can tell when I see one, or hear one. If you say anything which is not true, I shall make you correct it.”
Coerced by the eye which never ceased to watch his slightest movement, and by the revolver held in range of his breast, the reluctant doctor took the sheet of paper and the fountain-pen which were offered him, sat down on the stone, and, with the top of his sombrero for a desk, wrote slowly for ten or fifteen minutes. Then he arose and handed the document, which was signed with his real name, to the detective, who, with one eye on his prisoner, and one on the paper, continued to read the evidence without giving his companion a chance to profit by any relaxation of his vigilance.
“You have told the truth, for once in your life,” was his remark, as he finished reading the paper. “I had found this out myself, fact for fact, all but one or two facts which you give here; but I preferred having your testimony before I brought the matter before the proper parties, therefore I came here after it”—speaking as if a trip to Acapulco were one of the easiest and most commonplace of things.
“You’re d—d cool about it,” remarked the adventurer, eying his adversary with a glance of hate, with which was mingled a forced admiration of a “sharpness” which, had he himself possessed it, he could have used to such advantage. “And now, maybe you’ll be good enough to tell me if the affair kicked up much of a row.”
“I can not talk with you. I want you to lead the way back to our horses, for, since my business with you is finished, I may say that I do not fancy your company. You must go with me before Don Miguel, and we will enlighten him as to your true character, since with him to be ‘forewarned may be forearmed.’ ”
“Oh, don’t do that! I beg you to spare me for my wife’s sake—it would kill her, she loves me so much!” and the creature dropped on his knees.
“I would, indeed, rather than blast her innocent heart with such knowledge, allow you still to play your part in that little family; but I know that, sooner or later, you will contrive to break the heart of that confiding woman, and it might be worse in the future than even now. She has yet no children; she is young, and the wound may heal. It is an unpleasant duty, which I must perform.”
Then followed a scene of begging, prayers, even tears upon one side, and relentless purpose on the other.
VII
Now for Home Again
Dr. Seltzer and his scientific friend returned down the mountain, reaching the flowery carriageway which led up to the mansion about four p.m.; but here the former suddenly whirled his horse and set off toward Acapulco, at his utmost speed. Mr. Burton did not fire at him, to stop him; if he wished to run away from the horrible exposure which he had not the courage to face, it was no longer any business of the detective. This very flight would prove his guilt the more incontestably. It was with a pang of pity that he noticed the Donna, coming forth on the piazza with a face illumined with expectation of meeting her husband; he replied to her inquiry, that the doctor had gone down the road without saying how long he expected to be gone; and asking a private interview with Don Miguel, he at once, without circumlocution, laid before him the painful facts.
Of course the Don was shocked and grieved beyond expression, more on his daughter’s account than on his own; and blamed himself severely for having introduced a stranger, without proper credentials, into his confidence. If the murder had been committed from jealousy, anger, or upon any impulse of passion, he would not have thought so badly of the young man; but that it should have been done for money was to him an irreparable crime and disgrace.
Mr. Burton had thought of returning to Acapulco that afternoon and evening, considering that his presence could not be welcome to the family under such circumstances; but Don Miguel positively forbade him to attempt the journey at that late hour, as it might be dangerous at any time, and now, if the doctor wished to revenge himself upon his betrayer, a better opportunity could not occur than on this lonely road, where he might linger in the expectation of his passing. From the interview which followed between the father and his child, Mr. Burton was absent; he saw no more of the beautiful young wife, for he left the hacienda early the following morning; but
