Don Miguel and two of his servants accompanied Mr. Burton all the way back to town; the Don affirming that he had some business requiring a visit to the city sooner or later; though his guest knew very well that his real object was to protect him from any danger which might threaten. For this he was grateful, though his courage did not shrink, even from the idea of secret assassination.
He was detained in Acapulco several days before he had an opportunity of leaving for the isthmus. During that time he learned, by a messenger whom Don Miguel sent him, that, during the Don’s absence from the house in the two days of his journey to town and back, Dr. Seltzer had returned there, possessed himself of every article of value which he could carry away upon his person, including the Donna’s jewels, which she had inherited from her mother, and a large sum in gold, and had persuaded his wife to accompany his flying fortunes to some unknown region. In the letter which Don Miguel wrote to the stranger, he expressed himself as one robbed and left desolate. It was not the loss of money or jewels, but the loss of his poor, confiding, loving child, that he dwelt upon. The Donna’s was one of those impulsive, impassioned natures which must love, even if it knows the object unworthy. No deed which her husband could commit could make him otherwise to her than the man with whose fate her own was linked for “better or worse.” Mr. Burton folded up the letter with a sigh; no power of his could amend the fate of this young creature, which promised to be so sad.
While he remained in the ruinous old place he used extraordinary precautions to insure his own safety; for he believed that Dr. Seltzer, or George Thorley, would seek revenge upon him, not only for the sake of the revenge, but to silence the accusation which he might carry back to the States. It was well that he was thus careful, as, among other proofs that he was thus pursued, was the following. One afternoon, as he sat in the great, breezy corridor of the hotel, an old woman came in with a basket and offered to sell him some particularly fine oranges. He bought a couple of the largest, and was about to eat one, when he observed that she did not offer the fruit to any other customer; upon this, he regarded her more closely, and was satisfied that all was not right. When she had lingered a time to notice if he ate the fruit, he strolled out to the street, and in her presence called up a stray pig, to which he fed pieces of the orange. When she saw this, the old hag, who was an Indian, quickly disappeared, and shortly after the pig died.
It was, therefore, with feelings of satisfaction that the detective finally bade farewell to Acapulco on a return steamer. He had waited some time at the isthmus, where the days had hung heavily, but he had comforted himself with his motto about patience; and now, as he assured me at the close of his narrative, “If heaven would give us a propitious passage home we should be in time—all would be right.”
Day was breaking when Mr. Burton finished his narrative; the rain had ceased, but a thick fog hung over the sea and land, making everything gloomy and disagreeable.
“I must go now, and awaken my little girl,” he said, rising.
“But you have not read me the written confession of that Thorley.”
“Richard, you must forgive me if I do not see fit to allow you to read it at present. I have a purpose in it, or I should not keep back from you any of my own information. That confession did not surprise me; I knew the murderer long ago, but I could not prove it. You shall soon be at rest about this affair. I only pray, now, for a speedy voyage, and that Leesy Sullivan may be alive when we reach New York. Richard!” he added, with a passionate gesture, “you do not dream what a constant fever I am in—I am so afraid we shall be too late. I can not bear the horror which that would be to me.”
And indeed it did seem, at that time, as if my own engrossing interest was scarcely equal to that of my companion, who yet had nothing at all at stake, while I had so much. Not only then, but at various other times during the remainder of our voyage, he expressed so much anxiety lest Miss Sullivan should be dead before we arrived home, that I, who was always torturing myself with conjectures, again revived my suspicions that she was connected with the murder.
In the meantime, the sun arose upon the bustle of disembarking from the steamer to the cars. Fortunately, the fog lifted by eight o’clock, and we could enjoy the magnificent scenery through which the cars whirled us—scenery so at variance, in its wildness and the exuberance of its foliage, and the secluded aspect of its beauty, with this noisy wonder of civilization which scattered its fiery deluge of sparks along the path of gorgeous tropical flowers waving at us, sometimes, in long streamers of bloom from the topmost branches of gigantic trees.
Nothing occurred to mar the tranquillity of the passage home. On the expected day, we landed at the dock in New York, and I stepped upon the earth with a curious, excited feeling, now that we drew so near to the close of our efforts, which made me almost lightheaded. We took a carriage and drove to Mr. Burton’s; he was expected by the housekeeper, so that we found the house prepared for our reception. A fine dinner was served
