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.”