CHAPTER XIII
MIRALDA’S CONFIDENCE
AS the door closed behind Dagara I returned to my seat. M. Volheno was obviously annoyed by the incident, but I observed that it was rather the fact of the secretary’s negligence than the consequences of it which had ruffled his temper.
“You would scarcely believe, judging by this, the trouble I have taken to train that young man. Since his marriage there has been some difference in him; but he is usually as dependable as a machine, and does his work with precision, speed and silence.”
“A man of the kind is, of course, essential for such confidential affairs as yours,” I replied.
“Of course I can trust him. He has my entire confidence and is a perfect encyclopædia of details. As a matter of fact he is a distant connexion of mine, an orphan, and I educated him.”
“Such a man has reason to be grateful,” I said.
“I believe he would give his life for me,” declared Volheno confidently.
Dagara came back then, but without the letter, and I concluded that Maral had failed to send him the copy I had made. While he was making his explanation I observed him very carefully.
He was genuinely troubled, as he might well be, indeed; but there was so little in his look and manner suggestive of roguery or hypocrisy that, despite what I knew, I set him down as an honest fellow who had been forced against his will into this treachery.
His explanation was that the letter was probably among his employer’s papers and that he would make a search for it; and Volheno, trusting him implicitly, accepted the story and sent him away with another word or two of censure.
Then he resumed his efforts to get me to disclose what I knew, but adopted a different line. He referred to the concessions, and gave me to understand that, whereas it would help me in regard to them if I told him things, my refusal would as certainly prejudice my chances.
I did not attach the value of a rotten orange to them, but I deemed it judicious to make a fine display of rather indignant surprise.
From that he went a step further—that although he himself had no doubt that I had acquired the information innocently, it was highly probable that those to whom he was bound to report the matter would not take the same view; and he hinted that in such a case I might receive a request to leave the country.
That touched me on the raw, but I instantly professed a readiness to leave. I would go that very day if he wished, but in such a case, of course, the concessions would be dropped and there would be no plums in the future for those who looked for them in return for help at the present.
And then he grew a little more subtle.
“There is another point, Mr. Donnington. We shall necessarily take more interest than heretofore in your movements.”
“I am quite indifferent about that,” I replied. “You may quarter your agents in my rooms and on my yacht, if you wish.”
“I don’t mean any such thing as you imply. But you have certain friends in Lisbon, and——”
“On your introduction,” I reminded him.
“There is, for instance, the Visconte de Linto.”
“To whom I was presented by the Marquis de Pinsara.”
“Some of his family were known to you previously. The whole of that family occupy a somewhat peculiar position. You may have heard that the visconte filled for some years a Court position with a good emolument and no duties. M. Franco has put an end to that—as in so many other cases—and this has produced both discontent and bitterness in some quarters. Between such discontent and actual disaffection, the gap is small; and we cannot help being impressed by a coincidence where we find close friendly relations between some such family and a foreigner who suddenly acquires such dangerous information as you yourself possess.”
“If you mean that my acquaintance is likely to prejudice them in any way, it shall cease. But it is a mare’s nest—nothing more.”
“The prejudice might be against you, Mr. Donnington. The position of that family is—peculiar. The visconte is angry and embittered by the loss of his salary. His wife is indiscreet and has often spoken against the Government in very strong terms. The son is a lieutenant in the one regiment in Lisbon some of whose officers are not wholly free from a suspicion of disaffection. And the daughter, a very charming young lady, is engaged to marry another officer of the same regiment and, further, has one or two friends—one especially—who is something of an enigma. Then you arrive, and—well, you can draw the inference.”
I smiled. “The inference I draw, M. Volheno, is not from surmise but from a knowledge of facts.”
“Now don’t you think you would be well advised to let me have in confidence the information you have gained?”
“I have already explained—I am bound by my word.”
“Then we can do no good by further discussion,” he exclaimed abruptly, and rose to end the interview.
I hesitated a moment whether to tell him that I had really come to Lisbon on Miralda’s account, but thought it better to hold my tongue. It would have shown him the strength of his threat to pack me out of the country.
The interview left me with the extremely unpleasant and disquieting feeling that I was getting out of my depth in troubled waters which might easily be lashed into a storm.
Why he had introduced the topic of the de Linto family, I could not understand. Yet he must have had a reason, and I ought to know it. Could I get it from Dagara? He had Volheno’s confidence, and if Barosa and his associates could force him to give them information, I might be able to squeeze him also under a threat of exposure. The plan was infinitely distasteful; but if Miralda’s safety was at stake, I was ready to adopt almost any means to protect her.
She was in some danger, clearly. She had told me herself that, although she was no rebel, she was compromised. And as Volheno suspected her, it might be only a short time before discovery would follow and suspicion materialize into an actual charge.
Considerably alarmed at this prospect I decided to come to close grips with Sampayo at once. He might not be the only obstacle between Miralda and me, but the situation would certainly be much clearer the instant he was out of the way.
I went off in search of him that afternoon, therefore, but learnt that he was in Oporto and would not return until the following day. On my way back I met the Visconte de Linto close to his house and he urged me to go in with them. He was eager to know something more about the concessions and his own prospects in regard to them.
This proved to be a preface to a long account of his grievances against the Dictator. I was a very patient, sympathetic listener; and my patience was rewarded, for I succeeded in steering the talk round to the subject of Sampayo, about whom I wished to know the visconte’s real opinion. I appealed to his cupidity, therefore.
“I should very much value your advice on a point concerning Major Sampayo,” I said in a confidence-inviting tone. “I am told that his influence with the Government is so great that his help alone would be enough to secure me all I want. Of course you’ll see my difficulty. I should be delighted to have my friends sharing in the good things; but those behind me naturally expect me to limit the number. Now, if he can do everything, of course he is just the man for their purpose.”
His face fell. “He couldn’t do that, Mr. Donnington. Of course, he is a wealthy man and all that, but——” and he shook his head.
“Scarcely wealthy—in our sense of the word, visconte,” I replied airily. “Not wealthy compared with men who are prepared to put fifty or a hundred thousand pounds into a single scheme.”
“Will your friends go that extent?”
“If the concessions are such as I desire, I should be ready to do much more than that myself.” I spoke intentionally as if such a sum were a mere bagatelle.
“You must be a very wealthy man, then, Mr. Donnington,” he exclaimed.
I smiled blandly and shrugged my shoulders, and then became very earnest. “I could of course finance the whole thing myself; and if I could find some one here in Lisbon to co-operate with me honourably and straightforwardly—he must of course be a man of the highest honour—I might do so; and should of course leave all the negotiations here to him. Well, the question is then whether Major Sampayo is such a man. I place great reliance upon your opinion, as he is to marry your daughter.”
His perplexity at this was almost comical. He saw that his own chance of plunder was in danger, and did not know how to save it without running down the man who was to marry Miralda.
“You place me in a great difficulty, sir,” he said nervously.
“Let me tell you something in confidence, then. I do not like Major Sampayo. Of course in business matters we do not allow such personal considerations to determine our actions, although they may influence us. I would much rather work with such a man as yourself for instance. But as his name is known to those behind me, of course any decision I may make and my reason for it might reach him.”
His alarm at this was obvious. “I—I am afraid I cannot say anything.”
“Of course as your son-in-law, his success would benefit you. An indirect benefit, perhaps, but still a benefit.”
“Our conversation has taken a very unexpected turn, Mr. Donnington. I was under the impression you desired my influence in any event.”
“It may be a question between yours or his,” I said, pressing him further into the corner. “That is why I have spoken as I have.”
“I—I really cannot say anything. You must decide for yourself. I should be delighted to be associated with you, but—but——” he shook his head and paused.
“But you are afraid of Sampayo?” I finished for him.
“Mr. Donnington!” he exclaimed with no little indignation.
“Don’t take offence, please, at least until you have heard me out. Will you give me your word of honour not to speak of what I wish to tell you?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“In coming to Lisbon I had another object besides these concessions. I met your daughter in Paris, and my disappointment was intense when I found that she was betrothed to Major Sampayo. I had hoped that in all my affairs I should have enjoyed the advantage of your help—as that of a relative by marriage.”
He tossed up his hands and stared at me in speechless surprise.
“Since I have been here—you must pardon my speaking very freely—it has come to my knowledge that Sampayo has forced himself upon you by reason of his knowledge of certain matters.”
“My dear Mr. Donnington——” He could get no further, and jumped up from his chair and began to pace the room in extreme agitation.
“My reason for speaking in this way is to ask you one very vital question. If Major Sampayo were to relinquish his claims to your daughter’s hand, would you be willing to honour me by allowing me to plead my own cause with her?”
“I should be only too——” he cried impulsively but checked himself in the middle of the sentence, and shook his head again. “It is out of the question; out of the question.”
“I am answered, on the one point. Now, will you go a step further and tell me why you deem it out of the question?”
“I really cannot discuss the matter. I really cannot,” he said nervously. “You must excuse me.”
“I cannot press you, of course. But will you think it over and let me see you again?”
“I am afraid I must say it would be quite useless, Mr. Donnington.”
“Well, the position may have changed when we next meet,” I said as I rose. “And now, will you let me give you a hint on another matter. M. Volheno is my friend, as you know, and when I was with him to-day I learnt that your attitude toward the Government is a subject of close and watchful interest. You and all in this house will be well advised to be on your guard;” and without giving him time for the alarm in his eyes to crystallize into questions, I left him.
As I crossed the hall his wife met me. She greeted me very warmly and taking me to the saloon asked me to wait a moment for her.
Before she returned, however, Miralda and Inez came in. Both were surprised to find me there, and judging by their manner, their surprise was not so great as their displeasure.
“You are still in Lisbon, Mr. Donnington?” said Inez coldly.
“Obviously. Does that surprise you?”
“More than I can express. Doesn’t it, Miralda?”
“I don’t know,” murmured Miralda who was very much disturbed.
“I have no intention of leaving, madame,” I said to Inez.
“No doubt your correspondence detains you?”
“My correspondence?” I repeated.
“And your close association with M. Volheno and the Government.”
“Inez!” exclaimed Miralda, under her breath.
I understood then. They had heard part of the Rua Catania business, but not the sequel; and Inez had been using it to poison Miralda against me. I was not unwilling to see the result. “It is well known that M. Volheno is friendly toward me.”
“There has been an exchange of letters between you, I believe.”
“Well, scarcely. He wrote to me and I have written to him.” Miralda started uneasily, looked across quickly, and then dropped her eyes.
“I have seen your letter to him and have been speaking to Miralda about it.”
“You will permit me to doubt that you have seen the letter I wrote?”
“I have a copy of it;” and she handed it to me. “You do not deny that that is what you wrote.”
I glanced over it. It was in her own handwriting. “Word for word, as nearly as I can recollect,” I said.
Inez smiled derisively in triumph. “That is how an Englishman keeps his word,” she sneered.
“I have kept my word just as an Englishman would, madame.”
But Miralda was both perplexed and troubled. “Do you really mean you wrote such a letter, Mr. Donnington?” she asked.
“It is a fact that I wrote a letter addressed to M. Volheno and couched in those identical terms. Under the circumstances it was the best course for me to adopt.”
Miralda caught her breath and winced as if I had struck her.
“Circumstances,” echoed Inez, with a fine scorn.
“But you had pledged your honour not to reveal a word of this,” said Miralda, hesitatingly. “You cannot mean that you broke it deliberately in this way?”
“That is perfectly plain,” declared Inez. “It is only what I told you.”
But Miralda shook her head and laid her hand on Inez’ arm, as she appealed to me. “Mr. Donnington?”
“You know enough of us English, mademoiselle, to judge whether, having given my word, I should break it.”
“There is no doubt,” said Inez, with a contemptuous toss of the head.
“You at least have condemned me. And you, mademoiselle?”
“If you admit you broke your word, I should be forced to believe you; but——” and she threw up her hands with a frown of perplexity.
“But I have not admitted it,” I said.
“How can you say that in the face of this letter?” cried Inez, her fingers shaking with anger as she held it out.
“Wait, Inez. You can explain this, Mr. Donnington?”
“I cannot explain anything——”
“There, what did I say?” interposed Inez, with contemptuous scorn.
“To those who have already condemned me without explanation.”
Miralda looked at me steadily. “I have not condemned you,” she said slowly.
“Then I tell you at once that the letter I wrote was written with the full sanction of a man whose approval even the Contesse Inglesia will regard as important—Dr. Barosa.”
“Dr. Barosa!” they exclaimed together, but in very different accents. Miralda’s betokened surprise, Inez’ scorn and disbelief.
“It was written last night in his presence, long after the raid on the Rua Catania house and when he had thoroughly satisfied himself and others that I had not broken my word.”
“I find that very difficult of belief,” cried Inez.
“Inez! How dare you?” cried Miralda impetuously, and then winced and flushed slightly in some confusion, as her friend turned sharply upon her with a meaning glance.
“Mr. Donnington is to be congratulated upon having so zealous a champion,” she said coldly.
But it was I, not she, who profited by this shaft. Miralda’s face set and her eyes shone as she held out her hand to me. “I owe you an apology, Mr. Donnington, for having stooped to listen to this slander. You have my word for it that I will not do it again.”
As I took her hand, Inez coughed suggestively.
Miralda understood and turned quickly from me. “There is a limit to what I will endure even from you, Inez. You have reached it now;” and Inez, being a person of discretion, held her tongue.
I left them, asking Miralda to make my excuses to her mother, and returned to my rooms in a glow of pleasure at the proof of Miralda’s confidence in me, and her zeal in risking even a breach with Inez on my account.
At my rooms I found a letter marked “Urgent and confidential.”
I guessed of course that it had some concern with the concessions, and after puzzling over the unknown handwriting, as one will at times, I opened it without much interest.
But I read it with the closest concern. It was from Vasco, and it gave me the very facts I was so eager to learn.