CHAPTER XIV
ALONE WITH SAMPAYO
VASCO’S letter was very long, and so rambling and inconsequent in parts as to be almost incoherent. It was obviously written under the impulse of intense feeling, despair indeed; and was in response to my solicitation of confidence and offer of help.
“I don’t believe you can help me even if you would, and I don’t suppose you’ll care to try when you know the mess I am in. But you said you would, and a drowning man catches at straws. I am at the end of things; utterly broken up and ruined; and bar writing to you I have only two alternatives—to shoot myself or get more hopelessly into the power of the man who has done a lot to drag me down. That’s the mood in which I write to you, and the reason I write. If you won’t or can’t help me, say so at once.”
That was the preface to his ugly story.
Put in a few words he was hopelessly in Sampayo’s power. He was a gambler and a hard drinker, and Sampayo had used both these weaknesses to ruin him. And ruin him he certainly had, using a craft and cunning worthy of the man.
Having got Vasco hopelessly in debt to him and others, Sampayo had succeeded in having him placed in a position where he had charge of a considerable sum of money subscribed by the officers of the regiment. He had then dunned him for payment and set others to do the same, and Vasco had been weak enough to use this money. Sampayo was of course on the watch, and had discovered the theft within a few hours of its commission.
To frighten such a weakling was easy work; and Sampayo had at once engineered matters so that the money had to be instantly forthcoming. Scared out of his wits, Vasco had admitted his act, and the scoundrel, in the guise of friendship, had offered to find the sum on condition that Vasco gave him a written confession.
Glad to escape on any terms, Vasco had only too readily agreed, and exposure had thus been averted. This was some six months previously. For two of them Sampayo showed nothing but friendship. Then the persecution started. Vasco was drawn into the revolutionary net and forced to commit himself. The next step was that Miralda should be involved. To save Vasco she had yielded; and after another interval the demand that she should consent to marry Sampayo had followed.
She had resisted this strenuously—she had been home from Paris only about a month at the time; but the utmost pressure had been brought to bear upon her, not only by the visconte and Vasco, but by Barosa and the leaders of the revolutionary party.
For two months she had held out, and had yielded only a month before my arrival.
How this part of the letter stirred me will be readily understood. After my talk with Miralda on the Stella, it was not mere coxcombry on my part to believe that, had I come only a month earlier, I should have found her ready to receive me on the same footing as in those weeks in Paris.
I could understand now the reason for Inez’ warning, Barosa’s references, Sampayo’s instant jealousy, and that regret of the viscontesse that I had not come sooner. They had known the reason for Miralda’s stubborn resistance, and had feared that my arrival would lead to her rebellion.
Vasco’s immediate request was that I would lend him some money—about five hundred pounds—but he freely admitted that even if I consented, the money would not free him from Sampayo.
I sent him a note at once that I would do what he wanted and would have the money ready for him if he would come to me the following evening.
But I made it a condition that he should go on board the Stella at once and remain there until the time for our interview. I did not mean to give Sampayo a chance of frightening him into admitting he had told me. I told Bryant to put the letter into Vasco’s own hands and to go with him to the yacht, and I wrote a line to my skipper with instructions.
It proved to be a prudent precaution. Sampayo returned about midday and as I found out afterwards went everywhere in search of Vasco, before going to his own quarters, where I was waiting.
He had learnt meanwhile that his attempt against me had failed, but he was genuinely surprised to see me when he entered.
“This is an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Donnington,” he said.
“I am sure of the unexpectedness,” I replied drily, taking no notice of the offer of his hand.
He drew himself up stiffly. “Am I to understand that your refusal of my hand is intentional?”
“Am I to understand on my side that you made the offer of it from any feeling of friendship?”
“That is a very extraordinary question.”
“It is not altogether an ordinary visit, Major Sampayo. It has more to do with business of a sort than friendship. I am right in thinking you do not feel very well disposed to me.”
“Oh, really I have no time just now for talk of that kind. I have been away from the city and have a great press of matters to attend to. Be good enough to state your business briefly.”
He said this in a very curt sharp tone and he crossed to a writing desk, unlocked it and began to turn over some papers.
I made no reply, but leant back in my chair and lighted a cigar. My silence worried him. He kept up a pretence of being very busy, opening a letter or two and making some notes as if ignoring my presence.
Then under the pretence of fetching a book, he rose and assumed surprise to find me still in the room. “Oh, are you still here?”
“Yes, still here, as you see—waiting.”
“Your conduct is very extraordinary. You are trying my courtesy to the utmost limit.”
“On the contrary, I am only waiting until you have time and inclination to give me undivided attention. By all means finish these pressing matters first.”
“Well, then, state your business at once.”
“It may take some time,” I said with an apologetic smile. I could not resist the pleasure of playing with him a little, as a punishment for his conduct.
“If it has anything to do with the concessions you are after, you may spare me and yourself the waste of time in discussing them. I have decided to have nothing to do with the matter.”
“Don’t you think I could persuade you to change your mind?”
“Certainly not. The Marquis de Pinsara spoke to me to endeavour to obtain my influence for you, but I declined. I will not be mixed up in an affair which I do not consider quite clean.”
“I assure you there is nothing in it which would soil your hands, Major Sampayo,” I said, with just sufficient emphasis on the “your” to rouse him.
“I consider that remark extremely offensive, sir,” he replied hotly. “And you will be good enough to understand that I do not allow any man, Englishman or not, to make offensive remarks to me. I do not suppose you have come to insult me deliberately.”
His manner was very hectoring; and as it is sometimes amusing to allow a bully to believe he can bully you, I allowed him to enjoy this belief for a while.
With a start of affected nervousness I exclaimed quickly, “Oh, I’m sure—I trust——” as if beginning an apology, and then stopped and lowered my eyes.
“Then be good enough to be more guarded in what you say and how you say it.”
I hesitated as if much impressed and rather cowed by this and at a loss what to say. “These concessions, of course....” I stammered when he broke in.
“You have my answer in regard to them. It is final. And now I must ask you to leave me.”
I put in a little comedy stroke, by tossing up my hands, glancing half-appealingly at him, and giving a little sigh of regret.
“You can do no good by remaining, Mr. Donnington. You asked me just now whether I had offered you my hand in any spirit of friendliness. I will tell you now, I did not. I have no wish for your friendship or your acquaintance.”
“But you expressed a desire that we should meet again and I—I made quite sure——” I broke off again and let the sentence falter out in an indistinct murmur.
“You know my decision now at any rate. You understand our language quite well enough for my meaning to be perfectly plain.”
I was rather surprised at his attitude. He appeared to have quite reassured himself that we had not met before and that he had nothing to fear from me. And yet he had set that trap to get me into trouble. I could only conclude therefore that my present apparent fear of him led him to think he could safely intimidate me. So I dug the spur in.
“You said you would welcome a chance of exchanging our mutual experiences in South Africa.”
But he did not feel the spur. “I have told you I do not desire your acquaintance at all,” he said warmly, adding with a sneer: “Are you Englishmen accustomed to force yourselves upon one in the way you are doing now?”
I let even this go in silence, and he crossed and threw the door open. “Now, sir,” he said, in barrack-yard style.
I rose then. “I think you had better not insist on my going at present.”
“I don’t care what you think. Go. That’s all I mean.”
“You are deeply involved in a certain conspiracy, Major Sampayo. I have absolute knowledge that concerns you closely.”
“Oh, this is blackmail, eh?” he cried. “You want to force me to help you by threatening me. Well, I refuse point-blank. Give what information you like. You are a spy.”
I gave him a steady look and answered very deliberately. “You mistake me. I did not give the information which led to that raid in the Rua Catania, but—I know who did.”
I got right home with that thrust, and as he glared at me, that old perplexed, speculative fear of me came creeping back into his eyes. He tried to fight it back by encouraging his rage. “Are you going to force me to kick you out, you spy?” he cried fiercely.
“A spy is an object of contempt, quite kickable, of course; but Dr. Barosa would probably regard a traitor as infinitely more despicable.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, even more angrily, but also with more fear.
I paused. “You forged the letter in my name. I have the proofs here;” and I took out the letter and held it up.
He burst into a loud scoffing laugh, the effort of which was obvious. “You must have lost your senses.” Even his voice was beginning to grow unsteady.
Having frightened him to this extent, I took a chance. It was certain of course that he must have carefully practised the copying of my handwriting before he forged the letter, so I glanced round significantly at his desk and said: “You are forgetting that you have not been in this room for more than thirty hours.”
It was an excellent bluff. He was scared right through. He changed colour, and the quick look which he shot involuntarily at the desk was instinct with fear. It was several seconds before he could recover himself sufficiently even to bluster.
“I’ll have no more of this,” he said with an oath and came toward me threateningly.
I knew him to be a wretched coward and was not in the least doubt that if he laid hands on me I could more than hold my own; so I let him come, my eyes fixed very steadily upon his. About two paces from me he stopped.
“Are you going?” he asked.
I made no answer and no movement.
“I’m in no mood to be trifled with.”
I let this go also without reply. I kept my eyes steadily on his face, and saw the struggle between his rage and his fear, and at one moment his rage all but won. His face set viciously and he tried to conceal his intention under an assumption of contempt.
“You are too contemptible to touch,” he said, as he moved back and then turned to his desk.
For a moment he misled me. I thought he meant no more by the insult than a cover for his cowardice. But I soon changed my opinion. His back was toward me, and I saw that while pretending to turn over his papers, his left hand went stealthily to a drawer. I guessed his intention.
The purpose in his mind when he had meditated that attack had not been to put me out of the room, but to secure the proofs of his treachery which I said were in my possession. He was looking now for a weapon with which to force them from me.
To test him, as well as to interrupt his search, I made a feint of leaving.
“I will go now,” I said and stepped toward the door.
“No, by Heaven, not until this thing is cleared,” he cried, and rushing to the door he locked it, pocketed the key, and hurried back to the desk.
Knowing the man, I had of course taken the precaution of having my own weapon with me, and was about to take it out when another thought struck me.
Instead of the revolver, I took out a letter from the Corsican, Prelot, which had been forwarded to me that morning.
“What is there to be cleared up?” I asked, in the same steady, stern tone I had used before.
He found his revolver then and holding it behind him turned round. “You have made a lying charge against me. You say you have the proofs. Give me them.”
“I refuse to do anything of the sort.”
“I think you will,” he replied, with a cunning leer, and he covered me.
“Do you dare to threaten me?”
“Hand them over at once. Don’t fool me.”
I hesitated a moment.
“I give you five seconds,” he thundered.
“I had certain information in this letter,” and I held up the Corsican’s.
“Give it to me.”
I folded it up and threw it close to him.
With a chuckle he stooped and picked it up, and as he began to read it I took out my own weapon.
The door was locked and he might be really dangerous when he learnt the peril which menaced him.