CHAPTER XV
IN THE FLUSH OF SUCCESS
MY precaution proved to be unnecessary.
As Sampayo read the first page of the letter his expression was merely one of perplexity. Prelot had begun with a recital of the places he had visited since writing to me before, and this told nothing of any significance.
Sampayo read it hurriedly and turning the page glanced down at the signature.
He started violently, and stared at the words for the space of a few seconds like a man bewitched. The hectic flush of triumphant cunning changed to a deathly grey. His hand shook so that the paper crackled; then his teeth began to chatter; the trembling spread to his limbs, and the whole of his big frame quivered and shook till he reeled under the shock and had to cling to the table for support.
His eyes all this time were fixed glassily on the signature of the letter; his breath was laboured and stertorous as he gasped for air; and he made frantic efforts to fight against the palsy of terror. He failed. And at length the revolver dropped from his nerveless hand, the letter fluttered to the floor, and with a groan he collapsed into the chair near him helpless, inert, and unconscious, his bullocky head lolling over the back with gaping mouth and staring but unseeing eyes.
I laid him down on the floor, and pocketed his revolver lest, when he recovered, he might have a fancy to put a bullet in me. Then I helped myself to the key, and having unlocked the door, put the key in my own pocket.
Next I picked up Prelot’s letter and was beginning to hunt round for some brandy when it occurred to me to look in his desk to make sure that he had no other weapons and also to see if there was any evidence that he had been practising my handwriting. A hasty search gave me just what I wanted. Hidden away in a small drawer I found some sheets of paper on one of which was the draft of the letter he had written in his own handwriting; while among the others were his first attempts at the forgery and with them a letter of mine written to Volheno announcing my arrival in Lisbon.
I concluded that Sampayo had been disturbed at his work and had put the papers away hurriedly and forgotten them.
Lastly I turned my attention to restoring him. I found a decanter of brandy and gave him some. The spirit soon began to take effect, and then I lit another cigar and sat down to wait until he should be ready to resume operations.
When at length he sat up he passed his hand across his eyes in dazed bewilderment, as a man will when awakened suddenly from an ugly dream. Then with a start he began to stare about the floor as if looking for the letter, and not seeing it he gave a deep sigh of intense relief, apparently convinced that the thing was no more than a nightmare horror.
“If you’re looking for that letter, I have it,” I said quietly.
With a shuddering start at my voice—I was behind him and he had not seen me—he swung round and stared at me, and began to shake again as his terror returned.
“Here, you’d better have some more of this;” and I poured him out a wine-glassful of brandy and gave it him.
He made one gulp of it and sat leaning forward, trying to think. Presently he scrambled to his feet and sank with a sigh into the chair, leant his arms on the desk and buried his face in his hands.
For some few minutes—five probably—he remained in this attitude of utter dejection. Then he let his hands fall on the desk, turned his head slightly so that he could see exactly where I was, and shifted his position so that the action of his left hand should be hidden by his body.
He was reaching for his revolver of course. A start and a grunt of dismay announced his disappointment.
“If you feel steady enough to shoot, you’re fit to talk,” I said sharply; “and we’ll get this thing over.”
There was a long pause before he spoke. “What is it?” he murmured then, slowly and sullenly.
I gave him another shock then. Imitating Prelot’s voice as nearly as I could recall it, I stamped my feet and called out, “Ah, Jean Dufoire, at last!”
The effect was electrical. He sprang up and turned round in a positive agony of terror.
I laughed. “I began to think you might have forgotten your name.”
With a scowl of hate he flung a bitter curse at me.
“Well, it’s roused you anyway, and now listen to me. You are either going to do exactly what I tell you, or Lucien Prelot and Jean Dufoire will be face to face before this time to-morrow. Now, which is it to be?”
“Who is Jean Dufoire?” he asked, after a long pause.
“If that’s your line, I’m going.”
He let me reach the door and felt in his pocket to make sure that he had the key; but when I opened it he started. “Wait,” he said.
“Which is it to be? Quick,” I said sharply.
“Tell me what you want.”
“Which is it to be?” I repeated.
“I’ll do what you wish.” The words came slowly as if the utterance of each one of them was a torture.
I returned to my seat. “In the first place, you have a confession of Lieutenant de Linto’s. Give it me.”
With shaking fingers he unlocked a drawer of the desk and from a secret recess in it took out a paper and held it out.
I pushed a chair half-way between us. “Put it there.” He obeyed. “Now write an admission that you incited this young fool to take the money having won large amounts from him by cheating at cards.”
“I didn’t.”
“I haven’t forgotten Jean Dufoire’s reputation. Write what I say—and sign it Jean Dufoire, now known as Major Francisco Sampayo.”
He fought against this, but in the end yielded.
“Now a confession that you wrote the letter in my name giving information about the house in the Rua Catania.”
Against this he fought more stubbornly than before, but I showed him the papers I had taken from his desk, vowing I would take them straight to Barosa, and then he gave in. The sweat was standing in great beads on his forehead as he placed the papers on the chair.
“Now a letter to the Visconte de Linto and one to Mademoiselle Dominguez renouncing all claim to her hand.”
“I will not,” he cried with an oath. “My hand shall rot first.”
“It will do that soon after Lucien Prelot has found you.”
“I will not,” he repeated, flinging down the pen. “I dare not.”
I took the slip of paper and wrote, speaking the words as I pencilled them. “‘Jean Dufoire is now known as Major Francisco Sampayo. You will find him in Lisbon.’ That telegram I shall send within five minutes of leaving here,” I said.
With a groan he threw up his hands distractedly and rising began to pace up and down. “I dare not. I dare not,” he exclaimed.
I watched him very closely and observed that his movements, at first erratic as if at the dictates of his overpowering agitation, had a method suggestive of a purpose. Each turn he took brought him a little nearer to me. So I stood up and while pocketing the papers he had written, I held my weapon in readiness, questioning him the while.
“What do you mean by dare not?”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then make it plain.”
“No. There is a limit to my compliance. I dare not do this.”
“What is it you are afraid of?”
“I can’t tell you that. My lips are sealed.”
“Oh come, you weren’t afraid to betray your associates when you thought to get me into a mess. Why be afraid now, to get yourself out of one?”
He was pacing in my direction now and I made a half turn from him as if to glance at his desk.
“I would do it if I could, Heaven knows. You’ve got me in a corner, but——” And at that instant he sprang forward to grab me by the throat. I was fully prepared, and instead of getting his hands on me he threw them up and staggered back from my levelled revolver.
“Don’t try that again,” I said between my teeth. “And now do what I have told you—and do it at once.”
He abandoned his intention to try force, and sat down again at the desk, but he would not write the letters.
“I dare not. I dare not. You must do what you will. I dare not,” he repeated, over and over again in answer to my threats.
This persistent refusal perplexed me. That he was in fear of his life I knew, for I had convinced him I meant to set his enemy on his track. But there was obviously something or some one of whom he was even more afraid than of me. I could think of only one man—Barosa. But why of him? And why only in regard to breaking his engagement to Miralda?
“Why are you so determined to marry Mademoiselle Dominguez?”
“I am not. I will take any oath you like not to marry her.”
“Then it is only the written renouncement you shrink from?”
“I dare not do it.”
“Then write a letter to her asking her to release you and to keep the whole thing secret.”
“Why are you so set on this?” he asked.
“Don’t question me,” I snapped angrily.
He sat thinking in moody despair. He might well despair being between the upper and nether millstones. Then at length he took up the pen and began to write, but stopped and tore up the sheet.
“You can tell her,” he said.
I renewed my threats, promising secrecy, but he struggled hard and at length I got up and went to the door, declaring I would at once dispatch the telegram I had drafted.
“Give me time,” he said then. “Let me have a week—three days—one day——” he pleaded as I shook my head. And at last he gave in.
“Now for my last condition,” I said as I took the letter. “You will leave the city at once—to-day.”
“Give me more time. I shall go of course after this, but I must have some time—two days at least—to make arrangements.”
“Not one hour after to-day. If you are still in the city to-morrow, this message will go to Lucien Prelot.”
And with that final shot I left him.
There was only a very small fly in the amber of my satisfaction at the result of the interview. I had secured all I wanted. I had caused the rupture of the engagement to Miralda, had put an end to his hold over her brother, had obtained the proofs of his treachery toward Barosa, and had given him a notice to quit which he would not dare to disobey.
The only point where I had failed had been in learning that strange secret at the back of his fears which had made him refuse to write the letter to the visconte. It was in some way connected with the betrothal; but beyond that, I could not even hazard a guess.
But I was in too high spirits at what I had gained to worry over the minor failure. Indeed, the prospect of a secret understanding with Miralda was so alluring that I was more than half disposed to be glad that the thing had taken this particular course, and decided not to lose a minute before telling her the news.
I was hurrying off to her when I remembered my promise to have the money for Vasco. I had to get it from the bank, and while I was there it occurred to me to put the other papers I had forced from Sampayo in safe custody. I sealed them up and left them in the bank’s custody, with instructions that the packet was not to be given to any one—only to myself in person.
This precaution started another line of thought. Sampayo was at bay, utterly desperate, fighting for all he cared for in life, and I must reckon with that and be on my guard.
What was he likely to do? He had attempted my life once, even while he was only in doubt whether I could harm him. What would he do now that he knew and was desperate? I decided not to run the risk of being alone in my rooms until I knew that he was out of Lisbon.
Instead of going straight to Miralda, therefore, I drove down to the quay and sent off a message by a boatman to Burroughs, my second in command on the Stella, to come to my rooms with a couple of the crew.
Jack Burroughs was just the man for such a purpose—a ’Varsity man of good birth but very small means, with the roving instinct strongly developed, he had been half over the globe in search of adventure; and having a love of the sea, had jumped at my suggestion that he should come with me, partly as companion and partly to qualify himself to take command of the Stella later on.
Having dispatched the message I drove back to the visconte’s house. I was in luck, for Miralda was alone when the servant showed me into the room.
She was not surprised by my visit and received me with some little restraint. Her eyes were troubled and her hand trembled as she placed it in mine.
“I am glad to find you alone.”
“I was expecting you, Mr. Donnington, but I am afraid I am sorry you have come.”
“Expecting me? But no one except myself knew I was coming.”
“You are the bearer of a letter, I think.”
“Are you reading my thoughts? You amaze me.”
She shook her head and smiled sadly. “It is unfortunately nothing occult. But I will ask you not to give me the letter.”
I drew a deep breath of surprise. “Do you know what is in it?”
“No—but please do not question me. You are mixing in matters which you cannot understand and I cannot explain. But do not give me the letter—I—I could not read it.”
“Will you not say why? This is so extraordinary.”
“I know it must seem so to you. Oh, why do you not leave the city?” she burst out impulsively.
“But the news I bring is good news—at least I hope——”
“Please, please,” she interposed, holding up her hand.
“But if you don’t know the contents of the letter why mustn’t you read it?”
“Don’t question me. I cannot tell you. I would if I might—I am sure you know that. But I cannot.”
“Who told you I was coming?”
She shook her head again, growing more and more distressed. “Don’t offer it to me even. I must take it if you do but must not read it.”
I sat thinking a moment. I was almost dumbfounded by this sudden check at the moment when I had been so full of confidence. I had hoped that the instant she saw the letter she would see that the barrier between us was swept away for good. And now she would not even look at it.
She dared not, just as Sampayo had not dared to write the letter to the visconte. Was there any connexion between her fear and his? Was this further evidence of that mysterious power in the background?
“Very well,” I said at length; and at the words the expression of her eyes changed.
But there are more ways than one of gaining an end, and I was resolved she should know the contents of the letter before I left; and once more I pressed those Beira concessions into my service. I chatted at random for a while and then spoke of them.
“You’ll be glad to hear that I am getting along all right in that matter,” I said in a casual tone.
“I am glad if it will mean that you will be able to leave Lisbon,” she replied, a little suspicious as to which concessions I meant.
I said a lot about Beira and the colony until I had cleared the doubt from her eyes. “I’ll tell you how the matter stands,” I said then, and added quickly, not heeding her attempts to interrupt me: “There was a man here who tried to forestall me by using secret means he possessed to force others, and to-day I have seen him and he has given me a letter definitely renouncing his claims and by to-morrow he will have left Lisbon for good.”
She understood, but instead of showing relief or pleasure, her eyes clouded again with trouble, and she sat with drooped head biting her lip and pressing her hands tightly together in agitation.
“Have you no word of—of congratulation?”
Her congratulation was a deep sigh, a gesture of despair, and a scarcely audible whisper: “It is too late.”
“No!” I exclaimed firmly. “I don’t and won’t believe that. And I hold too strong a hand now for any one to beat me.”
My firmness told. She looked up with the dawn of hope in her eyes, and if I could read it, something beside hope, something far dearer to me.
“My hand on it,” I said, stretching it out.
She was about to place hers in it, when the servant announced Inez. On watchdog duty again, of course. I gave her the letter and whispered quickly: “Take this now. You know what is in it. I have other news for you—I have rescued Vasco.”