SAMPAYO’S statement had not only roused my fears for Miralda’s safety but had also decided me not to have any further dealings at all with Barosa. As soon as I had satisfied myself that she was not in any danger from him, I would go straight to Volheno and tell him about the abduction plot and how it had been frustrated.
I could make a full statement of that without in any way violating the pledge of secrecy I had given to Barosa. That pledge did not include either my previous knowledge that he was an agent of the Pretender, Dom Miguel, or anything I had overheard on the Rampallo and the results.
I would keep my word in regard to all that had occurred in the Rua Catania house and in the other house in the Rua Formosa, where I had been subjected to the “test”; and should not give the names of any one whose connexions with the plot I had learnt before my spy work on Captain Gompez’ yacht.
My intention was to make one condition—that Miralda, her mother, the visconte, Vasco and, if possible, Dagara, should be pardoned for their complicity in the affair. They had been forced into the net by Barosa’s tortuous cunning, and that I could prove if put to it.
I felt that I had a perfect right to impose such a condition as the price of my services. I had thwarted the abduction plot, and my own experiences proved that, but for me, nothing would have saved the king. Moreover, I had risked my life—had very nearly lost it, indeed—and, although I had chosen my own method instead of turning informer in advance, that was my own concern. But the result had been entirely successful, for it had led to my taking a batch of the men in it red-handed.
In making this decision to go at once to Volheno, I had none but personal considerations. I had no interest in the political issues involved in the struggle between the Throne and the people. They were nothing to me. The Government managed their own affairs in their own way; and if I had been fool enough to have offered them suggestions, they would have laughed at me for an impertinent interfering puppy.
At the same time, the part of informer was a profoundly hateful one to play, and if I could have gained my end as easily and safely by dealing direct with Barosa, I should have preferred that method.
But he was too dangerous a man. I had far too high an opinion of his ability, shrewdness and resource to believe for an instant that I could pit myself against him. It was much more by accident than anything else that I had obtained the whip-hand over him now; and it would be sheer folly to run the risk of giving him an opportunity to outwit me, when a word to Volheno would lay him by the heels.
I took Bryant and Simmons ashore with me. I sent the latter up to my rooms and, as I deemed it best not to go about alone, I drove with Bryant to Miralda’s house and left him in the carriage to wait for me.
My anxiety on Miralda’s account rendered me nervously uneasy. This feeling quickened into alarm when the servant told me she was not in the house. The viscontesse was at home and I sent a message begging her to see me at once.
The instant she entered the room I read ill news in her manner and looks. She was greatly agitated, her face was white and drawn, her eyes full of trouble, and she appeared both surprised and angry to see me. She drew back and would not take my hand. “You asked for me, Mr. Donnington? I wonder you dare to come here, sir.”
“Dare to come?” I repeated, bewildered by this reception.
“Why is not Miralda with you?”
The question filled the cup of my alarm and amazement.
“There is some mistake, viscontesse. I have just landed from my yacht and have come straight here to see her.”
“For Heaven’s sake do not try to deceive me. I know what has happened. It was cruel and shameful. I have been beside myself with grief and suspense.”
“I give you my word of honour I have not seen Miralda since the day before yesterday.”
She stared at me as if unable to believe or even understand me. “Have not seen her?” she repeated hoarsely, after a pause. “Oh, that cannot be true.”
“I assure you most earnestly and solemnly that it is true.”
As the conviction of my sincerity was forced upon her, her expression changed. The trouble in her wide, staring eyes gave place to unmistakable terror inspired by her new thoughts. Suddenly she reeled, threw up her hands in despair, and then clasped them distractedly to her face and sank on a couch with a moan of anguish.
“Then she is arrested or dead. Heaven have mercy upon my dear, dear child,” she cried, a prey to overpowering emotion.
I was scarcely less alarmed by this most disconcerting news, and while the viscontesse was striving to recover some measure of self-command, I tried to realize all it meant and to think what to do.
“Don’t go, Mr. Donnington,” she said at length in the midst of her sobs; and I waited, tormented by a thousand vague fears.
“I beg you to tell me all as soon as possible. Even minutes may be of vital importance,” I said earnestly.
She made an effort to check her wild sobs. “But we cannot do anything,” she wailed helplessly.
“Not unless you can let me know what has happened,” I replied sharply. “If anything is to be done, it must be at once.”
“I will try to tell you,” she said a minute later, sitting up.
“I know that Miralda was here yesterday,” I said, “because I sent to her and received a letter from her. That was early in the afternoon. Will you tell me everything that occurred after that?”
“I know very little, Mr. Donnington. In the afternoon Inez came and the two were alone together. Miralda came to me afterwards and I saw that she was both greatly excited and distressed. It was in some way connected with this miserable conspiracy business. She told me that something very important was to happen; but that she herself did not know what it was. She was to go for the evening to Inez. I was in great trouble about Vasco, you know. He was in bed ill—he had been drinking heavily the night before, I must tell you.”
“Did he leave the house yesterday?” I interposed.
“No. He was getting better toward the evening and said he had to go out; but I went up later and found him sleeping so soundly that I could not rouse him.”
“Was Miralda in the house then?”
“No, she had been gone about half an hour. Well, I waited by his bedside for a long time, an hour or more—I could not say how long. When Inez arrived I went down to her, and she asked me where Miralda was. I said she had gone to her house. She had never reached there, however; and then Inez said she had something very serious to tell me. It was that Miralda had been in secret communication with you, and that as some of their friends suspected you of having betrayed them in some way, Miralda had also fallen under suspicion. She had disappeared, and one of three things must be the cause. She had been arrested, or had got into the hands of those who suspected her, or had run away with you.”
“Can you fix the time the contesse was here?”
“Not that first visit, but she came again about ten o’clock, bringing the news that your yacht had left the river and that it was plain that Miralda had gone with you.”
So the Stella had been missed, it seemed.
“What I tell you is true, viscontesse; I have not seen Miralda.”
“You think she has been arrested then?”
“It is impossible to be certain—but I do not think it.”
“Oh, but don’t tell me you believe she has fallen into the hands of any of these people who will do her mischief? They would kill her.”
“Oh, no; I am certain that there is no fear of that.” I was, for it was as clear as anything could be that Barosa would not allow anything of the sort.
“You are so positive. Do you know anything that makes you so?”
“Yes; but I cannot tell you.”
“You get to learn so much. I suppose you know that my husband has left the city.”
“No. When was that?”
“You warned him one afternoon that he was under suspicion; and he left the next night. He has gone to Paris.”
“Would to Heaven you and Miralda had gone with him,” I exclaimed.
“We were going; but Miralda was prevented.”
“Dr. Barosa and Inez arrived when all was ready, and after what they said to her, she told me she could not go.”
“But they let the visconte go?”
“And I could have gone too—but I could not leave my dear child.”
I began to get a grip of the situation now.
“And Vasco? Can I see him?”
“He is on duty this morning. He is better. What are you going to do?” she asked as I rose.
“To find Miralda.”
“Pray God you may be successful. You will let me know?”
With a promise to do so, I left her. I had very little doubt that I should find Miralda with Inez. She had been taken away from her home as the result of that attempt at flight; and Barosa had used Inez for the purpose. The thing must have been planned before the failure of the previous night’s scheme was known; and being uncertain of the issue, he was still afraid to break with Inez.
Under other circumstances he might have employed different means—getting Miralda into his own hands; but he would shrink from rousing Inez’ jealousy until he felt strong enough to set her at defiance.
What the effect upon him would be of the failure of the scheme was of course very difficult to say. But it was not of much consequence unless he had already got Miralda away and I should know that as soon as I saw Inez herself.
The lie which had been told about my having carried Miralda away was intended merely to blind her mother’s eyes. It offered a plausible reason for Miralda’s absence.
As I drove to Inez’ house I told Bryant to wait for me, but not to remain in the carriage, as I did not wish him to be seen; and as soon as the servant opened the door, I pushed my way in, lest Inez should refuse to see me.
She did make the attempt. In reply to my message, she sent word that she was unable to see me then, but would do so an hour later.
“Then I will wait,” I told the servant; and down I sat in the hall. Inez’ unwillingness to face me confirmed my opinion that Miralda was in the house; and nothing short of force would have made me leave.
After perhaps a quarter of an hour the servant came with another message—her mistress would receive me in a few minutes. She was leading the way upstairs when I stopped her, saying bluntly I preferred to remain where I was until the contesse was quite ready.
I did not intend to give Inez a chance of smuggling Miralda out of the house while I was cooling my heels shut up in a room upstairs. Whether or not any attempt of the sort had been planned, I do not know; but while I was close to the door and had a full view of the staircase it was impracticable.
Another delay followed, and then the servant said Inez was waiting for me; and she herself appeared at the top of the stairs, cool, smiling, and apologetic.
“I am so sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Donnington,” she said as she gave me her hand, and led the way into an adjoining room; “but your call at this unusual hour found me quite unprepared to come to you.”
“It is not a conventional purpose which has brought me, madame,” I replied as she settled herself gracefully upon a couch.
“No? Ah, well, I am grateful to any purpose which leads you to find your way at last to my house,” she said with another smile.
I was in no mood for this kind of thing; so I said rather bluntly: “My purpose is to see Mademoiselle Dominguez.”
Her start and look and gesture of extreme surprise were well acted. “My dear Mr. Donnington! Miralda?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“But——” she paused, and then those strange eyes of hers expressed perplexity and trouble and rising alarm. “I am afraid I—I don’t understand.”
“Yet my words were very simple. I wish to see Mademoiselle Dominguez.”
“I heard that, of course. But is it possible, you believe she is here? Do you mean you do not know what has occurred? You find out so many things, you know,” she added with a quick thrust.
“I know that she came here last night. I have seen her mother this morning; but, as you suggest, I do find out things. You were under the impression last night that she did not reach your house; but”——and I paused as I made a shot, speaking very meaningly—“I know how she came to the house.”
A single swift up-lift of the deeply fringed lids told me that the unexpected shot had pierced the armour-plate of her defence; and when she looked up after a pause all the assumption of surprise had disappeared.
“You have only yourself to blame, Mr. Donnington,” she said, tone and manner both very earnest. She had as many moods as an actress has costumes and was able to change them much more quickly.
“And that means—what, if you please?”
“I am genuinely sorry for you. I knew from the first that your object here was Miralda; and you will remember that I warned you. You would not heed the warning. You set to work to win back Miralda; and had she been free, you would have succeeded. But she was not free; and when you took the mad step of driving Major Sampayo from the city you—well, you can understand what was sure to follow.”
“On the contrary I do not understand, madame.”
“You precipitated matters, of course. Miralda is Major Sampayo’s wife and is now with his friends.”