is a new plan to save my father. If you deliver this note safely you
will have taken the first step to set him free. If you blunder, if it
is found out that Mr. Forrester and one of the Rojas family are
conspiring together, it will mean greater cruelties for my father; it
may mean his death."
The girl had spoken in the way she knew would best appeal to the man
before her. And she was not disappointed. His eyes shone with
excitement. That he was conspiring, that he was a factor in a plot,
that the plot had in view the end he so much desired, filled him with
pleasure and pride. Crossing himself he promised to carry out her
orders.
As Inez returned to the main portion of the house the sun was just
sinking into the sea; and, to keep their daily tryst, her mother and
sister were moving toward the cliff. While the crimson disk descended,
the three women stood silent and immovable, the face of each turned
toward the rim of the horizon. As though her eyes could pierce the
sixty miles that lay between her and her father Inez leaned forward,
her fingers interlaced, her lips slightly apart. That, at that moment,
he was thinking of her, that he was looking to where he knew she was
on guard, and thinking of him, moved her as greatly as though the
daily ceremony was for the first time being carried forward. A
wandering breeze, not born of the sea, but of the soil, of tropical
plants and forests, and warm with sunshine, caressed her face. It came
from the land toward which her eyes were turned. It was comforting,
sheltering, breathing of peace. As it touched her she smiled slightly.
She accepted it as a good omen, as a message sent from across the sea,
to tell her that in the step she had taken she had done well.
IV
After their dinner at the hotel, Roddy and Peter strolled down the
quay and over the tiny drawbridge that binds Otrabanda to Willemstad.
There, for some time, half-way between the two towns, they loitered
against the railing of the bridge, smoking and enjoying the cool night
breeze from the sea. After his long nap Roddy was wakeful. He had been
told that Willemstad boasted of a _cafe chantant_, and he was for
finding it. But Peter, who had been awake since the ship's steward had
aroused him before sunrise, doubted that there was a _cafe chantant_,
and that if it did exist it could keep him from sleep, and announced
his determination to seek his bed.
Left to himself, Roddy strolled slowly around the narrow limits of the
town. A few of the shops and two of the cafes were still open,
throwing bright spaces of light across the narrow sidewalks, but the
greater number of houses were tightly barred; the streets slumbered in
darkness. For a quarter of an hour Roddy sauntered idly, and then
awoke to the fact that he was not alone. Behind him in the shadow, a
man with his face hidden in a shawl, the sound of his footsteps
muffled by his rope sandals, was following his wanderings.
Under the circumstances, after the developments of the day, Roddy was
not surprised, nor was he greatly interested. Even in Porto Cabello,
at one time or another, every one was beset by spies. And that here,
in the central office of the revolutionists, Alvarez should be well
represented was but natural.
Twice, softly and quickly, the man who followed had approached him
from the rear, and each time, lest he should have some more serious
purpose than to simply spy upon him, Roddy had stepped into the
street. But when for the third time the man drew near, his approach
was so swift that Roddy had no time to move away. The man brushed
against him, and when he had passed Roddy found a letter had been
pressed into his hand.
The hour was late, Roddy looked like a tourist, the note had been
delivered covertly. Roddy concluded it contained an invitation to some
disreputable adventure, and after calling the man the name associated
with what Roddy believed to be his ancient and dishonorable
profession, he tossed the note into the street.
With a cry of dismay the man ran toward it, but Roddy was before him.
As the note had left his hand his fingers had touched upon heavy,
waxen seals.
In an instant he had retrieved the note, and, followed eagerly by the
man, carried it to the light of a gas lamp. The envelope was not
illuminating, the sealing-wax was stamped with no crest or initials,
the handwriting was obviously disguised.
After observing that from the shadow the man still watched him, while
at the same time he kept an anxious lookout up and down the street,
Roddy opened the note. It read: "You have come to Curacao for a
purpose. One who has the success of that purpose most at heart desires
to help you. To-morrow, just before sunrise, walk out the same road
over which you drove to-day. Beyond the Cafe Ducrot the bearer of this
letter will wait for you with a led horse. Follow him. If you think he
is leading you into danger, order him to ride in advance, and cover
him with your revolver. If you will come, say to the bearer,
'_Vengo_,' if not, '_No Vengo_.' He has orders not to reply to any
question of yours. If you speak of this to others, or if the bearer of
this suspects you have arranged for others to follow you, he will only
lead you back to your hotel, and your chance to right a great wrong
will have passed."
There was no signature. But as though it were an afterthought, at the
bottom of the page was written, "Adventures are for the adventurous."
Standing well in the light of the street lamp, with his back to the
houses, with his face toward the waiting messenger, Roddy read the
letter three times. But after the first reading his eyes neglected the
body of the note and raced to the postscript. That was the line that
beckoned and appealed; to him it seemed that whoever wrote the letter
doubted he would come to the rendezvous, and was by that line enticing
him, mocking him, daring him to refuse. It held forth both a promise
and a challenge.
As to who the writer of the note might be, there were in Roddy's mind
three explanations. He considered them hastily. Peter was the author
of the note, and it was a poor joke intended to test him. It was a
genuine offer from some one who had guessed the object of his visit to
Curacao and honestly wished to be of service. It came from the man in
the mask and his associates, who, resenting his interference of the
morning, had pleasant thoughts of luring him down a lonely road and
leaving him lying there. Which of the three suppositions might be
correct it was impossible to know, but the postscript decided him. He
beckoned to the messenger, and the man ran eagerly forward. "I will
come," said Roddy. The man smiled with pleasure, bowed to him, and
dived into the darkness. As he ran down the street Roddy stood
listening until the soft patter of the sandals had ceased, and then
slowly returned to the hotel.
For an hour, still speculating as to who his anonymous friend might
be, he stood, smoking, upon the balcony. On the quay below him a negro
policeman dozed against a hawser-post. A group of cargadores,
stretched at length upon stacks of hides, chattered in drowsy
undertones. In the moonlight the lamps on the fishing-boats and on the
bridge, now locked against the outside world, burned mistily, and the
deck of the steamer moored directly below him was as deserted and
bare, as uncanny and ghostlike, as the deck of the ship of the Ancient
Mariner. Except for the chiming of ships' bells, the whisper of the
running tide, and the sleepy murmur of the longshoremen, the town of
Willemstad was steeped in sleep and silence. Roddy, finding he could
arrive at no satisfactory explanation of the note, woke the night
porter, and telling that official he was off before daybreak to shoot
wild pigeons, and wanted his coffee at that hour, betook himself to
his cot. It seemed as though he had not twice tossed on the pillow
before the night-watchman stood yawning at his side.
Roddy and Peter occupied adjoining rooms, and the door between the two
was unlocked. When Roddy had bathed, dressed, and, with a feeling of
some importance, stuck his revolver into his pocket, he opened the
door, and, still suspicious that his faithful friend was sending him
on a wild-goose chase, for a few moments stood beside his bed. But
Peter, deep in the sleep of innocence, was breathing evenly,
stentoriously. Not without envying him the hours of rest still before
him, Roddy helped himself to Peter's revolver, left him a line saying
it was he who had borrowed it, and went out into the dark and empty
streets.
Half awake and with his hunger only partially satisfied, Roddy now
regarded his expedition with little favor. He reverted strongly to the
theory that some one was making a fool of him. He reminded himself
that if in New York he had received such a note, he either would have
at once dismissed it as a hoax or turned it over to the precinct
station-house. But as the darkness changed to gray, and the black bulk
of the Cafe Ducrot came into view, his interest quickened. He
encouraged himself with the thought that while in New York the
wording of the note would be improbable, hysterical, melodramatic, in
hot, turbulent Venezuela it was in keeping with the country and with
the people.
Since setting forth from the hotel a half hour had passed, and as he
left the Cafe Ducrot behind him the night faded into the gray-blue
mist of dawn. Out of the mist, riding slowly toward him, mounted on
one pony and leading another, Roddy saw the man who on the night
before had brought him the letter. He was leaning forward, peering
through the uncertain light. When he recognized Roddy he galloped to
him, and with evident pleasure but without speaking, handed him the
reins of the led pony. Then motioning to Roddy to wait, he rode
rapidly down the road over which the American had just come. Roddy
settled himself in the saddle, and with a smile of satisfaction beamed
upon the ghostlike world around him. So far, at least, the adventure
promised to be genuine. Certainly, he argued, Peter could not have
prepared a joke so elaborate.
Apparently satisfied that Roddy had brought no one with him, the
messenger now rejoined him, and with a gesture of apology took the
lead, and at a smart trot started in the same direction in which Roddy
had been walking.
Roddy gave his guide a start of fifty feet, and followed. With the
idea of a possible ambush still in his mind, he held the pony well in
hand, and in front of him, in his belt, stuck one of the revolvers. He
now was fully awake. No longer in the darkness was he stumbling on
foot over the stones and ruts of the road. Instead, the day was
breaking and he had under him a good horse, on which, if necessary, he
could run away. The thought was comforting, and the sense of possible
danger excited him delightfully. When he remembered Peter, sleeping
stolidly and missing what was to come, he felt a touch of remorse. But
he had been warned to bring no one with him, and of the letter to
speak to no one. He would tell Peter later. But, he considered, what
if there should be nothing to tell, or, if there were, what if he
should not be alive to tell it? If the men who had planned to
assassinate Colonel Vega intended to punish him for his interference,
they could not have selected a place or hour better suited to their
purpose. In all the world, apparently, he was the only soul awake. On
either side of him were high hedges of the Spanish bayonet, and back
of them acres of orange groves. The homes of the planters lay far from
the highway, and along the sides of the road there were no houses, no
lodge gates, not even a peon's thatched hut.
Roddy was approaching a sharp turn in the road, a turn to the left at
almost right angles. It was marked by an impenetrable hedge. Up to
now, although the hedges would have concealed a regiment, the white
road itself had stretched before him, straight and open. But now the
turn shut it from his sight. The guide had reached the corner. Instead
of taking it, he turned in his saddle and pulled his pony to a walk.
To Roddy the act seemed significant. It was apparent that they had
arrived at their rendezvous. Sharply, Roddy also brought his pony to
a walk, and with a heavy pull on the reins moved slowly forward.
The guide drew to the right and halted. To Roddy's excited imagination
this manoeuvre could have but one explanation. The man was
withdrawing himself from a possible line of fire. Shifting the reins
to his left hand, Roddy let the other fall upon his revolver. Holding
in the pony and bending forward, Roddy peered cautiously around the
corner.
What he saw was so astonishing, so unlike what he expected, so utterly
out of place, that, still leaning forward, still with his hand on his
revolver, he stared stupidly.
For half a mile the road lay empty, but directly in front of him,
blocking the way, was a restless, pirouetting pony, and seated upon
the pony, unmoved either by his gyrations or by the appearance of a
stranger in her path, was a young girl.
As Roddy had cautiously made his approach he had in his mind a picture
of skulking Venezuelans with pointed carbines; his ears were prepared
for a command to throw up his hands, for the slap of a bullet. He had
convinced himself that around the angle of the impenetrable hedge this
was the welcome that awaited him. And when he was confronted by a girl
who apparently was no more a daughter of Venezuela than she was a
masked highwayman, his first thought was that this must be some
innocent foreigner stumbling in upon the ambush. In alarm for her
safety his eyes searched the road beyond her, the hedges on either
side. If she remained for an instant longer he feared she might be the
witness to a shocking tragedy, that she herself might even become a
victim. But the road lay empty, in the hedges of spiked cactus not a
frond stirred; and the aged man who had led him to the rendezvous sat
motionless, watchful but undisturbed.
[Illustration: Shifting the reins to his left hand, Roddy let the
other fall upon his revolver.]
Roddy again turned to the girl and found her closely observing him.
He sank back in his saddle and took off his hat. Still scanning the
hedges, he pushed his pony beside hers and spoke quickly.
"Pardon me," he said, "but I think you had better ride on. Some men
are coming here. They--they may be here now."
That his anxiety was entirely on her account was obvious. The girl
colored slightly, and smiled. As she smiled, Roddy for the first time
was looking directly at her, and as he looked his interest in
assassins and his anxiety as to what they might do passed entirely
from him. For months he had not seen a girl of his own people, and
that this girl was one of his own people he did not question. Had he
first seen her on her way to mass, with a lace shawl across her
shoulders, with a high comb and mantilla, he would have declared her
to be Spanish, and of the highest type of Spanish beauty. Now, in her
linen riding-skirt and mannish coat and stock, with her hair drawn
back under a broad-brimmed hat of black straw, she reminded him only
of certain girls with whom he had cantered along the Ocean Drive at
Newport or under the pines of Aiken. How a young woman so habited had
come to lose herself in a lonely road in Curacao was incomprehensible.
Still, it was not for him to object. That the gods had found fit to
send her there was, to Roddy, sufficient in itself, and he was
extremely grateful. But that fact was too apparent. Though he was
unconscious of it, the pleasure in his eyes was evident. He still was
too startled to conceal his admiration.
The girl frowned, her slight, boyish figure grew more erect.
"My name is Rojas," she said. "My father is General Rojas. I was told
you wished to help him, and last night I sent you a note asking you to
meet me here."
She spoke in even, matter-of-fact tones. As she spoke she regarded
Roddy steadily. When, the night before, Inez had sent the note, she
had been able only to guess as to what manner of man it might be with
whom she was making a rendezvous at daybreak, in a lonely road. And
she had been more than anxious. Now that she saw him she recognized
the type and was reassured. But that he was worthy of the secret she
wished to confide in him she had yet to determine. As she waited for
him to disclose himself she was to all outward appearances tranquilly
studying him. But inwardly her heart was trembling, and it was with
real relief that, when she told him her name, she saw his look of
admiration disappear, and in his eyes come pity and genuine feeling.
"Oh!" gasped Roddy unhappily, his voice filled with concern. "Oh, I am
sorry!"
The girl slightly inclined her head.
"I came to ask you," she began, speaking with abrupt directness, "what
you propose to do?"
It was a most disconcerting question. Not knowing what he proposed to
do, Roddy, to gain time, slipped to the ground and, hat in hand, moved
close to the pommel of her saddle. As he did not answer, the girl
spoke again, this time in a tone more kindly. "And to ask why you wish
to help us?"
As though carefully considering his reply, Roddy scowled, but made no
answer. In a flash it had at last come to him that what to Peter and
to himself had seemed a most fascinating game was to others a
struggle, grim and momentous. He recognized that until now General
Rojas had never been to him a flesh-and-blood person, that he had not
appreciated that his rescue meant actual life and happiness. He had
considered him rather as one of the pieces in a game of chess, which
Peter and himself were secretly playing against the Commandant of the
San Carlos prison. And now, here, confronting him, was a human being,
living, breathing, suffering, the daughter of this chessman, bone of
his bone, flesh of his flesh, demanding of the stranger by what right
he made himself her father's champion, by what right he pushed himself
into the tragedy of the Rojas family. In his embarrassment Roddy
decided desperately to begin at the very beginning, to tell the exact
truth, to omit nothing, and then to throw himself upon the mercy of
the court.
The gray mist of the morning had lifted. Under the first warm rays of
the sun, like objects developing on a photographer's plate, the cactus
points stood out sharp and clear, the branches of the orange trees
separated, assuming form and outline, the clusters of fruit took on a
faint touch of yellow. From the palace yard in distant Willemstad
there drifted toward them the boom of the morning gun.
With his reins over his arm, his sombrero crumpled in his hands, his
face lifted to the face of the girl, Roddy stood in the road at
attention, like a trooper reporting to his superior officer.
"We were in the tea-house of the Hundred and One Steps," said Roddy.
"We called ourselves the White Mice."
Speaking quickly he brought his story down to the present moment. When
he had finished, Inez, who had been bending toward him, straightened
herself in the saddle and sat rigidly erect. Her lips and brows were
drawn into two level lines, her voice came to him from an
immeasurable distance.
"Then it was a joke?" she said.
"A joke!" cried Roddy hotly. "That's most unfair. If you will only
give us permission we'll prove to you that it is no joke. Perhaps, as
I told it, it sounded heartless. I told it badly. What could I
say--that I am sorry? Could I, a stranger, offer sympathy to you? But
we _are_ sorry. Ever since Peter proposed it, ever since I saw your
father----"
The girl threw herself forward, trembling. Her eyes opened wide.
"You saw my father!" she exclaimed. "Tell me," she begged, "did he
look well? Did he speak to you? When did you--" she stopped suddenly,
and turning her face from him, held her arm across her eyes.
"It was four months ago," said Roddy. "I was not allowed to speak to
him. We bowed to each other. That was all."
"I must tell them," cried the girl, "they must know that I have seen
some one who has seen him. But if they know I have seen you----"
She paused; as though asking advice she looked questioningly at Roddy.
He shook his head.
"I don't understand," he said.
"My mother and sister don't know that I am here," Inez told him. "If
they did they would be very angry. No one," she added warningly, "must
know. They are afraid of you. They cannot understand why you offer to
help us. And they mistrust you. That is why I had to see you here in
this way." With a shrug of distaste the girl glanced about her.
"Fortunately," she added, "you understand."
"Why, yes," Roddy assented doubtfully. "I understand your doing what
_you_ did, but I don't understand the others. Who is it," he asked,
"who mistrusts me? Who," he added smiling, "besides yourself?"
"My mother," answered Inez directly, "your consul, Captain Codman,
Colonel Vega, and----"
In surprise, Roddy laughed and raised his eyebrows.
"Vega!" he exclaimed. "Why should Vega mistrust me?" Knowing what was
in his mind, the girl made him a formal little bow.
"It is not," she answered, "because you saved his life." In obvious
embarrassment she added: "It is because you are not in the confidence
of your father. You can see that that must make it difficult for
Colonel Vega."
Bewildered, Roddy stared at her and again laughed.
"And what possible interest," he demanded, "can _my_ father have in
Colonel Vega?"
For a moment, with distrust written clearly in her eyes, the girl
regarded him reproachfully. Then she asked coldly:
"Do you seriously wish me to think that you do _not_ know that?"
While they had been speaking, even when Inez had made it most evident
to Roddy that to herself and to her friends he was a discredited
person, he had smiled patiently. His good humor had appeared
unassailable. But now his eyes snapped indignantly. He pressed his
lips together and made Inez an abrupt bow.
"I assure you, I know nothing," he said quickly.
He threw the reins over the neck of the pony, and with a slap on its
flank drove it across the road within reach of the waiting Pedro. Then
lifting his hat, and with another bow, he started in the direction of
Willemstad. Inez, too surprised to speak, sat staring after him. But
before he had taken a dozen steps, as though she had called him back
and asked him to explain, he halted and returned. He had entirely
recovered his good humor, but his manner when he spoke was not
conciliatory.
"The trouble is this," he said, "your friends are so deep in plots
that they have lost sight of the thing that counts. While they are
'mistrusting,' and suspecting, and spying on each other, a man is
dying. I know that much, anyway. That is all I care to know." As
though it were an extenuating fact, he added: "It is a question of
character. It is a Venezuelan way of doing things. But it is not our
way. It was very kind of you to give me this chance to explain our
interfering. But I see now--everybody," he added dryly, "has taken
pains to make it very plain--that we are a nuisance." He paused, and
to assure her it was not she he was upbraiding, smiled cheerfully. In
his most confidential manner he continued lightly: "For myself, I have
always thought there was something to say for the fools who rush in
where angels fear to tread. I remember once seeing a fool rush into a
burning building and rescue a child, while I and some other angels
shouted for ladders." He nodded, and again lifted his hat. "Good-by,"
he said, "and thank you." Leaving her seated silent in the saddle, he
walked away.
This time he had turned the bend in the road and had proceeded along
it some hundred yards, when from behind him he heard approaching at a
reckless pace the hoof-beats of a pony. Looking back, he saw a
whirlwind of fluttering skirts and scattered sparks and pebbles. Inez,
followed by Pedro, drew up even with him; and as she dragged her pony
to a halt, threw herself free of the pommel and dropped at his feet to
the road. Had he not caught her by the shoulders she would have
stumbled into his arms. A strand of hair had fallen across her face,
her eyes were eager, flashing. She raised her gloved hands
impulsively, and clasped them before him.
"Please!" she begged. "You must not go. It is true--what you say about
us, but you must help us. I did not know. I had forgotten. It is three
years since I talked to any one--any one from your country. I had
forgotten. It is true; we are suspicious, we are _not_ straightforward
like you, like the people in the States. But you must not punish us
for that. Not _me_!"