THE ENCOUNTER AT THE CAFE DE ALMENDRAS.
“You have settled your business interests in this country
satisfactorily?”
“Perfectly so. Much more profitably, indeed, than I expected.”
“Then there is nothing further to keep you here except sight-seeing?”
“Nothing—except sight-seeing.”
Cyrus Felton, Phillip Van Zandt and Louise Hathaway are seated on the
veranda of the little Cafe de Almendras, on the outskirts of Santiago.
They have returned this morning from a short jaunt to the interior and
are not impressed favorably with rural Cuba. So they gladly return to
the contemplation of that view which is ever welcome, no matter where
one may roam—old ocean.
“And you, Miss Hathaway—have you any Cuban ties that you will sever with
regret?” inquires Van Zandt.
Miss Hathaway is more thoughtful than the occasion would seem to
require. “None,” she replies, slowly. “Unless,” she adds quickly, “the
pleasure of your society for the last month may be regarded as a Cuban
tie.”
“Thank you,” rejoins Van Zandt, with a glance that brings a blush to the
face of the Vermont maiden.
“No; I am utterly, uncompromisingly disappointed with Cuba,” she says.
“And the people! But I have been here but a few days, so I shall not
place my opinion upon record.”
“And yet your brief impression of Cuba, Miss Hathaway, would not be
likely to change much for the better if you were to spend a dozen years
here. The country is uninteresting. The Spaniard cannot be changed. The
Cuban—that is, the Cuban we see about us—does not deserve freedom. He
lets the blacks and his brothers of the chaparral do all the fighting,
and hardly dares, except in private, to express his cordial hatred of
his ancient enemy. Do you know, Mr. Felton, I rather fancied that you
had relatives in Cuba.”
“Relatives in Cuba?” The little color suddenly recedes from Mr. Felton’s
face.
“Yes,” says Van Zandt. “The day before I had the pleasure of meeting you
and Miss Hathaway I was reading in a New York paper an interview with a
member of the Cuban revolutionary society. In speaking of the
diversified character of the Spanish officers in Cuba, the gentleman
mentioned that attached to the staff of General Truenos was a young
American, a former sugar planter. His name was Felton, but he changed it
to Alvarez. When I first discovered your name and learned that you were
en route to Cuba I unconsciously associated you with this young sugar
planter so friendly to the Spanish cause.”
During Van Zandt’s speech, delivered in apparently careless tones, Mr.
Felton succeeds in mastering a strong emotion. Louise is regarding him
somewhat nervously, but Van Zandt quickly refills Miss Hathaway’s glass
with jerez and passes it to her with a smiling comment on the quality of
the wine.
The rather awkward silence is broken by Mr. Felton.
“Mr. Van Zandt, and to you, Louise, I may say that I believe I have a
son in Cuba, and that he is the young man alluded to in that newspaper.
One reason why I have come to Cuba is to find that son. I supposed he
was operating the sugar plantation that we visited last week. I did not
know that he had joined the Spanish service.”
“I regret,” remarks Van Zandt, “that my idle remark should have stirred
you to speak of a matter on which you might have preferred to have
remained silent.”
“The subject is a painful one, it is true, but once started I may as
well go on to the end. It is nearly a year ago—the 1st of June—that
Ralph left home, and since then I have heard from him but twice, and
vaguely each time.”
Both Mr. Felton and Louise are gazing seaward, else they would note the
swift look of surprise that passes across Van Zandt’s face.
“The 1st of June,” he repeats, as if attempting to recall some incident
of the past. “Did not something peculiar occur in Raymond—that is the
name of your town, is it not?—about that time?”
Mr. Felton shoots a quick, inquiring look at Van Zandt’s face, but reads
nothing there except disinterested curiosity.
“Something very peculiar occurred two days before that date,” he
replies, gravely. “On the night of Memorial day Roger Hathaway, Louise’s
father, the cashier of the Raymond National Bank, was found dead in his
office at the bank, and the institution was discovered to have been
robbed of a large amount of money. The murderer has never been
discovered and presumably never will be.”
An expression of self-reproach is visible in Van Zandt’s face as he
turns to Louise.
“Forgive me, Miss Hathaway; I was not aware—”
“There is nothing to forgive, Mr. Van Zandt,” Louise replies. “But I do
not share Mr. Felton’s opinion that the veil of mystery enshrouding the
tragedy will never be lifted. Something within me tells me that one day
the slayer of my father will be brought to justice.”
Miss Hathaway again turns her eyes, now wet with tears, toward the sea.
Mr. Felton is very pale and it is apparent that he would welcome a
change in the conversation. Van Zandt, however, continues:
“Now, that you speak of it,” he says, knitting his brows, “I recall that
I read something about the case in the papers at the time. Was no one
suspected?”
“Three persons were suspected—two of them unjustly. Derrick Ames”—with a
quick glance at Louise, who flushes scarlet and bites her lips—“was one
and my son the other. You may be surprised at my stating this,” in
response to Van Zandt’s questioning gaze, “but you will understand
better why I am so anxious to find Ralph. He had some motive for leaving
Raymond as he did, and until that motive is discovered and his name
cleared I shall be one of the most unhappy of fathers.”
“And the third party suspected? You have mentioned only two,” says Van
Zandt.
“The third? Oh, yes; the third was a young man named Ernest Stanley. He
was the only stranger in Raymond, so far as known, on the day of the
tragedy. This young man had been liberated from state prison on Memorial
day, after serving two years of a three years’ sentence for forgery.”
“Then there was fairly good reason for suspecting him?” comments Van
Zandt, with an enigmatic smile. “Give a dog a bad name, you know. But
tell me about the fellow. I confess I am rather interested in him. Was
his forgery a very serious affair?”
“A matter of $1,000. Mine was the name he forged.”
“Indeed. How did you trace it?”
“That was a peculiar feature of the case. Stanley presented the check at
the bank of which I was president.”
“Rather a blundering piece of business, should you not say? But may he
not have been innocent?”
“The forgery was proved.”
“Ah! Stanley admitted it?”
“No; he told a fanciful story of the check having been given to him in
New York, in payment of a gambling debt.”
“Nothing impossible in that story, Mr. Felton. I will tell you why. A
night or two before we left New York I was seated in Madison Square
garden, listening to a concert, when a party of sporting men sat down at
the next table, and one of them entertained his companions by relating a
reminiscence of a game of draw poker in which he had played a part two
or three years before. I will not repeat the story, but perhaps you will
understand the point I am trying to make. Four men were playing and
during the course of one hand the betting had narrowed to two of them. A
held what he believed to be a well-nigh invincible hand. Flushed with
confidence, and irritated by his opponent’s insinuation that he had no
more money to wager, A took a check-book from his pocket, wrote a check
for $1,000 or some such sum, and tossed it upon the table. The bet was
covered, the hands shown down, and A lost. Now,” finishes Van Zandt, “A
might not have had a dollar in the bank. He might have put a worthless
check upon the table, knowing, as he thought he knew, that there was not
one chance in a thousand of a necessity for its payment arising. That
being the case, what mattered it whose name was on the check, his own
or—well, say his father’s? I am only theorizing on what might naturally
occur some time, you know.”
Cyrus Felton’s face has become ghastly and he appears to be on the verge
of collapse. Miss Hathaway regards Van Zandt with wonder and
apprehension. The latter seems unconscious of the effect his words have
produced, and he remarks carelessly: “But I will not discuss the matter
further, as I suspect it bores you.”
At this instant the clatter of hoof-beats sounds from the road, as a
detachment of Spanish caballeria ride up, tether their horses and hurry
boisterously into the cafe. The Americans are established on a quiet
veranda at the rear of the building, where they may be free from just
such interruptions.
“Are you ready to depart?” says Van Zandt to his companions.
“I am anxious to return to Santiago as soon as possible,” declares Mr.
Felton.
Van Zandt raps upon the table for the waiter, but no response is made.
Host and helpers are busily occupied with their noisy guests.
“Pardon me a moment. I will step within and settle the account,” says
Van Zandt, as he rises and enters the cafe.
The drinking-room is crowded with the boisterous soldiery, disporting
themselves as if war were an amusement and the curtain nearly down on
the farce of revolution.
The presumptive leader of the troopers is a tall, rather handsome young
fellow, who sits with his back against the wall and a glass in his hand.
There is no one within a dozen or twenty feet of him except one
caballero, with a scar across his forehead, who sits by himself at a
table.
As Van Zandt enters and closes the door behind him the Spanish captain
glances up and their eyes meet.
“Great heavens! Am I dreaming,” mutters Van Zandt. And then he stands
with white face and clenched fists, staring at the man before him.
The latter returns the stare. “I trust you will know me again senor,” he
remarks, ungraciously, as he sets down his glass and strikes a match to
ignite a cigarette.
“I believe I have had the misfortune of meeting you before,” Van Zandt
replies, folding his arms and regarding the other with blazing eyes.
The Spanish captain shrugs his shoulders. “May I ask where?” he inquires
coolly.
“In the United States.”
“The senor is mistaken. I have never been in the states.”
“You lie!”
“Curse you! What d’ye mean?” demands the Spanish captain in the purest
of English, as he drops his hand upon his sword hilt. The man at the
table near by lays down his paper and turns a pair of interested eyes
toward the young men.
“You lie!” repeats Van Zandt, moving not a step. Then he says in a voice
passionate with hatred and ringing with the exultation of a Nemesis
about to strike:
“So, Ralph Felton, I have found you at last!”
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