foolish fancy, and it will pass. The man was handsome, and he cast a
spell over her."
"Nor is that all," Ramon ran on, excitedly. "He is not at all the man
he pretended to be, even his name is false. This morning there arrived
an American officer of police to arrest him on other charges. He is a
thief, it seems, having stolen eighty thousand dollars 'gold' from his
employers. Oh, there is no mistake. Within the hour I have been talking
with this detective, and he has the papers of proof. It will be in the
newspapers, every one will know shortly. Last night, when Senor
Cortlan' made his accusation, there was a frightful quarrel, and
Ant'ony swore to kill him. At dawn the poor husband is found shot on
the sea wall. Is not that enough?"
"It is indeed!" gasped the father. "You see, then, my child, from what
you were saved. This should be a day of thanksgiving to you as it is to
me. For this deliverance I shall erect a cross of stone on the hill by
our house, so that all our lives we may offer a prayer when our eyes
rest upon it. Come, now, it is Ramon who has unmasked this person. Have
you no thanks to give him?"
"But it is not true," maintained the girl, simply, and her eyes were as
steady as altar flames.
"Eh? Well! He is in the barracks at this moment," snarled Ramon, "and
there he shall remain, I promise you, until he goes to Chiriqui or--"
Gertrudis turned to her father.
"Take me to him, please. I must go at once to the Carcel."
But he only answered her with a stare of amazement. "Go!" he murmured,
after an instant. "Have I lost my senses?" He began to summon his
indignation for a terrific outburst.
"Yes, I must go, for he is my husband. We were wed last night."
There was a moment of absolute silence, during which the clatter of a
passing coach sounded loudly in the room. Then--
"Mother of God!" the banker ejaculated, hoarsely, and sank into the
seat from which he had arisen. Ramon was staring from one to the other,
his head turning jerkily.
The girl raised her face proudly. "Yes! I am his wife, although I had
not expected to tell you so soon; therefore, you see I must go to him
quickly, or he will think I believe these lies."
"You are mad! Do you know what you are saying?"
"Oh yes. The judge from Colon married us during the dance. I would have
liked a church wedding; but that will come later. The Senor Ronnels and
his wife were there also, and they will tell you. It made me very
happy. You see, I prayed the Virgin that I might be happy, and she
heard. Oh, I offered so many prayers, and all last night I lay awake
giving thanks for my great happiness, which even yet I cannot believe."
Her face was transfigured by a look that left the two men no choice but
to believe.
"A civil marriage!" stammered Ramen.
"A civil marriage, indeed!" said Garavel, in a choking voice. "So that
is where you were when I believed you to be dancing!" He burst forth
violently, pounding the table with his clenched fist until the dishes
danced, his brilliant black eyes flashing beneath their thatch of
white. "But I will not have it, understand! You are betrothed. You have
given your word to Ramon."
"Ah, but I never loved him. You compelled me to consent, because you
said you could not be President unless I married him. And that was not
so. Ramon deceived you. Now it is all right. You will be President, and
I can be happy."
Ramon's suspicion kindled on the instant. He turned upon the banker.
"So! I begin to see! That was a trick, then, to betray my father."
"But wait!" Gertrudis exclaimed, sharply. "Did you not trick us also?
Did you not use the General, your father, to make me give up the man I
love? Which of us, then, is the better?"
Andres Garavel spoke threateningly, menacingly, to his daughter.
"Enough! Our word was given, and you have broken it! You have brought
disgrace to our name. Can a Garavel be President of the Republic with
his daughter wed to a murderer?"
"He is not that!"
"It was no marriage, and it will not stand. I will have it annulled.
Such things are easily done, Ramon. She is no wife. The man was a
criminal, a fugitive, even when he forced her to marry--"
"No, no! You cannot do that. It was I who asked him to marry me." The
girl lied tremulously, panic-stricken at the threat. "Before God, I am
his wife!" she maintained. "And if this marriage has a flaw, then I
will stand beside the prison gates and remarry him as he comes forth."
"He will not come forth," Ramon declared, harshly.
"Oh yes! And now will you take me to him?"
"NO!" her father bellowed. "You are my daughter, you are under my roof,
and here you shall stay until you give up this madness and this man."
"That I can never do," she retorted, proudly. "You see, I am not all
Spanish, I have in me also the blood of his people, and that makes me
steadfast. I could not doubt him if I wished."
"I forbid you to go near him. Come! Do you promise?" She inclined her
dark head. "I must learn more of this affair at once. You will find
your senses, miss, or if you do not you will spend your life in
meditation and prayer--that much I promise you."
"I do not wish to enter a convent," she said, with white lips. "I wish
to be happy. When Keerk is free I shall go to him. Now, if you please,
I--think I shall go away." She turned and went out of the big
high-ceilinged room, and not until she had reached the hall did her
feet waver or her head droop.
When the two men were alone, Garavel said, brokenly: "She is the first
to bring disgrace upon our name. Is there absolute proof that the man
is guilty, Ramon?"
"Proof?" Alfarez turned dazed eyes from the door through which
Gertrudis had gone. "Proof? I believe so. I have not thought much of
the matter as yet, but--I think there will be proof in plenty. Oh yes!"
"Come then. I must go to see him. Perhaps--oh, God! Perhaps what? My
head is afire, my heart is broken for you, my poor boy."
XXIX
A LAST APPEAL
That was not a pleasant interview for Anthony. His surroundings were
not such as to lend him assurance, and Garavel's grief at his
daughter's disgrace was really distressing. Moreover, the unequivocal
threat to annul the marriage filled him with alarm. His only
consolation came from the fact that Gertrudis had made known the truth
without the slightest hesitation. That showed that she was loyal, at
any rate. Kirk tried to assure his caller that he would have no trouble
in proving his innocence, but Garavel seemed very little concerned with
that phase of the affair, and continued to bewail the dishonor that had
fallen upon his name.
Kirk's pride arose at this, and he exclaimed with some heat:
"My dear Mr. Garavel, if you are so blamed sure that I did all these
things, why did you come to see me?"
"It was to learn if she spoke the truth."
"Oh, we're married, right enough. And you'll have some difficulty in
breaking it up before I get out."
"You expect, then, to prove your innocence easily?"
"I do."
"But I hear there are other serious charges."
"It is quite the same with them."
"But--suppose you should not clear yourself of this--murder--would you
wish to drag down my daughter's name?"
"Of course not."
"I understand you have not spoken of this marriage. Perhaps you might
consent to remain silent. If by any chance you should be convicted of
guilt, what satisfaction could you derive from injuring me and mine?"
"None at all, sir."
"I am rich," Garavel went on, meaningly. "If you are acquitted, I
might, perhaps, arrange amply for your future--upon conditions."
"In other words, if I am to be hanged or shot or whatever it is they do
to people down here, you'll expect me to keep my mouth shut on general
principles, and if I'm acquitted you'll pay me well to disappear. Is
that it? Well, there is some family pride to that." He laughed lightly.
"My political future may depend upon it."
"If I can help you in that way I'll gladly keep silent as long as you
wish, but I don't think I care to make any further terms."
"Make sure of this," snapped the father, "your marriage will be
annulled, no matter what you prove or fail to prove. Already Chiquita
is repentant, and I shall not rest until she is free. You have done me
a great injury, and I shall not forget it."
On the following morning the leading American attorney of the city
called at the jail, announcing that he had been retained as counsel,
but refusing to tell who had employed him. Supposing, of course, that
he had been sent by friends who wished no publicity in the matter, Kirk
did not press him for information. Together they outlined their defence
as best they could. With characteristic optimism, Kirk insisted upon
treating the charge against him as of little consequence, and it was
not until he had undergone his preliminary hearing that he fully
realized the gravity of his situation.
To his unspeakable indignation, the officer who had discovered
Cortlandt's body swore that he had seen the deceased pass him shortly
before the time of his death, evidently taking a walk along the water's
edge for relief from the heat, and that immediately afterward--perhaps
a minute or so--the prisoner had also passed, going in the same
direction! There was a street light close by, he said, and there could
be no possible mistake as to Anthony's identity. A few moments later
there had been a pistol-shot, muffled, but unmistakable, and the
policeman had hastened in the direction from which it came. The
prisoner had appeared suddenly out of the darkness and hurried past. In
the politest manner possible, the witness declared, he had questioned
him regarding the shot, but Mr. Anthony had neither stopped nor
answered; on the contrary, he had broken into a run. The officer had
considered this strange behavior, but, being at all times most
respectful toward Americans, he had made no effort to detain him.
Passing on, he had found the body of the dead man. A revolver was
beside it. It was shocking! It had quite upset the witness. He had
blown his whistle, and seeing a light in the Governor's mansion close
by had called there for assistance. Soon afterward another officer had
arrived upon the scene.
When this amazing testimony was translated to Kirk he was astounded;
but his indignation was as nothing to that which swept over him when a
servant in the Alfarez household swore to having actually witnessed the
murder.
This fellow declared that he had been troubled greatly with a
toothache. Toward morning of the night in question, too restless for
sleep, he had gone out upon the sea wall. Even now, his face was
swollen, and he made a determined effort to show the court the
particular tooth which had made him an unwilling beholder of the
tragedy. Overcome by exhaustion, he had fallen asleep after a time, and
he was awakened by the sounds of a quarrel. On opening his eyes, he saw
two Americans, one of whom was Senor Cortlandt, and the other Kirk
Anthony. Being utterly ignorant of their language, he had no means of
knowing what was said, nor did he consider the altercation serious
until the large man shot the Senor Cortlandt. Then, being
terror-stricken at what he had beheld, he had run away, entirely
forgetting his toothache, which, by the grace of God, was quite gone.
That was all he knew of the matter. He recognized Anthony as the man
who had done the shooting. He was troubled greatly with toothaches.
It all seemed like some grotesque, practical joke, and Kirk at first
could not believe that the evidence of these witnesses could have
weight. But he soon became convinced that this was no laughing matter.
Since they had perjured themselves so readily, it was evident that some
determined influence was back of them, and how far that influence might
carry it was hard to tell. The reason for it was all very simple, of
course, and yet he was at a loss how to combat it. Wade was called next
and told the story of that damning incident at the supper-party, being
corroborated by the others. Then there were several witnesses who swore
to inconsequent things, such as waiters at the Hotel Central, and the
doctor who had examined Cortlandt.
For once in his careless life the young man realized that he was face
to face with something bigger and stronger than his own determination,
and it daunted him. He began to see that he had underestimated these
foreigners, for it seemed an easy matter to convict an innocent man in
these Central American courts. He recalled certain ridiculous stories
of Spanish justice which he had laughed at; he remembered Mrs.
Cortlandt's vivid tale of an execution she had once beheld in the
court-yard of Chiriqui prison; and suddenly he decided to cable for
Darwin K. Anthony--the one man who was strong enough to save him.
When it came time for him to speak, he told a straight story about his
own actions on that night, and he was corroborated by Allan; but he
knew that their words had little weight against that other testimony.
Of course, he was remanded for trial, and that night the newspapers of
the city were crowded with columns of sensational reading-matter
bearing upon the crime.
Anson, the lawyer, gave him a ray of encouragement as he left.
"Don't go too much on this hearing," he said. "I think we'll pull you
out all right."
"You THINK! I dare say Ramon Alfarez can get a dozen men to perjure
themselves as easily as he got those two."
"Exactly. But I have a little coup that I intend to spring at the right
moment."
"For Heaven's sake, tell me what it is."
"I'm sorry, but I can't just yet. In the first place, one must handle
these people exactly right or they explode."
"But give me an idea at least. I'm really interested in the outcome of
this case, you know."
Anson smiled. "Of course you are, and I'll tell you as soon as I can,
but not now."
"These Spiggoties would enjoy standing me up against a wall with my
head in a rag--they'd make it a holiday and ring all the bells in town."
"I can't assure you that it isn't serious," Anson acknowledged,
gravely, "for it is--any time an American goes to court in this country
it is serious--but that doesn't mean that we'll lose."
"You may be a good lawyer," said Kirk, ruefully, "but you're a blamed
poor comforter. I--I wish my dad was here; he'd fix it. He wouldn't let
'em convict me. He's great, my dad is. He can swear--like the devil."
His voice caught, and his eyes were unusually bright as he turned away
to hide his emotions. "I like him better than any man I've ever met,
Anson. And you watch him come when he hears I'm in trouble."
He wrote a lengthy cablegram, which the lawyer, with a peculiar smile,
agreed to despatch at once. He spent a sleepless night. In the morning
a message came signed by Copley--Kirk's heart leaped at the familiar
name--saying that Darwin K. Anthony had left Albany for the West on
Sunday night, and could not be located for a few days.
"He was never gone when I needed money," the son mused. "He'll be
worried when he hears about this, and he has enough to worry him as it
is. I'm mighty sorry, but--I simply must have him."
Anson brought in the day's papers, which alluded, as usual, to
Cortlandt's death as a murder, and printed their customary sensational
stories, even to a rehash of all that had occurred at the stag supper.
This in particular made Kirk writhe, knowing as he did that it would
reach the eyes of his newly made wife. He also wondered vaguely how
Edith Cortlandt was bearing up under all this notoriety. The lawyer
brought the further news that Allan was in captivity as an accessory to
the crime, and that henceforth Kirk need expect but few visitors.
Somebody--probably Ramon Alfarez--had induced the officials to treat
their prisoner with special severity.
During the days which followed, Kirk suffered more than he chose to
confess even to his attorney. In the first place, it was hard to be
denied all knowledge of what was going on--Anson would tell him little,
except that he was working every day--and, then, too, the long hours of
solitude gnawed at his self-control. Runnels managed to see him once or
twice, reporting that, so far as he could learn, Chiquita had
disappeared. He took a message from Kirk to her, but brought back word
that he could not deliver it. Kirk wondered if she could really believe
those frightful half-complete newspaper accounts, or if she had been
unable to withstand the combined weight of her whole family, and had
given up. It was almost too much to hope that a girl reared as she had
been could keep her mind unpoisoned, with all those lying tongues about
her. And, besides, she had the Spanish ideas of morality, which would
make the actions of which he was accused seem doubly shocking. The more
he speculated upon the cause of her silence, the wilder grew his
fancies, until it became a positive torture to think of her at all.
Instead, his thoughts turned to Edith Cortlandt in a curiously
uninterested way. Her attitude was a problem. Perhaps she would leave
him to his fate. Reviewing the circumstances coldly, he could hardly
blame her.
It was on Sunday, a week after his arrest, that she came to him. He was
surprised to see the ravages that this short time had made in her, for
she was pale and drawn and weary-looking, as if from sleeplessness.
Strange to say, these marks of suffering did not detract from her
appearance, but rather enhanced her poise and distinction. She was not
even veiled. On the contrary, she had driven openly to the police
barracks, and ordered her coachman to wait in the street outside, then
demanded to be shown to Anthony's cell.
"I'm awfully glad to see you, Mrs. Cortlandt," he said, as she extended
her hand. "But do you think it was wise for you to come?"
She shrugged. "People can say no more than they have already said. My
name is on every tongue, and a little more gossip can make matters no
worse. I had to come. I just couldn't stay away. I wonder if you can
realize what I have been through."
"It must have been terrible," he said, gently.
"Yes, I have paid. It seems to me that I have paid for everything I
ever did. Those newspaper stories nearly killed me, but it wasn't that
so much as the thought that you were suffering for my acts."
"I'm very sorry. You never thought for a moment that I did what they
claim?"
"No, no! It has all been a mistake from the first. I was sure of that."
"You heard what those two men testified?"
"Bah! That is Ramon Alfarez--but he can do nothing."
"Nothing! I don't call a week in the Bastile 'nothing.' Why, he has
perjured two witnesses already, and I dare say he'll have the whole
native population swearing against me when the trial comes up."
"Never mind. I have had no time to do anything as yet. There were--so
many things to be attended to." She shuddered and sank down upon the
edge of his cot. "Stephen had a great many friends in various parts of
the world; I have been swamped with cablegrams."
"If my dad were here he'd have me free in a jiffy; he can do anything."
"I don't think we'll need him," she said, in a way that comforted him
somehow, though the feeling shamed him. She laid a soft hand upon his
arm, and, looking up eagerly into his face, exclaimed: "You will
forgive me for what I said that night at the hotel, won't you? I didn't
really mean to injure you, Kirk, but I was half hysterical. I had
suffered so these last few months that I was ready to do anything. I
was torn by two great desires, one to remain what I am and have always
been, and the other--well, the other was the stronger, or would have
been if you had allowed it. I never dreamed there was a way out of my
misery, a way so close at hand; but somehow even before General
Alfarez' voice on the 'phone told me what had happened, I knew, and
I--I felt--"
"I know you had a great deal to put up with," he said, "but for both
our sakes I wish it had come in some other way."
"Oh, I don't care," she cried, recklessly. "The one thing I can grasp
in all this turmoil, the one thing that rings in my ears every moment,
is that I am free, FREE! That is all that matters to me. You showed
your loyalty to Stephen more than once, and, though your scruples
angered me, I honor you for them now. I can see, too, that you had no
choice but to put me off even that night of the dance. But my chains
are broken, and it is all different now."
"Your husband's death can make no difference with us, Mrs. Cortlandt,"
he said, gravely.
"We have talked openly before, and there is no need to do otherwise
now. You mean by that that you don't care for me, but I know better. I
believe there is a love so strong that it must find an answer. Although
you may not care for me now as you care for--some one else--I KNOW that
I can make you forget her and put me in her place. I know men, and I
know you. I came here prepared to be honest--shameless, if you like. I
am young, I have money, I have power; I work for the love of doing
things, and you are learning to do the same. I can help you, oh, so
much! We can win happiness together just as easily as we can win
material success, and that is ours now for the asking. It dazzles me to
think of it, Kirk. It is like a glimpse of paradise, and I can show it
all to you." She was bending forward, her lips parted, the color
gleaming in her cheeks, her whole face transformed by a passionate
eagerness.
"Wait!" he said, harshly. "You force me to break my word. I don't want
to tell you this, but--I am married."
She rose slowly, her eyes fixed in bewilderment upon his, her hand
clutching at his sleeve.
"You--never told me that! It was some mad college prank, I suppose."
"No, no. I married Gertrudis Garavel that night at the Tivoli."
"Oh, that can't be. That was the night of the dance."
"It is quite true."
Mrs. Cortlandt stared about the squalid cell dully.
"Miss Garavel! Why didn't you tell me? Why isn't she here? Why does she
leave you alone? No, no! You hardly know each other. Why, she's not old
enough to know her own mind--"
"But I know my mind, and I love her."
Her white hands strained at each other as she steadied her shaking
voice. "Love!" she cried. "You don't know what love means, nor does
she. She CAN'T know, or she'd be here, she'd have this prison torn
block from block."
"I suppose her father would not let her come," said Kirk, slowly, but
Edith did not seem to hear him. The realization of her broken hopes was
coming home to her poignantly.
"My happiness!" she exclaimed. "I have been unhappy so long! And I
seemed to see it just within my reach. Oh, Kirk, she thinks you are
guilty, she hasn't faith."
"You have no right to say that."
"See! I came to you when I was married and asked you to take me; I'll
do the same with you now."
"You don't know what you're saying. You're hysterical, Mrs. Cortlandt.
I love Gertrudis so deeply that there's no room in me for anything
else, and never will be. Heaven only knows what they have made her
believe about me, but I don't care; I'll upset this little plot of
Alfarez's, and when she learns the truth she will come back again."
"This little plot!" Edith cried, in distraction. "And I suppose you
wish me to give you back to her?"
They confronted each other a moment in silence.
"But I won't help her," she went on. "I'm not that sort. I'm a selfish
woman. I've always been selfish because I've never had anybody to work
for. But I have it in me to be generous."
"I'm sorry," he said. "You have suffered, I know. Don't trouble any
more about me--please."
She stared at him defiantly, although her whole frame was shaking as if
from an ague.
"Oh, I'd rather face the gallows as you face it than what is before me,
and I'm not sure I could help you, after all. You are in Latin America
now, remember, and your enemies are strong."
"I am Darwin K. Anthony's son," he protested. "He won't allow it."
"Bah! He is an American, and these are Spanish people. You have seen
how they like us, and you have seen what Alfarez can do. He's rich, and
he'll perjure more witnesses, he'll manipulate the court with his
money. Yes, and I'd rather he succeeded than see you--No, no! What am I
saying? L-let me go; let me get away from here!" She broke down, and
went sobbing out into the corridor. The iron door clanged to behind her.
On the same afternoon, Mr. Clifford, accompanied by Anson, the lawyer,
took the 3.20 train for Colon. As soon as he arrived, he called up
Colonel Jolson, to request that the Commissioner's motor-car should,
without fail, await him at ten o'clock sharp on the next morning, with
an open track ahead of it. Strangely enough, the Colonel agreed very
readily.
XXX
DARWIN K. ANTHONY