THE MISSING FINGER
When I recovered I was lying upon a cot in the station-master’s private
room. Sergeant Marco had ridden to a neighboring farmhouse and procured
bandages and some olive oil and Figgot, who proudly informed me he had
once been a surgeon, had neatly dressed and bandaged my burns.
These now bothered me less than the lameness resulting from my fall; but
I drank a glass of wine and then lay quietly upon the cot until the
arrival of the train, when my companions aroused me and assisted me
aboard.
I made the journey comfortably enough, and felt greatly refreshed after
partaking of a substantial luncheon brought from an eating-house by the
thoughtful Figgot.
On our arrival at Rio we were met by a little, thin-faced man who thrust
us all three into a cab and himself joined us as we began to rattle
along the labyrinth of streets. He was plainly dressed in black, quiet
and unobtrusive in manner, and had iron-gray hair and beard, both
closely cropped. I saw at once he was not a Brazilian, and made up my
mind he was the man called Mazanovitch by Paola and my companions. If
so, he was the person now in charge of our quest for the ring, and with
this idea I examined his face with interest.
This was not difficult, for the man sat opposite me with lowered eyelids
and a look of perfect repose upon his thin features. He might have been
fifty or sixty years of age; but there was no guide in determining this
except his gray hairs, for his face bore no lines of any sort, and his
complexion, although of pallid hue, was not unhealthy in appearance.
It surprised me that neither he nor my companions asked any questions.
Perhaps the telegrams had explained all that was necessary. Anyway, an
absolute silence reigned in the carriage during our brief drive.
When we came to a stop the little man opened the door. We all alighted
and followed him into a gloomy stone building. Through several passages
we walked, and then our conductor led us into a small chamber, bare
except for a half-dozen iron cots that stood in a row against the wall.
A guard was at the doorway, but admitted us with a low bow after one
glance at the man in black.
Leading us to the nearest cot, Mazanovitch threw back a sheet and then
stood aside while we crowded around it. To my horror I saw the form of
Madam Izabel lying dead before us. Her white dress was discolored at the
breast with clots of dark blood.
“Stabbed to the heart,” said the guard, calmly. “It was thus they
brought her from the train that arrived this afternoon from Matto
Grosso. The assassin is unknown.”
Mazanovitch thrust me aside, leaned over the cot, and drew the woman’s
left hand from beneath the sheet.
The little finger had been completely severed.
Very gently he replaced the hand, drew the sheet over the beautiful
face, and turned away.
Filled with amazement at the Nemesis that had so soon overtaken this
fierce and terrible woman, I was about to follow our guide when I found
myself confronting a personage who stood barring my way with folded arms
and a smile of grim satisfaction upon his delicate features.
It was Valcour—the man who had called himself de Guarde on board the
Castina—the Emperor’s spy.
“Ah, my dear Senhor Harcliffe! Do we indeed meet again?” he cried,
tauntingly. “And are you still keeping a faithful record in that sweet
diary of yours? It is fine reading, that diary—perhaps you have it with
you now?”
“Let me pass,” said I, impatiently.
“Not yet, my dear friend,” he answered, laughing. “You are going to be
my guest, you know. Will it not please you to enjoy my society once
more? To be sure. And I—I shall not wish to part with you again soon.”
“What do you mean?” I demanded.
“Only that I arrest you, Robert Harcliffe, in the name of the Emperor!”
“On what charge?” I asked.
“Murder, for one,” returned the smiling Valcour. “Afterward you may
answer for conspiracy.”
“Pardon me, Senhor Valcour,” said the little man, in a soft voice. “The
gentleman is already under arrest—in the Emperor’s name.”
Valcour turned upon him fiercely, but his eyes fell as he encountered
the other’s passive, unemotional countenance.
“Is it so, Captain Mazanovitch? Then I will take the prisoner off your
hands.”
The little man spread out his palms with an apologetic, deprecating
gesture. His eyes seemed closed—or nearly so. He seemed to see nothing;
he looked at neither Valcour nor myself. But there was something about
the still, white face, with its frame of iron-gray, that compelled a
certain respect, and even deference.
“It is greatly to be regretted,” he said, gently; “and it grieves me to
be obliged to disappoint you, Senhor Valcour. But since this man is a
prisoner of the police—a state prisoner of some importance, I believe—it
is impossible to deliver him into your hands.”
Without answer Valcour stood motionless before us, only his mobile face
and his white lips showing the conflict of emotions that oppressed him.
And then I saw a curious thing happen. The eyelids of Mazanovitch for an
instant unclosed, and in that instant so tender a glance escaped them
that Valcour trembled slightly, and touched with a gentle, loving
gesture the elder man’s arm.
It all happened in a flash, and the next moment I could not have sworn
that my eyes had not deceived me, for Valcour turned away with a sullen
frown upon his brow, and the Captain seized my arm and marched me to the
door, Figgot and Marco following close behind.
Presently we regained our carriage and were driven rapidly from the
morgue.
This drive was longer than the first, but during it no word was spoken
by any of my companions. I could not help staring at the closed eyes of
Mazanovitch, but the others, I noticed, avoided looking at him. Did he
see, I wondered?—_could_ he see from out the tiny slit that showed
beneath his lashes?
We came at last to a quiet street lined with small frame houses, and
before one of these the carriage stopped. Mazanovitch opened the front
door with a latchkey, and ushered us into a dimly lighted room that
seemed fitted up as study and office combined.
Not until we were seated and supplied with cigars did the little man
speak. Then he reclined in a cushioned chair, puffed at his cheroot, and
turned his face in my direction.
“Tell me all you know concerning the vault and the ring which unlocks
it,” he said, in his soft tones.
I obeyed. Afterward Figgot told of my meeting with the Minister of
Police, and of Paola’s orders to him and Marco to escort me to Rio and
to place the entire matter in the hands of Mazanovitch.
The little man listened without comment and afterward sat for many
minutes silently smoking his cheroot.
“It seems to me,” said I, at last, “that the death of Senhora de Mar,
and especially the fact that her ring finger has been severed from her
hand, points conclusively to one reassuring fact; that the ring has been
recovered by one of our band, and so the Cause is no longer endangered.
Therefore my mission to Rio is ended, and all that remains for me is to
return to Cuyaba and attend to the obsequies of my poor friend de
Pintra.”
Marco and Figgot heard me respectfully, but instead of replying both
gazed questioningly at the calm face of Mazanovitch.
“The facts are these;” said the latter, deliberately; “Senhora de Mar
fled with the ring; she has been murdered, and the ring taken from her.
By whom? If a patriot has it we shall know the truth within fifteen
minutes.” I glanced at a great clock ticking against the wall. “Before
your arrival,” he resumed, “I had taken steps to communicate with every
patriot in Rio. Yet there were few able to recognize the ring as the key
to the secret vault, and the murder was committed fifteen minutes after
the train left Cruz.”
I started, at that.
“Who could have known?” I asked.
The little man took the cigar from his mouth for a moment.
“On the train,” said he, “were General Fonseca, the patriot, and Senhor
Valcour, the Emperor’s spy.”