THE MAN IN THE SHRUBBERY
The name of an Emperor is a fine thing to conjure with. When we arrived
at the station at Cuyaba at early evening a score of saddle-horses and
several carriages were awaiting the royal party.
I stood in the shadows of the station and watched the guardsmen mount
and surround the equipage in which their imperial master seated himself.
His civic companions—men of high rank, evidently—occupied the other
carriages; and then the entire cavalcade swept away into the gloom and
left me alone.
The station agent was known to me as a patriot, but he was still bobbing
his head after the royal party when I accosted him.
“Get me a horse, Pedro.”
“A horse! Ah, your excellency is joking. Every horse that could be found
has been impressed by the Emperor.”
“Anything will do. A nag of any sort, with saddle or cart, will answer
my purpose. The Cause demands it, Pedro.”
“I am powerless, your excellency. Absolutely powerless!”
It was true enough. The only way for me to get to de Pintra’s mansion
was on foot, and after inducing the man to give me a peasant’s dress in
exchange for my police uniform, I set out at once.
It was a long and gloomy walk. There was a moon, but large banks of
clouds were drifting across the sky, and the way was obscured more than
half the time, causing me to go slowly in order to avoid stumbling into
the ditches.
I met no one on the road, for the highways were usually deserted at this
hour, and the silence all about me added its depressing influence to the
anxiety of my thoughts.
The Emperor’s advent into this stronghold of the Revolution indicated
that at last he had determined to act and suppress the conspiracy that
had grown to such huge proportions. With the real leader—“the brains of
the revolt,” as de Pintra was called—out of the way, Dom Pedro doubtless
had concluded he could easily crush the remainder of the conspirators.
But his success, I argued, would depend upon his securing the key to the
secret vault, for without that the records would never come into his
possession.
Did he have the key? Was this the explanation of his sudden activity?
The thought made me hasten my steps, but although I put forth my best
efforts it was close upon midnight before I sighted the great hedge that
surrounded de Pintra’s mansion. I half-expected to find the gateway
guarded, but to my relief the avenue was as deserted as the highway had
been.
Cautiously I passed along the drive leading to the mansion. I am not
usually nervous at such times, but something in the absolute stillness
of the scene, something menacing in the deep shadows cast by the great
trees, unnerved me and made me suspicious of my surrounding.
Once, indeed, I fancied that I heard a stealthy footstep advancing to
meet me, and with a bound I sprang from the driveway and crouched among
the thick shrubbery, listening intently. But after a few moments I
became reassured and resumed my journey, avoiding this time the graveled
drive and picking my way noiselessly across the grass, skirting the
endless array of flower-beds and shrubbery.
Fortunately the moon came out, or I might have lost my way; and before
long the black line of shadow cast by the mansion itself fell at my
feet. Peering ahead, I saw that I had approached the right wing of the
house. It was here that my own room was located, and with a low
exclamation of relief I was about to step forward into the path when my
eyes fell upon a sight that caused me to suddenly halt and recoil in
horror.
It was a man’s arm showing white in the moonlight, and extending from
beneath a clump of low bushes.
For a few moments I gazed at it as if fascinated, but quickly recovering
myself I advanced to the bushes and gently withdrew the body until it
lay exposed to the full rays of the moon. I fully expected to recognize
one of our conspirators, but when I turned the man over a face was
disclosed that was wholly unknown to me—that of a dark, swarthy person
of evident intelligence and refinement.
He had been shot squarely between the eyes, and doubtless had met death
instantly. I was about to consider the man a government spy who had been
killed by Paola or some other of the conspirators, when I discovered,
with a start of dismay, that the man’s left hand had been completely
severed at the wrist. Also the hand was missing, and although I searched
the ground carefully in the neighborhood, I could find no trace of it.
This discovery gave me ample food for thought. The only plausible reason
for the hasty amputation of the hand had doubtless been to secure a ring
which the dead man had worn—the secret key to Dom Miguel’s vault
probably, since the murder had been committed at this place.
In whose possession, then, was the ring now? Madam Izabel, the Emperor’s
spy, had first stolen it. Then another had murdered her for its
possession—not a conspirator, for all had denied any knowledge of the
ring. Could it have been the man who now lay dead before me? And, if so,
who was he? And had the government again managed to secure the precious
jewel and to revenge Madam Izabel’s assassination by mutilating this
victim in the same way that she had been served?
But if the dead man was not one of the few leaders of the conspiracy who
knew the secret of the ring, how should he have learned its value, and
risked his life to obtain it from Madam Izabel?
That, however, was of no vital importance. The main thing was that the
ring had been taken from him, and had once more changed ownership.
Perhaps Paola, lurking near his uncle’s mansion, had encountered this
person and killed him to get the ring. If so, had he carried it to the
Emperor? And was this the explanation of Dom Pedro’s sudden visit to de
Pintra’s residence?
Yet what object could Paola have in betraying the conspiracy at this
juncture?
Filled with these thoughts I was about to proceed to the house, when a
sudden thought induced me to stoop and feel of the murdered man’s arm.
_The flesh was still warm!_
The murder had been done that very evening—perhaps within the hour.
I own that the horror of the thing and the reckless disregard of life
evinced in this double murder for the possession of the ring, warned me
against proceeding further in the matter; and for the moment I had
serious thoughts of returning quietly to Rio and taking the first
steamer for New Orleans. But there were reasons for remaining. One was
to get possession in some way of Dom Miguel’s body and see it decently
buried; for he was my uncle’s friend, as well as my own, and I could not
honorably return home and admit that I had left him lying within the
dungeon where his doom had overtaken him. The second reason I could not
have definitely explained. Perhaps it was curiosity to see the adventure
to the end, or a secret hope that the revolution was too powerful to be
balked. And then there was Lesba! At any rate, I resolved not to desert
the Cause just yet, although acknowledging it to be the wisest and
safest course to pursue.
So, summoning all my resolution and courage to my aid, I crept to the
window of my room and, by a method that I had many times before made use
of, admitted myself to the apartment.
I had seen no lights whatever shining from the windows, and the house—as
I stood still and listened—seemed absolutely deserted. I felt my way to
a shelf, found a candle, and lighted it.
Then I turned around and faced the barrel of a revolver that was held on
a level with my eyes.
“You are our prisoner, senhor!” said a voice, stern but suppressed. “I
beg you to offer no resistance.”