THE MAN WITH THE RING
Toward morning a tramping of feet aroused me; the door was thrust open
long enough for another prisoner to be admitted, and then I heard the
bolts shoot into their fastening and the soldiers march away.
It was not quite dark in the room, for the shutters were open and
admitted a ray of moonlight through the window. So I lay still and
strained my eyes to discover who my companion might be.
He stood motionless for a time in the place the soldiers had left him. I
made out that he was tall and stooping, and exceedingly thin; but his
face was in shadow. Presently, as he moved, I heard a chain clank, and
knew he was hand-cuffed in the same manner as myself.
Slowly he turned his body, peering into every corner of the room, so
that soon he discovered me lying where the moonlight was strongest. He
gave a start, then, but spoke no word; and again an interval of absolute
silence ensued.
His strange behavior began to render me uneasy. It is well to know
something of a person confined with you in a small room at the dead of
night, and I was about to address the fellow when he began stealthily
approaching the bed. He might have been three yards distant when I arose
to a sitting posture. This caused him to pause, his form well within the
streak of light. Resting upon the edge of the bed and facing him, my own
features were clearly disclosed, and we examined each other curiously.
I had never seen him before, and I had little pleasure in meeting him
then. He appeared to be a man at least fifty years of age, with pallid,
sunken cheeks, eyes bright, but shifting in their gaze, and scanty gray
locks that now hung disordered over a low forehead. His form was thin
and angular, his clothing of mean quality, and his hands, which dangled
before him at the ends of the short chain, were large and hardened by
toil.
Not a Brazilian, I decided at once; but I could not then determine his
probable nationality.
“Likewise a prisoner, señor?” he inquired, in an indistinct, mumbling
tone, and with a strong accent.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Ah, conspirator. I see; I see!” He nodded his head several times, and
then growled sentences that I could not understand.
While I stared at him he turned away again, and with a soft and stealthy
tread made the entire circuit of the room, feeling of each piece of
furniture it contained, and often pausing for many moments in one spot
as if occupied in deep thought.
At last he approached the bed again, dragging after him a chair in which
he slowly seated himself opposite me.
“Retain your couch, señor,” he muttered. “I shall not disturb you, and
it will soon be morning. You may sleep.”
But I was now fully awake, and had no intention of sleeping while this
strange individual occupied his seat beside me.
“Who are you?” I demanded. “A patriot?”
“Not as you use the term,” he answered, at once. “I am Mexican.”
“Mexican!” I echoed, surprised. “Do you speak English?”
“Truly, señor,” he answered, but his English was as bad as his
Portuguese.
“Why are you here and a prisoner?” I asked.
“I had business with Señor de Pintra. I came from afar to see him, but
found the soldiers inhabiting his house. I am timid, señor, and
suspecting trouble I hid in an out-building, where the soldiers
discovered me. Why I should be arrested I do not know. I am not
conspirator; I am not even Brazilian. I do not care for your politics
whatever. They tell me Miguel de Pintra is dead. Is it true?”
His tone did not seem sincere. But I replied it was true that Dom Miguel
was dead.
“Then I should be allowed to depart. But not so. They tell me the great
Emperor is here, their Dom Pedro, and he will speak to me in the
morning. Is it true?”
This time I detected an anxiety in his voice that told me he had not
suspected the Emperor’s presence until his arrest.
But I answered that Dom Pedro was then occupying de Pintra’s mansion,
together with many of his important ministers.
For a time he remained silent, probably considering the matter with
care. But he was ill at ease, and shifted continually in his chair.
“You are Americano?” he asked at last.
“Yes,” said I.
“I knew, when you ask me for my English. But why does the Emperor arrest
an American?”
I smiled; but there was no object in trying to deceive him.
“I was private secretary to Dom Miguel,” said I, “and they suspect my
late master to have plotted against the Emperor.”
He laughed, unpleasantly.
“It is well your master is dead when they make that suspicion,” said he;
then paused a moment and asked, abruptly, “Did he tell you of the
vault?”
I stared at him. A Mexican, not a conspirator, yet aware of the secret
vault! It occurred to me that it would be well to keep my own counsel,
for a time, at least.
“A vault?” I asked, carelessly, and shook my head.
Again the fellow laughed disagreeably. But my answer seemed to have
pleased him.
“He was sly! Ah, he was sly, the dear Señor Miguel!” he chuckled,
rocking his thin form back and forth upon the chair. “But never mind. It
is nothing. I never pry into secrets, señor. It is not my nature.”
I said nothing and another silent fit seized him. Perhaps five minutes
had passed before he arose and made a second stealthy circuit of the
room, this time examining the barred window with great care. Then he
sighed heavily and came back to his seat.
“What will be your fate, señor?” he asked.
“I shall appeal to our consul at Rio. They must release me,” I answered.
“Good. Very good! They must release you. You are no conspirator—a mere
secretary, and an American.”
I nodded, wishing I might share his confidence. Presently he asked for
my name and residence, and I answered him truly.
“I myself am Manuel Pesta, of the City of Mexico. You must not forget
the name, señor. Manuel Pesta, the clockmaker.”
“I shall not forget,” said I, wondering what he could mean. And a moment
later he startled me by bending forward and asking in an eager tone:
“Have they searched you?”
“Yes.”
“It is my turn soon. This morning.”
He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and fell silent again.
For my part I lay back upon the pillow, yet taking care to face him, and
so we remained until daylight came and gradually drove the shadows from
the little room.
Even then my strange companion did not move. He was indeed a queer
mixture of eager activity and absolute self-repression. Another hour
passed, and then we heard footsteps approaching down the passageway.
With a start Pesta aroused himself and fixed a searching glance upon my
face. Trembling with nervousness he suddenly raised his manacled hands
and removed from his mouth a small object that glittered in the morning
light.
My heart gave a sudden bound. _It was the ring that opened the secret
vault!_
His own agitation prevented his noting my amazement. Thrusting the ring
toward me he whispered, hurriedly:
“Conceal it, quickly, for the love of God! Keep it until I come for
it—I, Manuel Pesta—until I demand it of Robert Harcliffe of New Orleans.
It may be to-day—it may be many days. But I will come, señor, I—”
The bolts of the door shot back and a squad of soldiers entered. Their
sudden appearance barely gave me time to drop the ring into an outside
pocket of my coat. As two of the soldiers seized him I noticed that the
Mexican was trembling violently; but he arose meekly and submitted to be
led from the room. Two others motioned me to follow, and in a few
moments we were ushered into the room where I had had my interview with
the Emperor.
Valcour was standing by the fireplace when we entered, and eyeing the
Mexican with indifference he said to the captain:
“This is the man you found secreted in the out-building?”
“It is, senhor,” answered the captain.
“Have you searched him?”
“Only partially. We took from him this revolver, a knife, and this
purse. There were no papers.”
Valcour took the weapons in his hands and examined them. The revolver, I
could see as he threw back the barrel, was loaded in all six chambers.
The knife he glanced at and turned to place upon the mantel when a
second thought seemingly induced him to open the blades. It was a large,
two-bladed affair, and the bright steel showed that it was sharpened as
finely as a razor. As I watched the Emperor’s spy I chanced to look
toward the Mexican and surprised an expression that nearly resembled
terror upon his haggard face. Perhaps Valcour saw it, too, for he drew a
handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped out the seats in the
handles where the blades lay when the knife was closed. A small stain
appeared upon the linen, and the spy carried the handkerchief to the
window and inspected the stain with interest. While he was thus engaged
the Emperor entered the room, followed by his ministers, and seating
himself at the table calmly proceeded to light a cigar. Evidently he had
just breakfasted, for he had an appearance of content that indicated a
comfortable condition.
Valcour, returning from the window, first saluted the Emperor with great
deference, and then addressed the Mexican.
“Why did you kill that man last evening and sever his hand with your
knife?”
The Mexican gazed at him in horror.
“I—señor, as God hears me, I—”
“Tell me why!” said Valcour calmly.
The fellow glared at him as if fascinated. Then he threw his hands, all
manacled as they were, high above his head, and with a scream that
caused even the Emperor to start, fell upon the floor in a swoon.
Valcour turned him over with his foot.
“Search him!” he commanded.
The men were thorough. Not a shred of clothing escaped their eyes. And
after they had finished the detective himself made an examination.
Dom Pedro was evidently much interested. Without any explanation further
than Valcour’s accusation, all present understood that the Mexican was
charged with the murder of the man found in the shrubbery and therefore
he must either have the ring upon his person or had deposited it in some
secret place.
He lay unconscious after the search had ended, and Valcour, after a
moment’s reflection, ordered the men to carry him back to the room where
he had passed the night, to guard him well, and to send for a physician.
The Emperor relighted his cigar, which had gone out, and in the interval
I heard the sound of a troupe of horse galloping up the drive. There was
no mistaking the clank of sabers, and Dom Pedro leaned forward with an
expectant look upon his face, in which the others joined.
Then the door burst open and a man entered and knelt before the Emperor.
I could scarcely restrain a cry of surprise as I saw him.
It was Francisco Paola.