ONE MYSTERY SOLVED
“Compose yourself, my dear Robert,” said Dom Miguel, pressing my hands
in both his own. “It is no ghost you see, for—thanks be to God!—I am
still alive.”
I had no words to answer him. In all my speculations as to the result of
Madam Izabel’s terrible deed, the fate of the records and the mysterious
opening of the vault without its key, I never had conceived the idea
that Dom Miguel might have escaped his doom. And to find him here, not
only alive, but apparently in good health and still busy with the
affairs of the Revolution, conveyed so vivid a shock to my nerves that I
could but dumbly stare into my old friend’s kind eyes and try to imagine
that I beheld a reality and not the vision of a disordered brain.
Bastro assisted me by laughing loudly and giving me a hearty slap across
the shoulders.
“Wake up, Senhor Harcliffe!” said he; “and hereafter have more faith in
Providence and the luck that follows in the wake of true patriotism. We
could ill afford to lose our chief at this juncture.”
“But how did it happen?” I gasped, still filled with wonder. “What
earthly power could have opened that awful vault when its key was miles
and miles away?”
“The earthly power was wielded by a very ordinary little woman,” said
Dom Miguel, with his old gentle smile. “When you rode away from the
house on that terrible morning Lesba came and unlocked my prison,
setting me free.”
“But how?” I demanded, still blindly groping for the truth.
“By means of a duplicate key that she had constantly carried in her
bosom.”
I drew a long breath.
“Did you know of this key, sir?” I asked, after a pause, which my
companions courteously forbore to interrupt.
“I did not even suspect its existence,” replied Dom Miguel. “But it
seems that Francisco Paola, with his usual thoughtfulness, took an
impression in wax of my ring, without my knowledge, and had an exact
duplicate prepared. I think he foresaw that an emergency might arise
when another key might be required; but it would not do to let any one
know of his action, for the mere knowledge that such a duplicate existed
would render us all suspicious and uneasy. So he kept the matter secret
even from me, and gave the ring into the keeping of his sister, who was
his only confidante, and whom he had requested me to accept as an inmate
of my household, under the plea that I am her legal guardian. This was
done in order to have her always at hand in case the interests of the
conspiracy demanded immediate use of the duplicate key. That Francisco
trusted her more fully than he has any other living person is obvious;
and that she was worthy of such trust the girl has fully proved.”
“Then you were released at once?” I asked; “and you suffered little from
your confinement?”
“My anguish was more mental than of a bodily nature,” Dom Miguel
answered, sadly; “but I was free to meet Paola when he arrived at my
house, and to assist him and Lesba in removing the contents of the vault
to a safer place.”
“But why, knowing that his sister held a duplicate key, did the Minister
send me in chase of the ring Madam Izabel had stolen?” I demanded.
“Because it was necessary to keep the matter from the Emperor until the
records had been removed,” explained de Pintra. “Indeed, Francisco was
on his way to us that morning to insist upon our abandoning the vault,
after having given us warning, as you will remember, the night before,
that the clever hiding-place of our treasure and papers was no longer a
secret.”
“I remember that he himself revealed the secret to the Emperor,” I
remarked, dryly.
“And acted wisely in doing so, I have no doubt,” retorted Bastro, who
still stood beside us. “But come, gentlemen, breakfast must be ready,
and I have a vigorous appetite. Be good enough to join me.”
He led the way to an inner room, and de Pintra and I followed, his arm
in mine.
It seemed to me, now that I regarded him more attentively, that my old
friend was less erect than formerly, that there were new and deep
furrows upon his gentle face, and that his eyes had grown dim and
sunken. But that the old, dauntless spirit remained I never doubted.
As we entered the breakfast-room I saw a form standing at the window—the
form of a little man clothed neatly in black. He turned to greet us with
pale, expressionless features and drooping eyelids.
It was Captain Mazanovitch.
“Good morning, Senhor Harcliffe,” he said, in his soft voice; and I
wondered how he had recognized me without seeming to open his eyes. “And
what news does our noble Captain Bastro bring of the Revolution?” he
continued, with a slight note of interest in his voice that betrayed his
eagerness.
While we breakfasted Bastro related the events of the morning, and told
how the news he had received of the activity of the Uruguayan guards, in
connection with the impossibility of learning from Rio what Fonseca had
accomplished, had induced him to disband his men.
“But can you again assemble them, if you should wish to?” inquired Dom
Miguel.
“Easily,” answered our host; but he did not explain how.
While he and Dom Miguel discussed the fortunes of the Revolution I made
bold to ask Captain Mazanovitch how he came to be in this isolated spot.
“I was warned by the Minister of Police to leave Rio,” answered the
detective; “for it appears my—my friend Valcour would have been
suspicious had not Paola promised to arrest me with the others. I have
been here since yesterday.”
“Your friend Valcour is a most persistent foe to the Cause,” said I,
thoughtfully. “It would have pleased you to watch him struggle with
Paola for the mastery, while the Emperor was by. Ah, how Paola and
Valcour hate each other!”
Mazanovitch turned his passionless face toward me, and it seemed as
though a faint smile flickered for an instant around his mouth. But he
made no answer.
After breakfast Pedro was sent back to Cuyaba for news, being instructed
to await there the repairing of the telegraph wires, and to communicate
with us as soon as he had word from Rio.
The man had no sooner disappeared in the forest than, as we stood in the
roadway looking after him, a far-off patter of horses’ feet was
distinctly heard approaching from the north.
Silently we stood, gazing toward the curve in the road while the
hoof-beats grew louder and louder, till suddenly two horses swept around
the edge of the forest and bore down upon us.
Then to the surprise of all we recognized the riders to be Francisco
Paola and his sister Lesba, and they rode the same horses which the
evening before had been attached to the carriage that had brought me
from de Pintra’s.
As they dashed up both brother and sister sprang from the panting
animals, and the former said, hurriedly:
“Quick, comrades! Into the house and barricade the doors. The Uruguayans
are upon us!”
True enough; now that their own horses had come to a halt we plainly
heard the galloping of the troop of pursuers. With a single impulse we
ran to the house and entered, when my first task was to assist Bastro in
placing the shutters over the windows and securing them with stout bars.
The doors were likewise fastened and barred, and then Mazanovitch
brought us an armful of rifles and an ample supply of ammunition.
“Do you think it wise to resist?” asked de Pintra, filling with
cartridges the magazine of a rifle.
A blow upon the door prevented an answer.
“Open, in the name of the Emperor!” cried an imperious voice.
“That is my gallant friend Captain de Souza,” said Lesba, with a little
laugh.
I looked at the strange girl curiously. She had seated herself upon a
large chest, and with her hands clasped about one knee was watching us
load our weapons with as much calmness as if no crisis of our fate was
impending.
“Be kind to him, Lesba,” remarked Paola, tucking a revolver underneath
his arm while he rolled and lighted a cigarette. “Think of his grief at
being separated from you.”
She laughed again, with real enjoyment, and shook the tangled locks of
hair from her eyes.
“Perhaps if I accept his attentions he will marry me, and I shall
escape,” she rejoined, lightly.
“Open, I command you!” came the voice from without.
“Really,” said Lesba, looking upon us brightly, “it was too funny for
anything. Twice this morning the brave captain nearly succeeded in
capturing me. He might have shot me with ease, but called out that he
could not bear to injure the woman he loved!”
“Does he indeed love you, Lesba?” asked de Pintra, gently.
“So he says, Uncle. But it must have been a sudden inspiration, for I
never saw him until yesterday.”
“Nevertheless, I am glad to learn of this,” resumed Dom Miguel; “for
there is no disguising the fact that they outnumber us and are better
armed, and it is good to know that whatever happens to us, you will be
protected.”
“Whatever happens to you will happen to me,” declared the girl,
springing to her feet. “Give me a gun, Uncle!”
Now came another summons from de Souza.
“Listen!” he called; “the house is surrounded and you cannot escape us.
Therefore it will be well for you to surrender and rely upon the
Emperor’s mercy.”
“I fear we may not rely on that with any security,” drawled Paola, who
had approached the door. “Pray tell us, my good de Souza, what are your
orders respecting us?”
“To arrest you at all hazards,” returned the captain, sternly.
“And then?” persisted the Minister, leaning against the door and
leisurely puffing his cigarette.
But another voice was now heard—Valcour’s—crying:
“Open at once, or we will batter down the door.”
Before any could reply Mazanovitch pushed Paola aside and placed his
lips to the keyhole.
“Hear me, Valcour,” he said, in a soft yet penetrating tone, “we are
able to defend ourselves until assistance arrives. But rather than that
blood should be shed without necessity, we will surrender ourselves if
we have your assurance of safe convoy to Rio.”
For a moment there was silence. Then, “How came _you_ here?” demanded
the spy, in accents that betrayed his agitation.
“That matters little,” returned Mazanovitch. “Have we your assurance of
safety?”
We heard the voices of Valcour and de Souza in angry dispute; then the
captain shouted: “Stand aside!” and there came a furious blow upon the
door that shattered the panels.
Bastro raised his rifle and fired. A cry answered the shot, but
instantly a second crash followed. The bars were torn from their
sockets, the splintered door fell inward, and before we could recover
from the surprise we were looking into the muzzles of a score of
carbines leveled upon us.
“Very well,” said Paola, tossing the end of his cigarette through the
open doorway. “We are prisoners of war. Peste! my dear Captain; how
energetic your soldiers are!”
A moment later we were disarmed, and then, to our surprise, de Souza
ordered our feet and our hands to be securely bound. Only Lesba escaped
this indignity, for the captain confined her in a small room adjoining
our own and placed a guard at the door.
During this time Valcour stood by, sullen and scowling, his hands
clinched nervously and his lips curling with scorn.
“You might gag us, my cautious one,” said Paola, addressing the officer,
who had planted himself, stern and silent, in the center of the room
while his orders were being executed.
“So I will, Senhor Paola; but in another fashion,” was the grim reply.
He drew a paper from his breast and continued, “I will read to you my
orders from his Majesty, the Emperor Dom Pedro of Brazil, dispatched
from the station at Cuyaba as he was departing for his capital to quell
the insurrection.”
He paused and slowly unfolded the paper, while every eye—save that,
perhaps, of Mazanovitch—was fixed upon him with intent gaze.
“‘You are instructed to promptly arrest the traitor Francisco Paola,
together with his sister, Lesba Paola, and whatever revolutionists you
may be able to take, and to execute them one and all without formal
trial on the same day that they are captured, as enemies of the Empire
and treasonable conspirators plotting the downfall of the Government.’”
The captain paused a moment, impressively, and refolded the document.
“It is signed by his Majesty’s own hand, and sealed with the royal
seal,” he said.