DR. BAROSA
As I made my way through the crowded rooms with the object of finding
the viscontesse and making sure of an invitation to her house, I saw
Miralda and Sampayo sitting together. They did not see me and I stood a
moment watching them.
He appeared to be urging her to do something and his eyes were
insistent, compelling and passionate. There was no doubt that he felt
for her all the animal love of which such a man is capable.
But there was no answering light in her eyes. She was passive, cold
and indifferent; and the emotion he stirred was more like fear than
anything.
Instinctively I hated the man and felt an unholy glow of gladness at
the thought that at a word from me any hold or influence he could have
over her would snap like a rotten twig.
My thoughts slipped back to that old time in South Africa; and in
place of the swaggering major of cavalry, with his breast covered
with orders, I saw him as I had seen him there, a broken-down
tatter-de-mallion member of the hungry brigade at Koomarte Port;
general sponge, reputed spy and acknowledged rascal, passing as a
Frenchman under the name of Jean Dufoire; one of the many scamps who
infested the border between the Transvaal and the Portuguese Colony,
ripe for any scoundrelism from theft to throat-slitting.
This was the story I knew about him. When old Kruger was bundling off
his private fortune to Europe, this Dufoire managed to get hold of some
secret information about one of the consignments and joined with three
other men to steal it. They were successful. The two men in charge of
it were found murdered; and the money, said to be nearly £50,000, was
missing.
But that was not all. Not content with a share of the loot, Dufoire
first picked a quarrel with one of his companions and shot him
treacherously, and then cheated the other two of the greater part of
the money and disappeared.
The facts came out when the two men were afterwards captured. One of
them died; and just before his death confessed everything, in the
hope that the British would take the matter up and secure Dufoire’s
punishment. Many men were aware that I knew Dufoire by sight; and when
the war was over and I was leaving Capetown for home, the other scamp,
a Corsican named Lucien Prelot, sought me out to get news of him. He
swore by all the saints in the calendar that if he could ever find
Dufoire he would drive a knife between his ribs. He begged me on his
knees to let him know if I ever met Dufoire again; and vowed, Corsican
as he was, that he would go from one end of the world to the other in
his quest for revenge.
Of course I would not have anything to do with such an affair; but
he managed in some way to ferret out my address in England and wrote
me two or three letters urging the same request. And then one day he
turned up in London to tell me that he had made money on the Rand, that
he was in Europe searching for Dufoire, and that he could and would pay
me any sum I chose to ask if I would tell him where to find his enemy.
That was about a year before my father’s death; and every month had
brought me a letter from him, in the hope that I could send news.
These letters were addressed from various parts of Europe where he
was pursuing his search, with the deadly intensity of his unslaked and
unslakable thirst for revenge.
And while Prelot was hunting for a Frenchman of the name of Jean
Dufoire, the scoundrel himself had been strutting it in the Portuguese
capital as Francisco Sampayo, major of cavalry. He had purchased his
position, of course, with the fortune he had acquired by robbery,
bloodshed and treachery; and had found some means to use it to obtain
the promise of Miralda’s hand in marriage.
That some underhand means had been employed to force her consent I was
certain; as certain as that I could scare the brute out of the country
with half a dozen words. But before I spoke them I felt that I must
learn more of the facts.
“Good evening, Mr. Donnington,” The voice broke in upon my reverie, and
I turned to find Dr. Barosa at my elbow.
“Ah, good evening, Dr. Barosa,” I replied, as we shook hands.
“You were looking very thoughtful, sir; I am afraid I disturbed you.”
“I have reason to be thoughtful, doctor. I am more than a little
perplexed by the position in which I find myself.”
“I shall be delighted to be of any service, if I can. Would you care
for a chat here, or may I do myself the pleasure of calling upon you at
your rooms?”
“Both, by all means. I should like a word or two with you, and the
sooner the better; but I shall also be glad to see you at my rooms at
any time.”
He thanked me and led the way to a spot where we could talk privately.
“I’ll go straight to the point, doctor: that is our English way. I have
had a conversation with Contesse Inglesia this evening, and I wish to
disabuse your mind thoroughly of any thought that I am a spy.”
“My dear sir, I do not think it.”
“I don’t wish you only to think it, I want you to know. You’ll
appreciate the difference. I am ready to give you any proofs you can
suggest, to answer any questions you like to put, and to back every
word I say with facts. I am tremendously in earnest about this. And
when you have thoroughly convinced yourself, I wish you to convince any
one and every one associated with you, who may be inclined to suspect
me.”
“Your reasons, Mr. Donnington?”
“Must surely be obvious. Last night’s business showed me the length to
which some of your more reckless friends are prepared to carry mistakes
of the kind; and I desire to be able to walk the streets of the city
without expecting to be shot or knifed at the next corner.”
“I do not doubt you, and certainly do not presume to ask for any facts;
but if you would prefer to make any statement, I am of course ready to
listen.”
I replied to that by giving him a fairly full account of myself, and
then added: “Of course I am aware that my statement, unsupported by
evidence, could easily be made up by any one who was here as a spy. I
suggest, therefore, that you shall get evidence of my identity. The
best and simplest thing I can suggest at the moment is that I give
you the addresses of various firms who have photographed me from time
to time, and that you send your agents to them to get photographs of
Ralph Donnington which they have taken. You can then send some one to
my place at Tapworth for the photographs to be identified; you can have
them shown also to my bankers in London; and to any one of a dozen
people who know all about me.”
“I accept your word, I assure you,” he said, with a wave of the hand.
“But that is just what I do not wish you to do. You must be in a
position to say you know, and to table the evidence;” and with that I
wrote down the names and addresses and insisted upon his taking them.
“As the matter is naturally pressing you will of course use the
telegraph, and if money will expedite your inquiries I will very gladly
pay any sum that is necessary. I am, fortunately for myself, a man of
considerable means, and not likely to spare money to put an end to this
intolerable suspicion.”
“You have invited me to question you. There is one point. You are a
friend of M. Volheno?”
“That gentleman, as I have told you, was brought to our place, Tapworth
Hall, by my sister’s husband, M. Stefan Madrillo, some years ago, and
when I came over here about these concessions, Madrillo advised me to
see him. Only in that degree is he a friend of mine.”
“These concessions have been spoken about, Mr. Donnington, with unusual
freedom.”
“That is not my doing. M. Volheno gave a somewhat lurid account of them
to the Marquis de Pinsara, as a man likely to be able to help in the
matter; and the latter appears to have told all his acquaintances. I
shall not be in the least surprised to find the matter in the papers
in the morning. Of course it is very ridiculous and calculated to
frustrate my object entirely. But it is not my doing, I assure you.”
“Yet M. Volheno might have an object?”
“You mean to use them to conceal some other purpose for my visit?”
“And you give me your word that you have no other purpose except to
obtain these concessions?”
“Contesse Inglesia put much the same question, and I will answer it
as I answered her. I pledge my word that I have no sort or kind of
interest in the political affairs of your country otherwise than as
they may be incidentally connected with these concessions.”
“Is that an entirely frank answer, Mr. Donnington?”
“Any suspicion underlying that remark I have already given you the
means of dissipating. I declare to you, on my honour as an English
gentleman, that I have none but absolutely private and personal reasons
for coming to Lisbon.”
“You have discussed political matters with M. Volheno?”
“Certainly not in any detail. He told me the city was in a condition
of unrest, and that there were all sorts of more or less dangerous
combinations against the Government. But this was merely as a reason
for the warning he gave me against being in the streets alone after
dark.”
“You did not heed that warning?”
“No. I was disposed to smile at it. But I learnt my lesson last night,
and shall profit by it in the future.”
Barosa sat a few moments thinking. “I will have these inquiries made,
Mr. Donnington,” he said then; “but I have no doubt whatever of the
result. I will make it my personal affair to see that you have no
trouble. In point of fact we already have proof that you are what
you say. Mademoiselle Dominguez and her mother met you in Paris last
spring, and they of course know you to be Mr. Donnington.”
Why did he want to drag Miralda into the matter?
“I have intentionally kept her name out of our conversation, Dr.
Barosa,” I answered with a smile, “and I still wish you to make your
own investigations.”
“The Contesse Inglesia is disposed to think that your meeting with
Mademoiselle Dominguez is connected with your presence here now.”
“The contesse is a very charming and delightful woman, doctor, and
being a woman is likely to jump to conclusions.”
“You will understand, of course, that any such purpose would concern
us. She is a friend of our cause, and betrothed to a man to whom we are
under great obligations, Major Sampayo.”
“I will ask you, if you please, not to give me any information about
either your friends or your objects. For the rest, I shall be glad to
know when you have satisfied yourself about me; and afterwards, if you
wish, to see you at any time as a friend. But no politics, mind.”
He took this as a hint that the subject should be dropped, and he
switched off to a topic I was always ready to talk about, yachting
and yachts in general, and my own boat in particular. He was a keen
yachtsman, and when I suggested that he should find time to have a run
on the _Stella_, he accepted the invitation quite eagerly.
As a matter of fact, I rather liked him. He had treated me quite
candidly; and I was convinced he was satisfied that, whatever might
be my real object in coming to the city, it had no connexion with
the political situation. His politics were no concern of mine. I was
absolutely indifferent whether the King of Portugal was Dom Carlos or
Dom Miguel; and it was no part of my duty to tell Volheno or any one
else that this keen-eyed smooth-voiced, doctor, who was accepted as a
loyalist in this most loyalist of gatherings, was in reality a secret
agent of the Pretender endeavouring to exploit this National League in
the interests of his master.
The only point where the thing threatened to affect me was in regard
to Sampayo. Barosa had admitted that they were under great obligations
to him, and I read this to mean that some of old Oom Paul’s money was
finding its way into the coffers of the cause.
If, in return for the money, Sampayo had stipulated for the support of
Barosa and the rest in regard to Miralda, there might be trouble. But
I was so confident of being able to bring that scoundrel to his knees
that I could view even such an alliance without concern.
What I had to do first was to get at Miralda’s own feelings and the
reasons behind her engagement, and for that I must do my best to
secure her mother as an ally.
The viscontesse greeted me with a smile and a shake of the head.
“You’ve neglected me shamefully, Mr. Donnington. Here’s nearly the
whole evening gone and we’ve scarcely had a word together.”
“I hope we shall have many opportunities. I assure you I have not had a
minute to myself the whole evening, and after all a place like this is
not the best in the world for a real friendly talk.”
“When can you spare time to come and see us?”
“May I come?”
“May you come, indeed? Why of course you not only may, but must. Now
when?”
“Shall you be at home to-morrow?”
“I’m always at home. Come in the afternoon. I’ve such a lot to tell
you. I suppose you’ve heard about Miralda and Major Sampayo. I was just
going to tell you about it this evening when that wretched old marquis
carried you away.”
“You mean your daughter’s engagement? Yes. She herself told me of it.”
“Do you think him a handsome man? They call him one of the handsomest
men in the army. And he’s very rich, too. There were heaps of women
setting their caps at him.”
“A man who is both rich and handsome is generally labelled desirable.
At least in London and presumably in Lisbon also.”
“You will find that out before you have been here long. Do you think
our girls pretty?”
“Some of them are much more than pretty,” I agreed.
“Would you like an introduction to any of them? I’ll do it for you in a
moment.”
“I am too pleased to be where I am to wish anything of the kind.”
“Ah, you always knew how to say nice things, Mr. Donnington. I often
think of that time in Paris, and sometimes I--do you know what I used
to think?”
“If I was the subject of your thoughts I trust they were pleasant ones.”
“You know an old woman--I call myself old, but I’m offended in an
instant if any one else does--an old woman, especially the mother of a
pretty girl--you think Miralda pretty, don’t you?”
“By far the prettiest in the rooms to-night.”
“Well, a mother gets into the way of thinking that when a young man
pays her attention, it’s vicarious, you know. A woman’s never too old
to relish attentions, of course, but I suppose you know that. But in
Paris I had my suspicions.”
“Of whom, viscontesse?”
“Of you, Mr. Donnington. Perhaps I should say they were rather hopes
than suspicions. You were a great favourite of mine, I’ll admit that.
At the same time, I wasn’t quite sure that some of the nice things you
said and did were solely on my account. But that’s all over now, of
course--over and done with;” and she smiled and fanned herself slowly,
looking at me askance through half-closed lids, as if to watch the
effect of her words.
Was she warning or reproaching me? Or both? What answer did she expect?
“I trust nothing has occurred in the interval to cause me to forfeit
your good opinion, madame.”
The fan stopped a moment, as if she detected the double meaning of my
words. “Four months is a long time to take to travel a thousand miles
or so. I had hoped to see you in Lisbon.”
“I think you know that I was called from Paris suddenly by my father’s
illness. He lay for many weeks between life and death, and it was
absolutely impossible for me to leave him even for a day. I have come
here at the first possible moment.”
The fan stopped again, abruptly this time, and she lowered it slowly
until it rested upon her lap; her look was very serious and her eyes
full of concern.
“It is only these--these concessions which have brought you here
now, Mr. Donnington?” she replied after a pause, her tone and look
suggesting some degree of nervous doubt of what my reply would be.
I returned her look and framed my answer carefully. “I have been very
careful to let every one know that--every one else.”
She bit her lips and frowned, the concern in her eyes deepened, and
with a half-suppressed sigh she turned away and began to fan herself
slowly again. I think she understood my meaning, but before she
could reply Miralda came up on Major Sampayo’s arm. As she saw them
approaching, the viscontesse started and glanced quickly and nervously
at me with a look I could not read.
I rose to give my seat to Miralda, and her mother sent Sampayo to find
the visconte as she wished to go home. Then she burst into one of her
garrulous speeches and did not cease speaking until Sampayo returned
with the visconte, when she hurried both husband and Miralda away on
the plea of an overpowering headache. And Sampayo went with them.
I was both perplexed and excited as the result of that short
conversation. It was possible to read so much both in her words and
in her manner; and I was puzzling over her real meaning when Sampayo
re-entered the room, glanced round hurriedly, and then came straight
across to me.
By the heavy frown in which his brows were drawn together, his air of
decision, and the expression of his eyes when he saw me, I guessed that
he had at last succeeded in remembering me and had decided to lose no
time in finding out what I knew about him.
I had been watching him without looking up, and when I did so, his look
changed and he forced a smile: a very poor effort to appear at ease.
“You know I was puzzling where we could have met, Mr. Donnington. I
have settled it at last. It was in South Africa, and I wish to have a
word or two with you.”