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 119began 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 120opened 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.
121Very 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.”
122“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............