Now, Willett, have the door of my limousine widened to accommodate this wheel chair. I want a dozen men to insure our privacy, and to keep the way clear. No one not in our confidence must see us depart."

Hitt gasped. "But--Carmen--"

"Goes with us," returned Ames. "I can not spare her for a moment.

Madam Beaubien will have charge of the house during our absence. We will be back here, weather favorable, in three weeks--or not at all!"

"Yet, she will know--"

"Nothing. I take the trip, ostensibly, for the change; to get away from those who are hounding me here; for recuperation--anything! Go, now, and make ready!" The man's eyes glistened like live coals, and his sunken cheeks took on a feverish glow.

That night the _Cossack_, enveloped in gloom, steamed noiselessly out of New York harbor, and turned her prow to the South. And when she had entered the high sea, Captain McCall from his bridge aloft sent a message down to the waiting engineer:

"Full speed ahead!"

CHAPTER 20

Cartagena's slumber of centuries had been broken by nearly four years of civil warfare. But on the day that the lookout in the abandoned convent of Santa Candelaria, on the summit of La Popa, flashed the message down into the old city that a steam yacht had appeared on the northern horizon, she was preparing to sink back again into quiet dreams. For peace was being concluded among the warring political factions. The country lay devastated and blood-soaked; but the cause of Christ had triumphed, and the Church still sat supreme in the councils of Bogota. Cartagena was _en fete_; the last of the political agitators would be executed on the morrow. And so the lookout's message was received with indifference, even though he embellished it with the comment that the boat must be privately owned, as no ships of the regular lines were due to arrive that day.

Quietly the graceful craft swept down past Tierra Bomba and into the Boca Chica, between the ancient forts of San Fernando and San Jose, and came to anchor out in the beautiful harbor, a half mile from the ancient gate of the clock. A few curious idlers along the sh.o.r.e watched it and commented on its perfect lines. And the numerous officials of the port lazily craned their necks at it, and yawningly awaited the arrival of the skiff that was immediately lowered and headed for the pier.

The tall American who stepped from the little boat and came at once to them to show his papers, easily satisfied their curiosity, for many tourists of the millionaire cla.s.s dropped anchor in Cartagena's wonderful harbor, and came ash.o.r.e to wander among the decaying mementos of her glorious past. And this boat was not a stranger to these waters. On the yacht itself, as they glanced again toward it, there was no sign of life. Even the diminishing volume of smoke that rose from its funnels evidenced the owner's intention of spending some time in that romantic spot.

From the dock, Hitt pa.s.sed through the old gateway in the ma.s.sive wall, quickly crossed the _Plaza de Coches_, and lost himself in the gay throngs that were entering upon the day's festivities.

Occasionally he dropped into wine shops and little stores, and lingered about to catch stray bits of gossip. Then he slowly made his way up past the Cathedral and into the _Plaza de Simon Bolivar_.

For a while, sitting on a bench in front of the equestrian statue of the famous _Libertador_, he watched the pa.s.sing crowds. From time to time his glance strayed over toward the Cathedral. Once he rose, and started in that direction; then came back and resumed his seat. It was evident that he was driven hard, and yet knew not just what course to pursue.

Finally he jumped to his feet and went over to a little cigar store which had caught his eye. He bent over the soiled gla.s.s case and selected several cigars from the shabby stock. Putting one of them into his mouth, he lighted it, and then casually nodded to a powerfully built man standing near.

The latter turned to the proprietor and made some comment in Spanish.

Hitt immediately replied to it in the same tongue. The man flushed with embarra.s.sment; then doffed his hat and offered an apology. "I forget, senor," he said, "that so many Americans speak our language."

Hitt held out his hand and laughed heartily at the incident. Then his eye was attracted by a chain which the man wore.

"May I examine it?" he asked, bending toward it.

"_Cierto_, _senor_," returned the man cordially. "It came from an Indian grave up in Guamoco. I am a _guaquero_--grave digger--by profession; Jorge Costal, by name."

Hitt glanced up at the man. Somehow he seemed to be familiar with that name. Somewhere he seemed to have heard it. But on whose lips?

Carmen's? "Suppose," he said, in his excellent Spanish, "that we cross the _Plaza_ to yonder wine shop. You may be able to tell me some of the history of this interesting old town. And--it would be a great favor, senor."

The man bowed courteously and accepted the invitation. A few moments later they sat at a little table, with a bottle between them, commenting on the animated scene in the street without.

"Peace will be concluded to-day, they say," reflected Hitt, by way of introduction.

"Yes," returned the man grimly, "there is but little more blood to let. That flows to-morrow."

"Political agitators?" Hitt suggested.

The man's face darkened. "Only one," he muttered. "The other is--"

He stopped and eyed Hitt furtively. But the American manifested only a casual interest.

"Their names?" he asked nonchalantly.

"They were posted this morning," said the man. "Amado Jesus Fanor and Jose de Rincon."

Hitt started, but held himself. "Who--who are they?" he asked in a controlled voice.

"A liberal general and an ex-priest."

"Ex-priest?" exclaimed Hitt.

The man looked at him wonderingly. "Yes, senor. Why?"

"Oh, nothing--nothing. It is the custom to--to shoot ex-priests down here, eh?"

"_Caramba!_ No! But this man--senor, why do you ask?"

"Well--it struck me as curious--that's all," returned Hitt, at a loss for a suitable answer. "You didn't happen to know these men, I presume?"

"_Na_, _senor_, you seek to involve me. Who are you, that you ask such questions of a stranger?" The man reflected the suspicious caution of these troublous times.

"Why, _amigo_, it is of no concern to me," replied Hitt easily, flicking the ashes from his cigar. "I once knew a fellow by that name.

Met him here years ago. Learned that he afterward went to Simiti. But I--"

"Senor!" cried the man, starting up. "Are you the _Americano_, the man who explored?"

"I am," said Hitt, bending closer to him. "And we are well met, for you are Don Jorge, who knew Padre Jose de Rincon in Simiti, no?"

The man cast a timid glance around the room. "Senor," he whispered, "we must not say these things here! I leave you now--"

"Not yet!" Hitt laid a hand upon his. "Where is he?" he demanded in a low voice.

"In San Fernando, senor."

"And how long?"

"A year, I think. He was first three years in the prison in Cartagena.

But the Bish--"

"Eh? Don Wenceslas had him removed to San Fernando?"

The man nodded.