"No; I bring this."

He took his hand from his pocket and the barrel of an automatic pistol glinted in the light.

Gomez flinched, but recovered his calm with a quickness that showed Walthew he had a dangerous antagonist.

"Push your chair back from that open drawer and then keep still!" he ordered.

Gomez obeyed, and Walthew sat down on the edge of the table, where, if necessary, he could spring up more quickly than from a chair. Besides, the position helped him to keep both Gomez and the door in sight.

"You are uselessly dramatic, senor," Gomez remarked with a forced sneer.

"You dare not use the pistol, and I am not to be frightened by so cheap a trick."

Walthew did not put down the weapon.

"Rather stale, but it has served its purpose by stopping you from calling out, and that's all I wanted to begin with. Now I'm going to show you how we stand."

"Your position strikes me as very weak."

"Well," said Walthew coolly, "I don't know. There are some chances in my favor."

"Not many, I think. A shot or a call from me would lead to your immediate arrest."

Walthew lowered the pistol.

"I'm not going to shoot and you won't call. One of your sentries is smoking cigarettes, with a wiry liberator ready to put his knife into him, and something would happen to the other before he could throw up his rifle. Then, a number of my friends are waiting to seize the gate."

"What would they gain? They could not hold the building. In a few minutes the soldiers would arrive."

"Just so. Still, they'd have a few minutes, and there's reason for believing they're not fond of you. Then, I don't mean to be made a prisoner and, if I'm forced to, I'll shoot straight."

This was not an idle threat. Walthew's nerves were steady, and he felt a rancorous hatred of the man. He had been guilty of unspeakable cruelties, he had carried off an American girl, and he now had Grahame in his power. Walthew's face was pale, but his lips were firmly set, and there was an ominous gleam in his eyes. Gomez began to grow uneasy.

"However," Walthew went on, "the important point is that the first shot starts the revolution. My friends won't have much trouble with the sentries at the door, but if your soldiers try to break in afterward, it will rouse the town. You may take this for granted, because you must see that I'd make sure of being supported outside before I ventured here."

Gomez pondered. The American's position was certainly strong. The lad was not a rash fool, and his having made the venture proved his statement about the likelihood of a revolution to be correct; moreover, Gomez had other reasons for not questioning it. As he looked up, Walthew made a warning gesture and Gomez heard footsteps outside.

"Don't move!" said Walthew in a low, tense voice. "If that fellow comes in it will make trouble for both of us. You'd better think how you're going to keep him out!"

The secretary's lips twitched, but he sat motionless. The steps drew nearer, echoing down the pa.s.sage; in another moment the man outside would reach the door. Walthew held his breath; but the steps continued and pa.s.sed. Then they grew fainter, and Walthew saw his antagonist's pose relax; the strain had told on him. Gomez was weakening and the game was nearly won.

"What do you want?" the secretary asked.

"An order for Grahame's release."

"Impossible! My signature would make me responsible to the President."

"You'll take a bigger responsibility if you refuse; the men I left waiting will begin the trouble if I'm not outside very soon. You haven't got your master's orders yet, and the liberators have headed his messenger off. I guess you'll have to answer for it if you spoil his plans. Remember you'll have to face a revolution unless you let Grahame out."

Gomez was silent for a few moments and then made a sign of acquiescence.

"Very well," he said, and pulling his chair to the table began to write.

Then he gave Walthew the paper. "Are you satisfied?"

"Not quite," said Walthew, glancing over the message. "Ring for one of your men and send it off with this note." He handed both papers to Gomez. "Order him to deliver them at once!"

When the man came in, Walthew was sitting carelessly in a chair, as if nothing unusual had been going on. His right hand, however, was gripping the pistol in his jacket pocket.

"I'll wait here for five minutes to give him a start. Seems to me that would be safer," he said when the orderly had left them.

He was relieved when he thought he could get up, for the strain had been heavy, and he was feeling rather limp, but he walked steadily to the door and did not quicken his steps until he reached the stairs. It was with tingling nerves that he came to the outer gate; but the sentries let him pa.s.s, and when he had gone a short distance, three or four peons who were hanging about turned and followed him. He was outside in the friendly darkness, but he had still to leave the town.

CHAPTER x.x.x

THE ESCAPE

Walthew waited for the peons, and then turned toward _calle Pinastro_, where he had arranged to meet Grahame. He had now three companions whom he thought he could trust, but they were unarmed, except for their knives. Gomez had sent the order for Grahame's release, but if he could rearrest him and seize Walthew without causing a tumult, he would do so.

They had only five or six minutes' start. It did not look as if they could get out of the town in time, and Walthew felt fiercely impatient.

For all that, he stopped at the corner of a street when one of the others touched him.

There was a lighted cafe near by, and a girl stood on the pavement near its open front. She was dressed very plainly in white, with a dark shawl fastened round her head, like a peasant girl, but he felt a sudden thrill as she turned toward him. Although he could not see her very well, he knew it was Blanca. When he cautiously crossed the street she drew him back into the shadow, but he saw her look of relief.

"You have succeeded!" she said softly. "Where is Mr. Grahame?"

"I am to meet him at Ramon Silva's."

"You cannot go this way; there are two _rurales_ farther on. But it would be dangerous to turn back now."

She put her hand on his arm, as if to detain him while she considered what to do, and Walthew looked about, knowing that he could trust her knowledge of the town. The street was narrow and dark except where the light from the cafe shone across it. A few citizens sat round the small tables, and several shadowy figures loitered in the gloom outside.

Walthew thought they had come with the girl, but there was nothing in their att.i.tude to suggest that they had any particular business in the neighborhood, and his own followers had stopped at the corner.

Suddenly a clatter of hoofs broke out. Some one was riding fast toward them. Walthew felt Blanca's hand tighten warningly on his arm as she drew back a pace or two. The sound grew louder; there was a hoa.r.s.e shout like a sentry's challenge, and an answer which Walthew imagined satisfied the _rurales_ on guard; and then a mounted man rode into the stream of light.

The mule was foul with sweat and dust, and a trickle of blood ran down its shoulder; the rider's face was pale and set. Walthew's eyes rested on him for only a second, but he knew the fellow was English or American. There was an angry cry in the background, and a stealthy figure, outlined against a blank, white wall, crossed the street. The mounted man was obviously the President's messenger; but Walthew, having seen his grim, tired look, and the way he drove the worn-out mule furiously down the street, felt a touch of half-admiring sympathy. After all, the fellow was white, and was gallantly doing what he had undertaken.

A moment more and Walthew saw something glisten in the hand of the stealthy figure that seemed ready to spring. He was only a yard away and, acting on impulse, he stumbled as if by accident and fell against the man. The knife dropped with a jingle, and the messenger dashed past, throwing Walthew a quick glance as he went.

An angry murmur broke out, and several of the loiterers closed in on Walthew, while men left the cafe to see what was going on, and there were quick footsteps farther off in the gloom. Remembering the need for haste and that Grahame might be in danger, Walthew half regretted his rashness, but as he wondered what to do Blanca ran to his side.

"The _rurales_ are coming!" she shouted; and the men about them vanished as she led him away.

They turned a corner into a lane between dark houses.

"Why did you interfere?" she asked breathlessly.

"I don't know. Felt I had to," Walthew answered with some embarra.s.sment.