“You will do nothing of the kind,” interrupts Van Zandt, drawing the excited man back into his chair. “Mrs. Harding left for her hotel half an hour ago. Even were she here it would avail you nothing to confront her with her—diplomacy. Gen. Murillo is already in possession of your plans. No, my friend; the mischief is done, but happily it is not irremediable.”
“Ah!” cries Manada, with a flash of hope.
“Now, listen to me. We have wasted too much time already. What is the name of your vessel?”
“The Isabel.”
“So? Pretty name, but have it changed at the first opportunity. Where does she now lie?”
“North River, foot of Twenty-third Street.”
“Excellent,” comments Van Zandt, his eyes lighting with satisfaction. “And at what time did you intend to sail?”
“At five in the afternoon.”
“You are of course aware that both the Spanish and United States governments are on the keen lookout for filibustering craft?”
“Certainly,” Manada replies, grimly. “But we were confident of slipping through unmolested. We had arranged to clear for the Bermudas, and once on the high seas we felt sure of running away from any warships that might lie in our course.”