“It seems a rather cold-blooded piece of business. It savors of murder.”
At the word Alvarez shivers slightly. The nights in Cuba are damp and chilly.
“Ten o’clock,” he mutters, holding his watch to the lantern. “Where the devil are my men? We shall likely have to go in search of the second pair. Ha, the train!”
The whistle of the Havana express is heard in the distance and the men leap to their feet.
“Down the track with you,” orders Alvarez. “As for you,” turning to four forms that are approaching from the shadows of the highway, “el diablo! What sort of men have I in my command?”
The troopers make no reply to the angry query of their leader.
The orderly swings his lantern and an answering blast comes from the train, which draws up upon the crossing.
“I have an order for the arrest of one of your passengers,” Alvarez informs the conductor. “Watch the train and see that no one leaves it,” he tells the four troopers, and, followed by the orderly, he boards the first coach.
Within this is the object of their search. Don Carlos Navarro is reclining wearily in a seat about midway of the car. He starts when the soldiers enter and the color flows from his cheeks when they stop before him.
Alvarez consults a paper, and, glancing from it to young Navarro, remarks: “The very chap. I have a warrant for your arrest, sir.” Then to the orderly: “Remove the prisoner, Parker.”