She stares at him a moment, with her glittering eyes; then, with a little shudder, tosses the revolver into the bushes, turns and walks slowly away.
The caballero watches her out of sight and again turns to the body of the Spanish captain.
“Humph!” he grunts, as he lifts the limp form from the ground. “He is worth a dozen dead men, or my name isn’t John Barker.”
CHAPTER LIV.
AT BAY IN THE CONSUL’S HOUSE.
“There is something very odd in Mr. Van Zandt’s actions,” remarks Miss Hathaway, as she and Mr. Felton follow the winding trail down the hillside to the sea. The latter offers no explanation. He has aged fearfully in the last half-hour, and it is now a bowed, feeble, old man whom his companion more than once has to assist over the obstacles in their rough path.
“To the consul’s. To the consul’s,” is all he says, and the journey is finished in silence.
The residence of William Atwood, United States consul, is situated about two hundred yards back from the shore, about a half a mile below the mole at Santiago. The nearest neighbor is a quarter of a mile away, toward the city. It is a plain, square, two-storied structure. A broad veranda fronts both stories and ivy very nearly conceals three of the walls of the building. An innovation, to the Cuban view absurd, is an electric door bell, put in by the consul himself. It is this bell that Mr. Felton presses, with the remark: “I begin to feel at home already.”
The summons are answered by a porter who tells them that the consul is gone.
“Gone? Gone where?” demands Mr. Felton, with a start of uneasiness that is inexplicable to Miss Hathaway.