Frank watched them, unaware that Inza had stepped out on a stone that lifted its damp crest in the edge of the water.
Suddenly he was startled by a cry.
He whirled, and saw something that sent his heart into his mouth.
Inza was lying across the rock, with both feet in the water.
A man in black, the cape of his long cloak flapping about his shoulders like demon wings, was running from the spot, flourishing a stout, crooked cane.
As he passed Frank, fully fifteen feet away, the fleeing man—whom Merry knew as the same one who had so nearly accomplished Inza's destruction on the Canadian shore—cast at the youth one piercing look.
The eyes of the man were black as blackest night, but in their recesses gleamed a baleful fire of hatred and triumph.
The same eyes had glared at Merry through the transom of the Bowery hotel, in New York.
They were the eyes of Alvarez Lazaro, the avenger!
But they were also the eyes of Porfias del Norte!