“There’s much mystery about it, father. She’s the daughter of a Spanish gentleman, who became an exile from his own country. There are reasons to suppose she may be an heiress. Indeed, that seems the only explanation of her singular abduction. I have traced her hither, father. Can you tell me anything to assist in my search?”
The old man shook his hooded head, his face hidden by deep shadows.
“Nothing, my son—nothing,” he declared, drawing a little nearer, as if to lay his hand upon Frank. “I would I could aid you.”
Suddenly, to the astonishment of both Dick and Brad, Merry flung himself upon the monk, grasping his wrist and dropping him in a twinkling. He hurled the agitated recluse flat upon his back and knelt upon his chest.
“Frank! Frank!” palpitated Dick. “What are you doing? Don’t hurt him!”
“Strike a match, one of you,” commanded Merry. “Give us a look at his face.”
The man struggled violently, but Frank’s strength was too much for him, and he was pinned fast.
Dick quickly struck a match and bent over, shading it with his hands, flinging the light downward upon the face of the man Merry held.
“Just as I thought!” Merry exclaimed, in satisfaction, as the light showed him, not the features of the old monk, but those of a much younger man, with dark complexion and a prominent triangular scar on his right cheek. “This is not the holy father. He couldn’t deceive me with his attempt to imitate the father’s voice. I have seen this gentleman on a previous occasion. He dogged my steps in San Diego after I left Rufus Staples’ house.”
It was, in truth, the same man Merry had warned on the street corner in San Diego. The little wretch swore savagely in Spanish and glared at his captors.