Pedro became serious at once. "Sick! Then 't is pressing. Let me think. There is Señora Bolio, for a possibility. She might consent to go, but she knoweth no Quichua. That, however, might be an advantage, not so? Less apt to connive at escape." Pedro eyed the veedor watchfully.
"Yes! Diablo, yes!" said Rogelio, eagerly. "Canst persuade her?"
"I'll try," said Pedro, rising. He threw off his apron and started toward the door; halted, and came back, determined to test his suspicion. "Señor," he said, abruptly, "how did they get her away from Peralta? Did they kill him? If not, then I swear to thee, Veedor, thou 'rt as good as dead!" and Pedro slowly shook his head in direst portent.
The veedor was unguarded. He started violently, and his face went ashy. "Oh, my soul and body! I—I forgot to ask them." He scanned the cook with quick suspicion. "How in the devil's name dost know?" he demanded. Pedro placed a finger beside his nose, wagged his head with deep significance, and went out. Now it was his turn to be agitated.
He pegged straight to the señora's lodging, and pounded upon the door until it opened. "Quick!" he cried. "The Viracocha woman! There is sickness."
The native made him repeat it, refastened the door, and left Pedro in a fume. When she opened again, it was with a request to follow, and led him across the court. The señora appeared at a door with an under-garment over her shoulders. "Is it thou, Pedro?" she asked, sleepily. "What is to do? This is an unholy hour to wake a body, dost not know it?"
Pedro pushed the door open, and entered. "'T is a crying need," he said, and hastily explained.
"Who is this girl?" demanded the señora, with a pang of jealousy.
"Peralta's enamorada," replied the cook, thinking he lied, but venturing it to quiet her suspicion.
"And who this Rogelio?" asked the señora.