"Madre de Dios!" he cried appealingly—all nonchalance and scorn now missing from his mien, "You don't mean to say that you—my blood relative—the woman I adore, could believe such a thing?"
The girl looked away. He could not see the ironical smile on the scarlet lips.
"Carlos, I have said no such thing. But wouldn't it be better to wait until we reach Seguro—as a matter of sportsmanship? Our family has had the reputation of being honorable, even in games and wagers. I am nervous, Carlos. This has upset me more than you can believe. I will never mention the wager again, until you bring up the subject."
And she retired to her stateroom, where Nita dressed the soft dark hair with her accustomed skill—and a smile concealed with difficulty.
The search was ended. The Scotland Yard men scoured all the cabins, from steerage up; they even quizzed the engineers, the stokers, the cooks, the multitude of men and passengers. No clew could alter the sad deduction which they had drawn.
"Well, Captain," said the detective in charge of the case, "it's a sad affair. But he's better off. We'll take this letter to headquarters, sir, with your written report of the circumstances. What will be done about the negro servant?"
The captain shook his head.
"Poor fellow, he is heartbroken. The Princess has very kindly offered to take him into her service. The letter asked that all the baggage, clothes, and personal property in the stateroom be given as a farewell gift to the faithful fellow. If you have no objection I will let him take the luggage along, when he leaves the ship with the party of her Highness."
And that is how it was, that evening, that out through the dismal drizzle of an interminably long day Rusty Snow marched down the dock, carrying Warren Jarvis' luggage and two satchels of the Princess of Aragon—another loyal retainer in her service.
It was a curious ending to an unusual voyage.