“I might have guessed it was Mr. Cole,” said he. “I knew you were here somewhere, but I couldn't make head or tail of you through the smoke.”
“I'm surprised that you can make head or tail of me at all,” said I.
“Then you've quite forgotten the inquisitive parson you met out fishing? You see I found out your name for myself!”
“So it was a detective!”
“It was and is,” said the little man, nodding. “Detective or Inspector Royds, if you're any the wiser.
“What has happened? Who has escaped?” “Your friend Rattray; but he won't get far.”
“What of the Portuguese and the nigger?”
I forgot that I had crippled José, but remembered with my words, and wondered the more where he was.
“I'll show you,” said Royds. “It was the nigger let us in. We heard him groaning round at the back—who smashed his leg? One of our men was at that cellar grating; there was some of them down there; we wanted to find our way down and corner them, but the fat got in the fire too soon. Can you stand something strong? Then come this way.”
He led me out into the garden, and to a tangled heap lying in the moonlight, on the edge of the long grass. The slave had fallen on top of his master; one leg lay swathed and twisted; one black hand had but partially relaxed upon the haft of a knife (the knife) that stood up hilt-deep in a blacker heart. And in the hand of Santos was still the revolver (my Deane and Adams) which had sent its last ball through the nigger's body.