Higher authority even than her own convinced the nurse that obedience to his urgency was the only way now to allay the patient’s rising excitement. The accident which had crushed the lower part of his body, so that his life was but a question of hours, had left his head clear for the present; and here, indeed, seemed a case for more than surgical treatment.
Fortunately, the needed “lawyer” was close at hand, waiting with the reporter and the half-distraught Antonio whose shriek of recognition had been Luis Garcia’s welcome to the hospital. Unceasingly, the manager had declared that this was the man all three of them were seeking; had insisted upon returning to the ante-room of the hospital, and avowed that he would never leave the spot until the “villain” had been apprehended.
“He has misled and cheated me. I, Antonio! He has all my money. He has the savings of my life, yes. He has all that I did not yet pay, of the crops so good, to the Senora Trent. More, more. That money–which, ah, me! He told me, yes, a thousand million times, that I, and not that New York company, to me alone was the inheritance of Paraiso d’Oro. My money was to prove it, that inheritance, yes. To me was the power of attorney, was it not? of Cassius Trent, who was the so good man and the so poor fool at business.”
“Look out, there, neighbor! Speaking of fools and business, you don’t appear to have been so brilliant yourself,” corrected Ninian, promptly.
Antonio continued, heedless of the interruption:
“He was the great banker, Garcia, no? What then? Who would so safe keep the money from that far New York? With the master’s wish I gave it to that bank. And the letters–Caramba! So high, to one’s knees, to one’s waist I pile them, the letters! All wrote of his own hand. All say by-and-by, manana, he give me the perfect title and send back that which belongs, after all expenses, no? To them in New York.”
“A pretty scheme. You don’t seem to have profited by it greatly, as yet.”
“I, profit? But I am now the beggar, I, poor Antonio. This day I come from resting in the houses of my friends and I find–what do I find? The bank is not. The banker is not, yes. His house where he lived more plain than our adobes at Sobrante, that house is closed. His man tell me this: ‘He has gone away. One little, little trip, a journey. Across the sea. He will come back. Have patience, Antonio.’ But my money? my papers? my inheritance so all but proved? Tush. He told me not that. ‘When he comes back you can ask him, himself.’ So. Good. He has come back. Here. I see him, sure. I––”
A summons to Mr. Hale cut short this fierce harangue, which had been repeated till their ears were tired.
The banker had come back, indeed, poor creature. By the very train on which he was to depart with his plunder–all rendered into the solid cash which would tell no tales, as he fancied–by this swift-moving juggernaut he was overtaken and crushed down. A moment earlier he would have been in time. But in haste and by a misstep he had ended all his earthly journeyings.