“The same old story!” he groaned. “If I had my way, we should soon get to the bottom of those Corridor of Night mysteries.... But no!... the same old game of shut your eyes and see nothing.... Here’s Veintemilla now, instead of settling with those Indians once and for all, asking us to call it a bad dream!... Bad dream indeed!”
“My dear Natividad,” said the Marquis. “I fear you are a troublous spirit. By the way, I have sad news for you. You are no longer inspector superior of Callao.”
Natividad fell into a chair, his mouth wide open, struggling for words to qualify the airy attitude of this man, for whom he had risked everything. He was so comical that they all burst into laughter, while the little old gentleman, purple with fury, strode toward the door.
“Not so quick, Natividad, not so quick!” called the Marquis after him. “There is also some good news for you. You have been appointed inspector superior at Lima.”
Again Natividad fell into a chair, but beaming, stuttering with joy and gratitude.
“It’s a dream.... the dream of my life.... I might have been dead though!”
“The appointment, which I saw President Veintemilla sign, is, of course, only valid in the event of your being living,” smiled the Marquis. “As those Indians of yours haven’t eaten you alive, you can keep an eye on them again.”
“Hush! We must not talk about it,” replied Natividad, the magistrate’s toga weighing on his shoulders again.
“And neither shall we,” whispered Dick, bending over Maria-Teresa’s pale face.
She nodded slowly. “Do you know, Dick, looking round me and seeing the same old chairs and books again, the same dear faces, and when I think of the Temple of Death, it really does only seem like an ugly dream.”