“Oh, but, Senor, not Ramon,” protested Rafaela, facing the group about the volubly expostulating cook. The two other captives were sullen and silent. “He have been of a help to me.”
“Senor Jack,” Ramon held out supplicating hands.
Jack hesitated, but the old cook’s appeal coupled with a glance from Rafaela decided him. “I’ll answer for Ramon,” he said.
And Bob, remembering the old cook’s recalcitrance toward Ramirez outside the bull ring that afternoon—was it only a few short hours before?—spoke up with, “He’s all right. Let’s beat it into the house.”
A swirl and a whoop, a patter of running feet, and away dashed the others, up the walk toward Doctor Garfield’s house behind a wide lawn. The two hastily yet securely-trussed captives lay on the sidewalk, with Ramon leering about them, lighting a cigarette. The taxi driver looked down interestedly from his seat at the two young people standing so close to each other between his cab and the other car.
“Aw, rats,” he muttered, but grinning as he spoke the words. “Ain’t they the sweet young things.”
Then he climbed down stiffly and walked around on the other side of his taxi to talk to his brother chauffeur in the other car.
CHAPTER XXIII.
RAMON TALKS.
The rest can be briefly told. When the reserves, so to speak, entered Doctor Garfield’s office, they found Ramirez already captive in Hannaford’s clutches. The Mexican had been in the act of departing, he was, in fact, already at the front door, his hand on the knob, when the old Texan from the rear had commanded him to surrender.
Don Ferdinand, raging, had broken away from the restraint of Mr. Hampton and Mr. Temple, and had followed in the wake of Hannaford and young Harincourt. He stood, trembling with passion, in front of Ramirez, as the aviators under Captain Cornell, and ably supported by Bob and Frank, appeared in the doorway of the office.