There was no doubt that so much care was only expended on proofs against the villain whose identity with a former and criminal self Joe could hereby establish.
On the table lay writing materials. By means of these a man, seated on a campstool, was "making notes." Not the harmless memos of business, or private details, but with a sureness of hand and dexterity in every finger that proved an experienced forger was here; the writer was imitating notes of hand such as the army officers get discounted by the Indian traders in anticipation of their salary. This man in no wise resembled Captain Kidd save in stature, and even in that point there was a difference, as being slighter—he seemed more tall. It was hard to tell his exact age, as in the case of actors who are clean shaven, he being so, and all white or grey hairs scrupulously extracted. Most beholders would have set him down as thirty, but he might still be ten years older. His face was oval, with a broad forehead, but pressed in at the temples. His hair, of that blueish black suggesting dye, rolled in ample curls down upon his shoulders, enframing handsome lineaments. Under thick brows, large, widely opened eyes were continually in movement, the pupils having that power of deepening or lightening in shade as emotions affected the owner; often they were veiled almost entirely, and then again they shot out lightning glances of unwonted magnetic force. His nose was straight, and yet a little curved at the tip, with tremulous nostrils. The ruddy, sensual mouth was overlarge, with sound teeth. The cheekbones stood out a trifle, and there was the cleft of a wound, or, perhaps, a congenital hare split on the square chin.
As the æsthetic rule runs out West, this was a handsome man. But after even only a few minutes' view, one would shrink with terror, there was such a stamp of tigerish ferocity in the deep fine wrinkles of the brow, the restlessness of the gaze, the flutter of the nostrils, as though scenting carnage, and the cruelly mocking smile playing on the lips.
His face was clean shaven, we say—"shaved under" for a week, as barbers word it, so that every line and trait could be traced, and by them, by the olive complexion, and by the contour, the name of Harry Brown, much too Anglo-Saxon, applied by Corky Joe, seemed very unbefitting. He was rather of Mexican-Spanish and Indian race.
Whatever he was, and whatever Joe had mentioned in relation to him, this was no vulgar rogue. He still was an enigma whose veil was not entirely stripped away because one of his aliases was known.
Several minutes passed during which the forger went on with his work, which seemed mere amusement, with all the tranquillity of a nobleman in his study, well aware that nobody durst disturb him. It would have been difficult for his retreat to have been intruded upon without his leave, so well closed in was it. Besides, he had a brace of revolvers near to give a lesson to any imprudent person who presented himself unannounced. Finally, the stranger pushed the papers away from him, laid down the pen more carefully, with that respect which the high-class artisan has for his tools, rested his elbow on the table and his cheek in his hand, and yielded to deep meditation. The attentive observer could read nothing on the visage, as smoothly cold as marble.
Over a dozen times the false lieutenant felt tempted to "settle" this man by putting a bullet into his brain, an easy matter; but each time his prompting was checked by a higher force, like that which causes a police officer to take his man alive, though the reward is the same for the body in any condition.
The man was not his property. He belonged to society, unto which he would have to render up accounts of his crimes; society alone had a right to try him and make an example of him.
For all but a quarter of an hour the musing man dwelt motionlessly staring into vacancy. It was a mute dialogue with himself. At the end he flung up his head sharply, sprang to his feet, and stalked to and fro in the narrow walk, his hands behind his back, and his head hanging. When he stopped, he was at the table anew. He actively busied himself in packing up the notes and papers in the toilet case, closed it with a secret spring, and put it under his pillow.
Like men who have no confidants, he talked in a low voice to himself whilst so occupied. It was rather mumbling than even muttering; but Lieutenant Carcajieu's "good day for hearing" was come. He overheard pretty well all. Two singular things: not only did the voice differ from Captain Kidd's in tone and accents, but the man, thought to be English, spoke fluent Spanish.