"You understand why it is impossible. I cannot do anything that might plunge my country into a conflict, unless you show me some reason that would justify the risk."
"I cannot give you such a reason."
"It is for you to decide! We come to a deadlock; our negotiations break off."
"Very well," said Cliffe. "I leave Villa Paz in an hour, and it wouldn't be wise of you to interfere with my movements. My business with you is known to people who have some political influence in the United States, and if I don't turn up in good time, inquiries will be made."
He turned abruptly and went out. It seemed safer to move quickly, though he imagined the hint he had given Altiera would prevent any attempt to stop him. The President had found a plausible excuse for Evelyn's disappearance, but he would hesitate about detaining an American citizen whose friends could bring pressure to bear at Washington. This supposition was borne out when Cliffe found no trouble in hiring a guide and mules; but while he made the arrangements his brain was working.
He would willingly have met the demand for money, only that Altiera had incautiously admitted that he did not know where Evelyn was. Cliffe had acted on impulse in refusing to submit to further exaction, but calm reflection justified the course. Having a deep distrust of the man, he thought he might take the money and then not undertake the search for the girl. Cliffe determined to set about it himself and make a bid for the help of the revolutionaries. This would involve him in a serious loss, but that did not count. He must rescue his daughter, whatever it cost.
Then he remembered that the President had admitted having intercepted a message to him from the rebel leader. He had meant to insist on learning what it was about, but had somehow omitted to do so, and it was now too late to reopen the matter. There was, however, a ray of hope in the thought that Sarmiento had tried to communicate with him.
When his baggage had been strapped on a pack-mule, he mounted and rode out of Villa Paz as if making for Valverde, but as soon as they had left the last of the houses behind he pulled up and quietly studied his guide. He was a sturdy, brown-faced peon, dressed in ragged white cotton, with raw-hide sandals and a colored blanket strapped round his shoulders, but he looked trustworthy. Moreover, Cliffe thought his willingness to assist a foreigner who was leaving the President's house without an escort, which must have shown that he had lost the autocrat's favor, had some significance. It was unfortunate that he could not speak much Castilian, but he knew that money talks in a language that is generally understood.
"I have changed my mind; we will not go to the coast," he said, stumbling over the words and helping out his meaning by pointing to the mountains.