The servants slunk off abashed, and she led me along the corridor. The door of her father's room was closed, but she opened it, and said, "Come in, Juan; see your friends' handiwork!"
The apartment was in total disorder. Chairs were overthrown; the table was stripped of its contents; all kinds of articles lay strewn about the floor: there were very evident signs of a fierce and prolonged struggle. On one wall was the mark of a bullet, and a corner of the apartment was splashed with blood. I gazed round eagerly for Montilla's body, but it was not there.
"See," said the girl, "he was sitting there when the ruffians burst in upon him. He fought for his life like a cavalier of old Spain, but the cowards were too many. They flung themselves upon him like a pack of wolves, and bore him to the ground."
"But who were they?" I asked in amazement. "Who did it? Tell me plainly what happened."
"Need you ask?" she said coldly. "The ruffians were your friends—your servants, for all I know."
"Rosa, you are speaking wildly. I do not wonder at it: this terrible affair has upset your nerves."
Then she turned upon me, her eyes blazing with angry scorn.
"What is it that you wear beneath your tunic, Juan Crawford?" she cried. "Are you ashamed that it should be seen?"
At first I did not understand her meaning; then a glimmer of the truth began to dawn on me, and slowly I drew out the silver key.
"Do you mean this?"