Estuban went on: "This is what de Socotra meant to carry to the President. Look! testimonials of respect to His Excellency; addresses of felicitation from public bodies of every class in Managuay; the Santiago Chamber of Commerce; the Planters' Association; The Rubber-Gatherers' Union! The last is a masterpiece; listen! 'The Rubber-Gatherers' Union of Managuay, happy in their situation on a fertile soil under a liberal government, desires to express to his Excellency, the President of the United States,' etc., etc. My God! what sublime impudence!"
"Then our work is still to do," said Greg grimly.
"Do you know where de Socotra is at this moment?" asked Estuban with a dangerous glitter in his eyes.
"At a house on East Seventeenth Street, the headquarters of his gang. He got that book there earlier in the day."
"It was made there under his direction, no doubt, and the original is presumably there."
"If they have not destroyed it."
"They would scarcely do that unless they thought it was in danger of falling into our hands. Think of the handle it will give them against those who dare oppose them in Managuay. The unfortunate ones who made these affidavits will be marked men hereafter."
Greg looked around the kitchen at the men who were awaiting the outcome of this talk, and looked back at Estuban. The corners of his mouth turned up with grim humor. "Let's go and get it," he said suddenly.
Estuban's hand shot out to meet Greg's. "My idea, too," he said with satisfaction.
"We have four good men here," Greg went on, "and a fifth is watching the house now. With the exception of de Socotra himself, that gang is not formidable. Their morale is poor.