"We'll never get him now," muttered Estuban, and relapsed into a sullen silence.
Greg's own state of mind was not an enviable one. To be so nearly successful and then have his man flout him to his face, and get away laughing—it was too much! His heart burned in his breast. Promise or no promise, he knew there would be no peace in life for him until he had squared accounts with that smiling scoundrel.
As soon as they opened the kitchen door they saw from Bessie's pale face and shaken manner that something fresh had happened on this night of nights.
Thinking of Amy Greg's breast went cold. "What is it?" he demanded.
The answer relieved his worst fears. "He's gone," stammered Bessie, "the Spaniard up-stairs."
"Dead?" said Greg astonished.
"Aye, he's dead all right. I went up just now to have a look at him. He's lying there——" Bessie shuddered. "I left him till you come."
"And Amy?"
"She's all right. Asleep. She don't know."
"Send one of the boys for the doctor," said Greg. "I'll go up alone first."