Standing behind that door, behind that heavy half-fallen curtain, this was what we saw: The man Jaime, with in his hand a drawn sword--doubtless he had hidden it beneath his monk's gown since he returned to the assumption of the latter.
In front of Jaime, upon his knees, his hands clasped, his white hair streaming behind him, was the man whose name I had deemed to be Carstairs, or Cuddiford, but which Juan had averred was in truth James Eaton.
"Alive!" Jaime went on. "Alive. Villain, answer for your treachery ere I slay you. Where is my wealth--my child's wealth. Where is my daughter?"
As he spoke I heard a gasp, a moan beside me, felt a trembling. And, looking down, I saw Juan staring into the room, his eyes distended as though he was fascinated.
"My child," Jaime went on. "My child. Where is she?"
"I--I--do not know," the old man muttered--hissed in a whisper. "I do--not know. She left me--years ago. Yet--I loved her."
"Liar. I have heard of you in the Indies. You stole the wealth I left in your hands for her--you drove her forth. Answer. Is she dead?"
"I lost all in trade," Eaton moaned again, "all, all. I thought to double it--you were dead--they said so--would never come back. I--I----"
"Look," whispered Juan in my ear. "Look behind you."
At his words I turned, and then I knew that we were lost, indeed. Lost forever.