“That is what Mr. K. will get to-night,” Sumecta said in Spanish; “the right across.”
“Or the cross all right,” Mr. Wiskey said.
“Will you come then, Mr. Harker?” Captain Cary said.
They turned swiftly up the alley out of the arena, while Don Isidor held up his hand for silence. A roar of riot broke out behind them an instant later, when Ben was declared the winner. Sard, glancing back at the door, saw a mob of negroes at the ropes, and bottles, flasks, oranges, tortillas, pieces of water melon and bananas falling in the ring round Don Isidor, who was slipping out of the ring into a phalanx of whites already formed to receive him.
In the fresh air, outside the Circo, Captain Cary hailed a caleche.
“We’re well out of that,” he said. “I understood that it would be a display of athletics, but it was a very low piece of blackguardism: I call it degrading.”
“Sir,” Sard said, as they settled into their caleche, “you perhaps noticed the two men in front of us. They were talking in Spanish of raiding a Mr. Kingsborough to-night, with a gang, in order to kidnap a woman.”
“Kingsborough? I do not know the name.”
“He must be English or American, with that name, sir: and they talked as if they meant to do it.”
“Kingsborough? I suppose they were these liquor-smugglers, going to punish one of their gang?”