He had put the invariable question which had hitherto brought the invariable reply from culprits of every category protesting their innocence. The fingers of the judge began to beat a gentle tattoo on the table.
“Joam Dacosta,” he asked, “what were you doing at Iquitos?”
“I was a fazender, and engaged in managing a farming establishment of considerable size.”
“It was prospering?”
“Greatly prospering.”
“How long ago did you leave your fazenda?”
“About nine weeks.”
“Why?”
“As to that, sir,” answered Dacosta, “I invented a pretext, but in reality I had a motive.”
“What was the pretext?”