I started.
“Dom Miguel! You know him, then?”
“Assuredly, senhor. You are the new secretary. Otherwise you would not be so foolish as to demand a ticket to Cuyaba—the seat of the revolution.”
“I begin to understand,” I said, after a moment’s thought. “You are of the police?”
“Sergeant Marco, senhor; at your service. And I have ventured to kill our dear lieutenant in order to insure your safety. I am sorry,” he added, gently touching the motionless form that lay between us; “the lieutenant was a good comrade—but a persistent royalist.”
“Where are you taking me?” I asked.
“To a suburban crossing, where you may catch the Matto Grosso train.”
“And you?”
“I? I am in no danger, senhor. It is you who have done this cruel deed—and you will escape. The driver—a true patriot—will join me in accusing you.”
I nodded, my horror of the tragedy growing each moment. Truly this revolutionary party must be formed of desperate and unscrupulous men, who hesitated at no crime to advance their interests. If the royalists were but half so cruel I had indeed ventured into a nest of adders. And it was the thought of Valcour’s confessed purpose to murder me on shipboard that now sealed my lips from a protest against this deed that was to be laid upon my shoulders.