He drew out a leathern case and calmly selected a cigarette.
“And Madam Izabel has the key,” he repeated, striking a match. “By the way, senhor, where are you bound?”
“To overtake the murderess before she can board the train at Cruz.”
“Very good. How long has Dom Miguel been imprisoned in the vault?”
“Twenty minutes, a half-hour, perhaps.”
“Ah! He may live in that foul and confined atmosphere for two hours; possibly three. But no longer. I know, for I planned the vault myself. And the station at Cruz is a good two hours’ ride from this spot. I know, for I have just traveled it.”
I dropped my head, overwhelmed by despair as the truth was thus brutally thrust upon me. For Dom Miguel there was no hope.
“But the records, sir! We must save them, even if our chief is lost. Should Madam Izabel deliver the key to her husband or to the Emperor every leader of the Cause may perish upon the gallows.”
“Well thought of, on my word,” commented the strange man, again laughing softly. “I wonder how it feels to have a rope around one’s neck and to kick the empty air?” He blew a cloud of smoke from his mouth and watched it float away. “But you are quite right, Senhor Harcliffe. The lady must be found and made to give up the ring.”
He uttered a low whistle, and two men rode out from the shadow of the trees and joined us.