“I imagine you are apostrophizing my master, senhor,” said one of the men riding beside me.
Something in his voice caused me to turn and scrutinize his face.
“Ah!” I exclaimed, “you are Sergeant Marco.”
“The same, senhor. And I shall not arrest you for the death of our dear lieutenant.” A low chuckling laugh accompanied the grim pleasantry. “But if you were applying those sweet names to Senhor Paola, I assure you that you wrong him. For three years I have been his servant, and this I have learned: in an emergency no man can think more clearly or act more swiftly than his Majesty’s Minister of Police.”
“I have been with him four years,” announced the other man, in a hoarse voice, “and I agree with you that he is cold and heartless. Yet I never question the wisdom of his acts.”
“Why did he not come with us himself?” I demanded, angrily. “Why should he linger to eat a breakfast and kiss his sister good morning, when his friend and chief is dying, and his Cause is in imminent danger?”
Marco laughed, and the other shrugged his shoulders, disdaining a reply.
For a time we rode on in unbroken silence, but coming to a rough bit of road that obliged us to walk the horses, the sergeant said:
“Perhaps it would be well for you to explain to us what has happened. My friend Figgot, here, is a bit of a detective, and if we are to assist you we must know in what way our services are required.”
“We are both patriots, senhor,” said the other, briefly.