He led the way up a narrow flight of stairs that made two abrupt turns—for no apparent reason—before they reached the upper landing. Following our guide we came to a back room where a table was set for six. A tall, studious-looking Brazilian greeted us with a bow and immediately turned his spectacled eyes upon me. On a small side table were bandages, ointments, and a case of instruments lying open.
Within ten minutes the surgeon had dressed all my wounds—none of which, however, was serious, merely uncomfortable—and I felt greatly benefited by the application of the soothing ointments.
Scarcely was the operation completed when the door opened to admit Fonseca. He gave me a nod, glanced questioningly at the others, and then approached the table and poured out a glass of wine, which he drank eagerly. I noticed he was in full uniform.
“General,” said I, unable to repress my anxiety, “have you the ring?”
He shook his head and sat down with a gloomy expression upon his face.
“I slept during the journey from Cuyaba,” he said presently, “and only on my arrival at Rio did I discover that Senhora de Mar had traveled by the same train. She was dead when they carried her into the station.”
“And Valcour?” It was Mazanovitch who asked the question.
“Valcour was beside the body, wild with excitement, and swearing vengeance against the murderer.”
“Be seated, gentlemen,” requested our host, approaching the table. “We have time for a slight repast before our friends arrive.”
“May I join you?” asked a high, querulous voice. A slender figure, draped in black and slightly stooping, stood in the doorway.