Was he, by the by? Was Valcour really a Brazilian? He had a Brazilian’s dark eyes and complexion, it is true; yet now that I thought upon it, there was an odd, foreign cast to his features that indicated he belonged to another race. Yes, there was a similarity between them and the features of the Pole Mazanovitch. Perhaps Valcour might also be a Pole. Just now Mazanovitch had spoken kindly of him, and——
I stopped short in my calculations, for I had made a second startling discovery. My wanderings had led me to the railway station, where, as I approached, I saw the Emperor of Brazil, Dom Pedro de Alcantara, surrounded by a company of his Uruguayan guard, and in the act of boarding a private car attached to the Matto Grosso train.
I had never before seen the Emperor, but from descriptions of him, as well as from the deference of those about him, I had no doubt of his identity.
His hurried departure upon a journey, coupled with Paola’s presence at the capital, could only bear one interpretation. The Minister of Police had been in conference with the Emperor, and his Majesty was about to visit in person the scene of the late tragedy, and do what he might to unearth the records of that far-reaching revolution which threatened his throne.
Here was news, indeed! Half-dazed, I started to retrace my steps, when a soft voice beside me said:
“Have you money, senhor?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“Then,” continued Mazanovitch, “you must take this train for Cuyaba. Let the Emperor guide you. If danger threatens us, telegraph me the one word, ‘Lesba’! Do you understand, Senhor Harcliffe?”
“I think so,” said I, “but let me use some other word. Why drag a woman’s name into this affair?”
He coughed slightly.