I smiled; but there was no object in trying to deceive him.
“I was private secretary to Dom Miguel,” said I, “and they suspect my late master to have plotted against the Emperor.”
He laughed, unpleasantly.
“It is well your master is dead when they make that suspicion,” said he; then paused a moment and asked, abruptly, “Did he tell you of the vault?”
I stared at him. A Mexican, not a conspirator, yet aware of the secret vault! It occurred to me that it would be well to keep my own counsel, for a time, at least.
“A vault?” I asked, carelessly, and shook my head.
Again the fellow laughed disagreeably. But my answer seemed to have pleased him.
“He was sly! Ah, he was sly, the dear Señor Miguel!” he chuckled, rocking his thin form back and forth upon the chair. “But never mind. It is nothing. I never pry into secrets, señor. It is not my nature.”
I said nothing and another silent fit seized him. Perhaps five minutes had passed before he arose and made a second stealthy circuit of the room, this time examining the barred window with great care. Then he sighed heavily and came back to his seat.
“What will be your fate, señor?” he asked.