“So, my dear Minister, I have at last discovered your secret!” said a sharp voice, and as Paola whirled about I noted that Valcour had entered the room and was standing with folded arms and eyes that sparkled triumphantly.
“Orders to my men,” remarked the Minister, quietly, and brushed a small feather from his arm.
“True enough!” retorted Valcour, with a bitter smile. “Orders to General Fonseca, whom you strangely overlooked in making your decoy arrests. Orders to Sanchez Bastro, who is to distribute arms to the rebels! And where did the third pigeon go, my loyal and conscientious Minister of Police? To Mazanovitch, or to that Miguel de Pintra whom you falsely led us to believe had perished in yonder vault?”
He came close to the Minister.
“Traitor! In setting free these birds you have fired the torch of rebellion; that terrible flame which is liable to sweep the land, and consume royalist and republican alike!”
Paola, the sneering smile for once gone from his face, gazed at his accuser with evident admiration.
“You are wonderfully clever, my dear Valcour,” said he, slowly. “You have wit; you have a clear judgment; your equal is not in all Brazil. What a pity, my friend, that you are not one of us!”
Somehow, the words seemed to ring true.
Valcour flushed to the roots of his hair.
“I hate you,” he cried, stamping his foot with passion. “You have thwarted me always. You have laughed at me—sneered at me—defied me! But at last I have you in the toils. Francisco Paola, I arrest you in the name of the Emperor.”