A glance at a big safe showed that the letter lock had defied curiosity, and no serious attempt had been made to force it. He saw that the drawers in a bureau in the adjoining room had been ransacked hastily. Probably, the new president’s emissaries were instructed to look for a list of “conspirators”—of well-affected citizens, that is—who meant to support the honorable régime of Valdez.
“Now, listen while I talk,” said Maseden, tearing open the tight-fitting blue coat. “I can put faith in you, I suppose?”
“Señor—”
“Yes, I take it for granted. Besides, if you stick to me you may come out on top yourself. Valdez is dead. He was murdered last night, and Enrico Suarez stepped into his shoes.... Oh, I know Enrico’s real name, but I haven’t a second to spare. I was sentenced to death early this morning, and married about an hour ago, just before being taken out to be shot.... Well, I got away; how—is of no concern to you. In fact, it is better that you shouldn’t know.
“A lady will come into possession here. She will call herself the Señora Maseden. Señor Porilla will introduce her. She and the lawyer are playing some game to suit Suarez and Steinbaum, the German consul at Cartagena. My escape may bother them a bit, but I cannot guess just how things will work out. What orders did Enrico’s lieutenant give you?”
The foreman’s wits were rather mixed by his master’s extraordinary budget of news, but he answered readily.
“He told me, señor, if I valued my life, to see that nothing was disturbed in the estancia till the president came or sent a representative.”
“I thought so. That gives me a sporting chance.”
Maseden had changed rapidly into his own clothes, an ordinary riding costume suitable to a tropical climate. He opened the safe, stuffed some papers into his pockets, also a quantity of gold, silver, and notes.
Then he wrote a letter, and filled in a check. Having addressed and stamped the envelope, he handed it to his assistant.