"Let him take the papers he speaks of," he answered, "I will be responsible for him."
The principal police-officer bowed. "I will accompany you to your rooms, Mr. Lisimon," he said, "and remain with you while you collect those papers."
"Father, father!" exclaimed Camillia; "can you suffer this—can you allow the companion of my youth to be sent to jail as a common felon?"
"He merits no other fate," replied Don Juan; "he has proved himself unworthy the name of an honest man."
"He has not done so," cried Camillia; "he is innocent!"
"What leads you to believe in his innocence?"
"My own instinct," replied the fearless girl.
Again the brow of Don Juan grew dark with fury.
"Your own instinct!" he exclaimed; "beware girl, do not force me to believe you have another reason for thus defending this man. Do not compel me to despise you!"
While this conversation was passing between father and daughter, Paul Lisimon and the officer proceeded to the Mexican's apartment, which was situated, as the reader is aware, upon the upper floor of Villa Moraquitos; but the Spaniard's elegant abode was only elevated one story above the ground floor, so that the room occupied by Paul was not in reality more than eighteen feet above the garden, into which it looked. The police-officer followed his prisoner into the room, and seated himself near the door, while Paul unlocked his desk and examined its contents.