“Not the least danger of that,” rejoins Rocas. “Take my word, we’ll be let in.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Why? Because we have a claim on the hospitality of the house.”
“I don’t understand you, Rocas,” says De Lara.
“Haven’t we a good story to tell—simple, and to the purpose?”
“Still I don’t understand. Explain yourself, Rafael.”
“Don’t we come as messengers from the man-o’-war—from those officers you’ve been telling me about?”
“Ah! now I perceive your drift.”
“One can so announce himself, while the others keep out of sight. He can say he’s been sent by the young gentlemen on an errand to Don Gregorio, or the señoritas, if you like. Something of importance affecting their departure. True, by this they’ll know the ship’s weighed anchor. No matter; the story of a message will stand good all the same.”
“Rafael Rocas!” exclaims De Lara, “you’re a born genius. Instead of being forced to do a little smuggling now and then, you ought to be made administrator-general of customs. We shall act as you advise. No doubt the door will be opened. When it is, one can take charge of the janitor. He’s a sexagenarian, and won’t be hard to hold. If he struggle, let him be silenced. The rest of us can go ransacking. You, Calderon, are acquainted with the interior, and, as you say, know the room where Don Gregorio is most likely to keep his chest. You must lead us straight for that.”