On being shown the pipe, the herdsman recognised it on sight. It was the “cutty” of Captain Cubina. More than once had he met the Maroon with the identical instrument between his teeth.
Jessuron doubted no longer that Cubina had been the abductor of his book-keeper. Nor Judith, either: for the Jewess had taken part in the analytical process that guided to this conclusion.
Judith was rather gratified at the result. She was glad it was no worse. Perhaps, after all, the young Englishman had only gone on a visit to the Maroon, with whom she knew him to be acquainted: for Judith had been informed of all the circumstances connected with their first encounter. What was more natural than a sort of attachment between them, resulting from such an odd introduction? Curiosity may have induced Herbert to accompany the Maroon to his mountain home; and this was sufficient to explain his absence.
True, there were circumstances not so easily explained. The presence of the Maroon at the penn—his track twice to and fro—the hurried departure of Herbert, without any previous notice either to herself or to her father—all these circumstances were suspicious; and the spirit of the jealous Judith, though partially tranquillised by a knowledge of the new facts that had come to light, was, nevertheless, not quite relieved from its perplexity.
The same knowledge had produced an effect on the spirit of her worthy parent altogether different. So far from being gratified by the idea that his book-keeper was in the company of the Maroon captain, he was exceedingly annoyed by it. He at once remembered how pointedly Herbert had put certain questions to him, in relation to the fate of the flogged runaway—the prince. He remembered, also, his own evasive answers; and he now foresaw, that in the case of the questioner being in the company of Cubina, the latter would give him a very different account of the transaction—in fact, such a statement as could not fail to bring about the most crooked consequences.
Once in possession of those damning facts, the young Englishman—of whose good moral principles the old Jew had become cognisant—would be less likely to relish him, Jessuron, for a father-in-law. Such an awkward affair coming to his knowledge might have the effect, not only to alienate his much-coveted friendship—his equally-solicited love—but to drive him altogether from a house, whose hospitality he might deem suspicious.
Was it possible that this very result had already arisen? Was the whole scheme of the penn-keeper to prove a failure? Had murder—the blackest of all crimes—been committed in vain?
There was but little doubt left on the mind of Jacob Jessuron that the deed was now done. Whether by the poison of Chakra, or the steel of the caçadores, so far as the Custos himself was concerned, that part of the programme would, by this time, be complete; or so near its completion, that no act of the instigator could stay its execution.
How, when, and where was it done? And had it been done in vain?
During the early part of that same night—and on through the midnight hours—thus interrogatively reflected the Jew.