With Don Solado at his back, he had hatched all sorts of schemes, but they had all fallen down, one after the other. Some of these schemes Marcos suspected, but most of them had been concocted and then had collapsed without the good-natured prince knowing anything about them.
It was only of late that he had been convinced of Miguel’s treachery. He had seen proofs of it even before the attempt to kidnap and kill him in New York City, and now he was as determined to save his country as his cousin was to hand it over to another power, with himself as the real ruler.
Miguel had gone over the whole plot in his mind, and had just come to the conclusion that it was absolutely perfect, so that it could not fail, when there came a sharp tap-tap at his door, followed by a thump.
This was the signal agreed upon between him and Solado to show that it was the latter who demanded entrance.
Miguel hastily stuffed the Seal of Gijon in his pocket and strode across the thickly carpeted floor to unlock the door.
Don Solado stumbled in, trembling and weak, and with great beads of perspiration standing forth on his flabby white face.
“He’s here!” he gasped.
“Who?”
“Marcos!”
“What?” shrieked Miguel. Then, dropping his voice, he asked angrily: “What are you talking about, Solado? Are you crazy? Isn’t Marcos up in the mountains, with Gaspara? You told me that——”