A moment ... and a wail of despair rang out. They all jumped to their feet.
“Was that Vidal?” asked La Flora.
“I don’t know,” answered Calatrava, laying the guitar upon the table.
There was a din of voices in the direction of the river. All the patrons of the place dashed over to the balcony that looked out upon the Manzanares. Upon one of the green islets two men were engaged in a hand-to-hand struggle. One of them was Vidal; he could be recognized by his white Cordovan hat. La Flora, making sure it was he, uttered a shriek of terror. In an instant the two men had separated and Vidal fell headlong to the ground, without a sound. The other man placed his knee upon the fallen man’s back and must have plunged his dirk into him some ten or a dozen times. Then he ran into the river, reached the other side and disappeared.
Calatrava and Manuel let themselves down over the veranda balustrade and ran across the plank bridge to the little island.
Vidal was stretched face downward in a pool of blood. The dirk was thrust into his neck, near the nape. Calatrava pulled at the handle, but the weapon must have penetrated into the vertebrae. Then Marcos turned the body half way around and placed his hand over the man’s heart.
“He’s dead,” he pronounced, calmly.
Manuel eyed the corpse with horror. The dying light of evening was reflected in its widely opened eyes. Calatrava replaced the body in the position in which they had found it. They returned to the restaurant.
“Let’s be off at once,” said Marcos.
“And Vidal?” asked La Flora.