Teresa murmured words vaguely polite. The Comandante returned to his papers. He was fussily preoccupied. Presently Teresa slipped away to her room, there to remain until the other passengers had disembarked. She wished to have no reunions on the wharf with friends who had come to see the steamer arrive.
The barrier had been safely passed. She was free to enter the city as a woman innocent of suspicion so far as the officials were concerned. No information had been lodged against her, or the Comandante and his harbor police would have summarily detained her.
In the heat of the day she hired one of the carriages at the gate and was driven to the residence of her uncle. She would tell him what her errand was, to search for tidings of Richard Cary’s fate. With a will to help her, Uncle Ramon might be able to burrow beneath the surface of things. In years gone by he had pulled strings in the complex politics of the city, and was still respected in certain quarters for the things he knew and didn’t tell. Crochety as he was, she thought he was really fond of her when she refrained from teasing. And he had expressed an unusual liking for the big second mate of the Tarragona.
Teresa rang the bell of the ancient house with the rose-tinted walls and the jutting gallery. Expectantly she waited for the Indian lad to come pattering through the hall, or the shuffling slippers of Uncle Ramon himself. Again she pulled the brass knob. She could hear the echoing jingle of the bell. It awakened no response in the silent house. Possibly they were asleep, her uncle, the muchacho, the fat black woman in the kitchen. It was early, however, for the siesta. Uncle Ramon should now be eating the midday breakfast in a shady corner of the patio.
This was a situation awkward and unforeseen. She had taken it implicitly for granted that her funny old uncle would be found in his house because he had always been there. To her he was a lifelong habit and fixture, growing no older or more infirm.
While Teresa stood on the pavement, the carriage waiting with her trunk, the neighbor who lived next door came strolling home under an enormous green umbrella. He was a courtly, bland gentleman with grayish side whiskers who was manager of a bank and had large commercial interests in the interior of the country. Teresa had known this affluent Alonzo de Mello ever since he had been wont to carry her across the plaza upon his shoulder and toss her squealing into a clump of plumed pampas grass. He was her uncle’s financial adviser and loyal friend, ignoring his twists of temper.
Teresa walked along the pavement to meet him. His green umbrella was a familiar sight. Now it was like a beacon in troubled waters. At sight of her, Alonzo de Mello swept off his hat with the graceful homage of an hidalgo. He was a gentleman of the old school. Very much surprised he was to see Teresa. Kissing her on the cheek, as was his privilege, he sonorously exclaimed:
“Old Ramon told me you had failed to come south in the Tarragona last voyage, my child! Come into my house and have breakfast. The family will thank me a thousand times for bringing you.”
“And as many thanks to you, dear Señor de Mello,” replied Teresa, grasping his arm as they walked with the umbrella over them, “but I must find out how to get into my uncle’s house. I came to make him a visit and the house is locked as tight as a jail. Where is he? What do you know? Is anything wrong?”
“The house is closed. He has gone away,” answered the banker, with an oddly perplexed manner. “Ah, you have your trunk in the carriage, Teresa? Then stay with us. I beseech it of you as a favor.”