Joy in the belief that Richard Cary had not died that night in Cartagena! Anguish that she, Teresa Fernandez, had stained her hands with blood for which there had been no justification! She felt herself falling, falling, falling into unfathomable depths while a fateful little monkey sat and grinned at her.
She found herself lying on the stone floor which felt cool against her cheek. Lassitude overpowered her like a drug. A few feet away was a long wicker chair with chintz cushions, a chair to recline in if she could make the effort. She dared not try to stand. Like a child that had not learned to walk, she crept to the chair and, for lack of strength, knelt with her head on a cushion. A few minutes more and she was able to lift herself into the chair and lie relaxed, grateful that she was no longer falling, falling to dreadful darkness.
The brown monkey had watched her from his hiding-place. He was as unpitying as destiny itself. All that interested him was the briar pipe which had slipped from Teresa’s fingers. There it was, on the stone floor, near where she had so suddenly and curiously concluded to lie down for a short time. Very cautiously he peered around the bamboo screen and scratched his hairy hide. The woman appeared to sleep in the long wicker chair. It was worth risking a bold sortie. Nothing venture, nothing have!
The monkey advanced in a series of short dashes, ready to retreat on the instant. He was still nervous from the crash of that hurtling flower pot. A fragment had nicked his bald rump. A final leap, and he pounced on the pipe and silently fled out into the patio. Having fled to a safe distance he informed the woman what he thought of her.
The woman was not as indifferent as the thievish little beast surmised. It was her intention to recover that blackened briar pipe with the initials, R. C., neatly cut on the side of the bowl. Her slender body was still a prisoner to weakness, however, and so she watched the monkey, through the doorway of the room, as it gamboled insolently with the pipe between its teeth.
Ere long it sauntered over to the corner where the two green tubs had been, assuming a specious air of indifference. Apparently the woman had forgotten his existence and was enjoying her siesta in the long wicker chair. The monkey examined the wide crevice between the stones where his treasures had been habitually concealed. After an absence it was advisable to take account of stock.
Some other recollection, also a pleasing one, haunted his simian intelligence. Into the crevice went an eager paw. It raked out one handful after another of tiny white bits of paper and let them flutter. He brushed them together as they fell and tossed them in air. They came drifting down like the petals of the small, white flowers when a certain monkey was scrambling up a favorite trellis.
Amusing enough, but soon tiresome. This monkey was apt to suffer from ennui. Giving thought to the matter, he picked up the pipe, rapped it on a stone, and then stuffed the bits of paper into the bowl. It was expertly done, a few bits of paper, and a finger tamping them down. This had been the custom of the tall man with the yellow hair who had been kind enough to leave the pipe behind him.
Solemnly the monkey waited for the fascinating smoke to curl from the bowl. He waited rather anxiously because he was very much afraid of fire. Teresa Fernandez thought it time to interfere. She could see that wide crack between the stones of the wall, and she did not know how deep it might be. If the malignant little devil of a monkey should thrust Richard Cary’s pipe in too far, for safe-keeping, it might drop between the stones and be lost to her forever.
She cried out sharply, insulting the ancestors of all monkeys. This one jumped as if he had been shot and spun about, hiding the pipe behind its back. Teresa was rapidly regaining strength. Indignation goaded her to action. Reaching out an arm, she caught up a book from a small table and let it fly through the doorway. It fell short of the mark, but hit a galvanized watering-can. Bang!