“God knows what is in the heart of a girl like that,” spitefully retorted her uncle.
“One thing more, Señor Bazán. The chief engineer of the ship, Mr. McClement, is a friend of mine. I wish to get word to him, too. He can be trusted absolutely. If you will slip a word to Teresa, she will arrange it so that he can drop in for a chat after dark. McClement is a man who will help you find some way to get me off your hands. And I am anxious to let him know that I am alive and didn’t desert the ship.”
“Why not invite the whole damned crew of the Tarragona to parade to my house with a band of music?” shouted the disgusted uncle. “Forget this pest of a chief engineer. It is enough to let that girl into the house. How do I know what mischief it will make? She is the kind that talks in her sleep.”
Richard Cary felt wretchedly ashamed of his own futility. Sulkily he surrendered. Teresa could later confide in the chief engineer, but it was a sore blow to be deprived of his canny wisdom and aid in this extremity. The Yellow Tiger had ceased to purr. He had not been rescued, but kidnaped. He did not propose to spend much more of his life shut up in this madhouse.
He was pacing up and down next day, counting the hours. The clothes made by the handy black woman in the kitchen, white shirt and trousers, were by no means an atrocious fit. He was quite spick-and-span, a young man waiting for his sweetheart. It was late in the afternoon when the wind brought to the open courtyard the distant, vibrant blasts of a steamer’s whistle. It was the Tarragona blowing for the wharf. He could have told that whistle from a hundred other ships. Never would he forget it, not after hearing her blow the three long blasts of departure when he had tottered up the ramp to the round watch-tower on the city wall.
Earlier in the day, Ramon Bazán had vanished on one of his shrouded errands, promising to go to the wharf as soon as the steamer should be reported. Cary grew more and more impatient. Soon he looked to see Teresa come flying in, slender, graceful, ardent to respond to his fond greeting. Then she would turn her attention to the wicked old uncle who was making a jail of his house and holding her Ricardo against his will. It would be a lively scene.
A carriage was heard to stop in front of the house. The young man dared not show himself, but retreated to his room, as caution had taught him to do. He was chagrined at being found in such a plight. He was like a stranded hulk. But if Teresa still loved him, nothing was impossible to attempt and to achieve.
Uncle Ramon Bazán came teetering in alone, very much put out and wheezing maledictions. Richard Cary advanced from the threshold of his room, grievously disappointed, but expecting to hear that Teresa had been delayed until evening. Her uncle made no effort to break the news gently.
“My trip to the Tarragona was for nothing. I lost my breath climbing on board that ship and there was no Teresa at all.”
“She was not in the ship?” blurted Cary. “What’s the answer to that? What did the chief steward say?”