His voice died in his throat. His face was contorted in a spasm of agony. He toppled across the desk, his hands drumming against it.
Richard Cary stood dumbfounded. This was the devil of a new complication! The possible consequences raced through his mind. Ramon Bazán dead in his library—El Tigre Amarillo Grande hiding in the house—a fatal snarl of circumstances from which there could be no possible release! Fantastically it occurred to him that the old man could not die in this tragic manner because the galleon bell had not intoned its ghostly forewarning.
Delaying only an instant, Cary ran to the kitchen shouting for the black woman who might know what should be done. She took it calmly, waddling into the library, making the terrified young man understand that Papa Ramon was subject to such seizures. In a small cabinet she found a vial and shook out two capsules. These she rammed between the suffering man’s lips and crushed them against his teeth. Like a miracle, the acute anguish subsided. It was his heart, mucho malo.
The corpulent negress picked him up in her arms like a baby and laid him upon the bed in his room. With a menacing finger under Cary’s nose, she dared to berate him. Topics of conversation more soothing were necessary to the welfare of the fragile old Papa Bazán.
Shunted aside, Richard Cary retired to a wicker divan in a cool corner and smoked his pipe while he took account of stock. He was nervous. Said he to himself:
“Big as I am and hard to jolt, I can stand just about so much. Here is one bet that I did overlook. Why didn’t the old boy tell me he had a balky heart? Supposing his clock stops before he gets me out of this jam? Whew!”
After some time, he tiptoed into the stricken man’s room. It was delightful beyond words to find him propped up with pillows and sipping a stiff glass of rum and lime-juice. He was a forlorn little object, more shriveled and brittle than ever, but his eye was brightening again and he mustered a shadowy grin. Soothingly Cary suggested:
“Thinking it over, sir, you ought to turn this business of the voyage over to me as soon as you can. You don’t want to pop off before we even sight Cocos Island. I agree to go, of course. Now where is your ship and what is she like? I am competent to take hold.”
“Thank you, Ricardo,” murmured Papa Bazán, with a long pull at the rum. “It was too much excitement. Sit down, if you please. We can talk quietly, like two pigeons. I knew you would agree to go with me, whether you wanted to or not. I had you by the hair of the head. But unless I have won your confidence, unless you go willingly, you can desert the ship at Colon and then where am I? I am bright enough to see that far.”
“I promise to stand by,” said Cary. “In the first place, it is a matter of honor. Perhaps you did kidnap me to serve your own ends, but that doesn’t lighten my obligation. I have no intention of getting out from under it. You have made a pampered guest of me, and now you offer me the one chance of oozing out of Cartagena with a whole skin. In the next place, I’m eager to go to Cocos Island with you. We’ll see the thing through. And there’s that.”