“Bless your heart, that would leave you a fine chance to square yourself with the police,” gratefully replied Cary. “If I have to leg it I’ll put you in my pocket. We have to see this thing through together. Cast off, muchacho, and full speed ahead.”
The carriage rattled through the silent, galleried streets and provoked no curiosity until it approached a gateway in the city wall. A police officer in a white uniform was strolling out of a wine-shop. In the light from the windows the carriage attracted his attention. It was moving too rapidly, the horse at a gallop. Even a young Indian driver had nerves. They were feeling the strain. He was anxious to get through that gateway. It had been much less trying to haul El Tigre Amarillo Grande into Cartagena under a load of wood than to haul him out again in a hired carriage.
The lieutenant of police jumped from the curb and raised his sword as a peremptory signal to halt. The despairing muchacho, a slave to a military uniform, laid back on the reins and jerked the horse to its haunches. The carriage stopped so abruptly that Richard Cary bounced beneath his mountain of luggage. He knew that something had gone askew. He made elbow room to free the heavy pistol. Then he heard the petulant voice of Ramon Bazán upbraiding the officer. It was asinine to meddle with the owner of a ship in haste to go aboard and enjoy a few hours of sleep, a ship which was to sail at dawn.
The lieutenant was a young man of polished manners who now recognized this abusive old gentleman. He was about to offer a laughing apology, with a caution to drive with more care, when Ramon Bazán swayed forward, a hand plucking at his breast. He stuttered something in a queer, frightened little voice.
Richard Cary heard and comprehended. In a flash he saw the library and a frail figure toppled across the desk, face contorted, eyes bulging. Before he could toss the luggage aside, oblivious of his own predicament, the quick-witted muchacho had thrown an arm around the drooping old man to hold him in the carriage. A twitch of the reins, a chirrup, and the horse was in motion. It broke into a quick trot.
The lieutenant of police stared for a moment and strolled homeward from the wine-shop. Señor Bazán was getting quite feeble, he said to himself. Silly of him to be bothering with a ship. Greedy to make more money even if it killed him!
The frightened driver steered the horse through the gateway in the wall, one arm still supporting the flaccid, silent shape of his master. In the wide, open space between the wall and the quay, the lad halted the carriage and wailed a “mucho malo.” Richard Cary instantly crawled out and lifted poor Ramon from the front seat. The muchacho threw a roll of blankets and a canvas sack on the ground. They laid the stricken man down very gently.
Cary put a finger on his pulse. It was not stilled, but the beat was faint and slow. The one hope was to search his pockets for the precious vial. Thank God, it had not been forgotten! The lad held a small flash-lamp while Cary pried open Ramon’s jaw and crushed two capsules in his mouth.
They waited a few minutes. The excruciating pain was eased. The sufferer was able to whisper a few words. Ricardo was to carry him to the beach near the quay where a boat would be found. There was to be no turning back. It was a command.
Some of the luggage was shifted to the front of the carriage. This made room in the rear so that Cary could sit and hold the old gentleman in his arms. Thus they came to the deep sand at the edge of the deserted beach. The Indian lad indicated the skiff which, earlier in the night, he had placed in readiness for the stealthy embarkation. Then he stood waiting for orders. First they made a bed on the sand for Ramon Bazán. He was too weak to lift his head. Cary mercifully refrained from questions concerning the plan of action. It had been withheld from him. Childish vanity and secretiveness had made it enjoyable to lead the big Ricardo by the nose.