Ramon exclaimed with contempt.
“Forrester!” he cried. “He is only a boy!”
“Any boy,” snapped Caldwell impatiently “who is clever enough to get himself engaged to the richest girl in Venezuela, under the guns of her mother and Pino Vega, is old enough to vote. I take my hat off to him.”
The Venezuelan turned his head and looked meaningly at Caldwell; his eyes were hard and cruel.
“I regret,” he said, “but he must be stopped.”
“No, you don’t!” growled Caldwell; “that’s not the answer. We won’t stop him. We’ll let him go! It’s the other man we’ll stop—Rojas!”
“Yes, yes!” returned Ramon eagerly. “That is the only way left. Rojas must die!”
“Die!” laughed Caldwell comfortably. “Not a bit like it! I’m rather planning to improve his health.” He stopped and glanced up and down the narrow street. It was empty. He laid his hand impressively on the arm of the Venezuelan.
“To-day,” he whispered, “some one will send a letter—an anonymous letter—to San Carlos, telling the Commandante why General Rojas would be more comfortable in another cell.”