“Immediately. You won’t reconsider, Morgan?” he said; perhaps a little lingering doubt assailing him.
“Reconsider! No, indeed! Just remember this is my funeral as well as yours. So trot along, my hearty, and keep one eye out for breakers ahead.”
Robbins laughed at my warning, said something in his kindly voice to the dark-faced little peon girl, who at once took hold of his big fist and walked at his side.
So we threaded the crowded, noisy thoroughfares of Bolivar, like knights of old, in quest of adventure; indeed, it struck me there was something very Quixotic in our astonishing mission, but Robbins seemed to be so deeply in earnest, I dismissed all idea of laughing at the matter, and resolved to see it through, no matter where the caprice of fortune might drift me.
Once I allowed my hand to rest lightly on the faithful little revolver I made it a point to always carry, though before this treasure trove had fallen to my share I had scorned to go armed save with nature’s weapons. Reassured by its presence, I transferred it to a side pocket of my blouse, and then felt better able to face a sudden emergency.
Everywhere the scene was pretty nearly the same; houses were illuminated, and crowds jostled us on the narrow pave; but we were in no hurry, and avoided the crush as much as possible.
One thing pleased me—we were not as yet headed for the meaner portion of the capital, but rather sought the better part, where the mansions of the wealthy lay. So my faith began to take root, and I even dared to mentally picture the poor American lady so far from her native land, who had evidently fallen into some trap, perhaps betrayed by those she trusted.
In and out we wound our way, attracting as little attention as possible, and finally the small guide drew up in front of a large building, the like of which was not to be found in all Bolivar.
“What! not this casa?” I exclaimed, aghast.
“Si, Señor Amer-i-cano, this casa,” she said with a serious nod.