That brought out a cold sweat.
I remembered that I had not taken the trouble to ask her how she came to be in a foreign city like Bolivar, and a guest of the alcalde. Perhaps some one vested with authority had taken her there. I remembered the silver frame and the photograph of which I had obtained but a glimpse, enough to see that it was a man.
It would have pleased me had this bag been forgotten and left in the abandoned boat; but little Carmencita had kept tight hold of it.
Apparently, my condition might be considered very much mixed.
We were now nearing the yacht.
I could tell that those on board were anticipating a speedy move, for acting under orders, some one had started up the fires, and fresh sparks were shooting out of her funnel.
This was fortunate.
Bolivar, with its noble harbor, would not be the place for us after this night.
We must skip if we desired to avoid the consequences of bearding the august alcalde in his ancestral castle, and outraging his person with a knockdown argument.
Besides, much blood had been spilled, for which we must justly be held to account.