To Don Juan he also told a great deal, this time with intention, and, perhaps for that very reason, did not tell it well; although, as he had foreseen, the old Spaniard knew most of it already, and was deeply touched by the confidence. Basil wanted to learn exactly how matters stood, what had occurred recently, how Mrs Bush looked, where Bush spent his time and took his meals—a whole host of questions, which caused Don Juan to knit his brows, and to wonder how many he dare answer.
“If I tell him the whole truth, he will certainly come and kill the Scout officer, which would be very foolish.” The Spaniard sighed—he had heard what those natives who were sitting in the shadow of the belfry had seen occur on the balcony—“So I will tell him part, and leave the rest to fate. Who knows? Matters may adjust themselves.”
So he wrote discreetly, making the best of things, and after he had sent the letter, called on Mrs Bush and tried to comfort her, speaking as one who was almost old enough to be her grandfather, and was also a gentleman of Spain, could speak; but when he came to mention Basil Hayle he realised that this was a matter in which words were not of much avail, for, possibly, again, because of that most demoralising Law of the Bolo, Mrs Bush was losing all sense of the sanctity of conventions. Still, the visit was not a waste of time, for, when he took his leave, she knew that she had yet another very sincere friend, one who was always close at hand.
Don Juan’s letter followed Basil to Manila, whither he had been summoned to give an explanation of his doings on the night Felizardo buried his wife. Basil smiled grimly as he opened the envelope. He had been expecting something of the kind from the outset, and he was quite ready to face the trouble. When Father Doyle came in later that evening, Basil tossed the paper across to him. “What do you think of that, Father?” he asked.
The priest’s face grew grave. “I am sorry. It may be unpleasant for you. And you need not have gone. I was there because it was my duty; but you——”
Basil cut him short. “It was my duty, too. But for Felizardo, I do not suppose I should be here now. They would have killed me that day we hanged Juan Vagas, and—and there were other things as well.”
“Perhaps you are right. It does not follow that because you seem indiscreet you are wrong,” Father Doyle answered, speaking slowly. “They say, too, that I was indiscreet—and unpatriotic.”
The other looked up quickly. “Who says so? The Church?”
Father Doyle shook his head. “No—the Church understands, of course. But Commissioner Gumpertz says I was wrong,” and he smiled, possibly because he was thinking that the censure of the Head of the Department of Lands and Registration was but a small matter when one had the approval of the Church, as Mr Gumpertz himself presently found to his cost, when, on his own authority, he made a statement to the Press that the Commission would take steps against Father Doyle.
The following afternoon Basil called on Commissioner Furber, expecting a stormy interview, but found himself mistaken. The Commissioner was cold and severely official in manner, though, as the visitor was quick to note, there was none of that personal hostility which had marked their former meetings.