Condon started. “You mean—?”
For a moment Hernandez said nothing, staring at the desk before him. Then:
“Armstrong!”
Condon’s hands twitched nervously. “How do you know—or suspect—this, Hernandez?”
“I am positive, Mr. Condon. I have a man working under me whom I trust implicitly. He is an Indian—one of those commonly known as a Mosquito Indian—they live down on the Mosquito Coast, you know——”
“Yes. Go on. What about him?”
“Well, he is a very intelligent fellow. Not a drop of black blood in his veins. Of course, many of the Indians in this country have their own superstitious beliefs, but not so this man. For years he has worked around foreigners—those ideas, if he ever had them, have been supplanted by those of civilization.
“This man told me that the witch doctor—an old dried-up black fellow, no telling how old he is—has been coming to the plantation. He was here the night before the water was poisoned. He has been here since. And lately the laborers have been going to see him—holding ceremonies and that sort of thing.
“And tonight——” Hernandez lowered his voice—“they go again! They are to be there at ten o’clock. The witch doctor is going to tell them that their lives are not safe on this plantation as long as you have anything to do with it. Tomorrow they will leave. And no other laborers will come here. Then—Armstrong thinks he can buy you out. You see, with Armstrong in charge, the curse will be removed.”
Condon secured a box of cigars from his desk, handed it to Hernandez, found a box of matches, lighted a cigar himself.