“Rev. Father,—As one who was for some years as a small boy educated at your society’s Stoneyhurst College, I beg to crave your assistance. A friend and I have been arrested on a perfectly frivolous and futile charge for grave purposes of the State, connected with the disappearance of three manuscripts relating to the sacred lake of Tangikano, in which I understand your society has a very real and vital interest. Can you, therefore, make it convenient to come and see me on the matter, or at least send a representative to me who is capable of giving me the best and most disinterested advice at this juncture? If so, words will fail to express my gratitude to you.
“Your distracted servant, José Zouche Casteno.”
“Please have that sent at once,” he said, passing the letter open for the officer to read.
“Any answer?” replied the man, taking the note and preparing to leave.
“Yes; pray tell the constable to wait,” returned Casteno, and the sergeant disappeared, and once more we were alone.
For my own part, I was too disgusted then to wrangle any further with the Spaniard. In a swift comprehensive fashion I realised that it was too late to upbraid, the mischief now was done, and that all I could do was to stand by and fight as best I could for the welfare of my own country independent of any adventurers like Cuthbertson on the one hand or of the Jesuits on the other.
After all, I saw, if I became too vocal, Casteno was in no mood to brook lectures from me. He always had a remedy against me—he could ask to be placed in a separate cell, and then I should be in a worse position than ever. I should know nothing of what he was doing to injure England, nothing at all.