Chapter XXII An Unexpected Meeting
My knowledge of Sarita’s real relations with the Carlist leaders was, of course, too slight to enable me to form anything approaching a definite opinion as to where she would go. I could only guess, build up a workable theory, and act upon it until something turned up to guide me.
I had one or two points in my favour, the chief being that her brother was probably to be sought, under the name of Solano, either at Saragossa or Daroca. I regarded it as likely that she would endeavour to join Ramon, if other considerations did not render such a course undesirable.
My plan was quickly formed. I intended to adopt the Carlist character of Ferdinand Carbonnell, and in that name push my inquiries among the Carlists themselves. The name was a sure passport among them, or it would be unless Sarita herself should proclaim me an impostor. That was a contingency which I did not anticipate, but I had no option but to face it.
In this character, there were two men who might be valuable allies—Dr. Vedia, at whose house I had been the previous night, and Vidal de Pelayo, either in Saragossa itself, or at Huesca.
I resolved to go first to the doctor, and hurried to the Calle Valencia. If Sarita had left Madrid, I guessed it would have been by the doctor’s help, and I worked on that theory. I found Dr. Vedia in a condition of considerable nervous excitement.
“It is very dangerous to come here, senor,” he said, directly.
“It is not a time to think of personal considerations, doctor. You have had Senorita Castelar here, and I am anxious to know that she succeeded in getting the disguise she sought to leave the city.” I deemed it best to appear to know everything, and I watched him like a lynx for any sign that my guess was right. The start he gave was very slight, but perceptible to eyes looking for it, and without waiting for his answer I made a further shot. “The railway to Saragossa is watched with Argus eyes by Quesada’s men—you know that, of course—but I thought she might learn through you if the attempt to get away might be dared.”
“She told me you knew nothing of her journey,” he said, completely off his guard in surprise.
“That is immaterial,” I replied, nodding my head, smiling, and waving the remark aside as a superfluity, seeing that I had already shown my knowledge. “I thought that either a peasant’s or a nun’s dress would be safest, and knew, of course, that she could get from you one or the other.” It was notorious that disguises of the kind were frequently kept in the houses of the Carlist agents. “And she came to you because of all our houses in Madrid, yours will be the least suspected.”
“I don’t understand you,” he said then, cautiously.
“Nor is it necessary,” I returned, warmly, with an air of offended authority. “It is your part, senor, to comply with the requests laid upon you, not to question their wisdom or expediency.” My sternly-uttered, insolent bluff succeeded where anything else might well have failed.
“I did all that lay in my power,” he replied, almost apologetically.
“All I want to know is that she got away. So much depends upon her mission that I came for the news at first hand. Will she get through to Daroca—you know the movement there?”
“I knew nothing of it until I read the news this morning, which the senorita confirmed. I have every hope she will get through. Heaven send she may be in time.”
“So we all pray to-day,” I answered, mysteriously; for I did not in the least know what news he meant and dared not question him. I had the news I wanted, however, and was turning to leave when he stopped me.
“I ought to tell you, I think, that she warned me particularly against you.”
“She was quite right, but she knows no more than you, senor. These are troubled times;” and having given him this conundrum to chew at leisure, I added: “I am glad to tell you the trouble will pass your house untouched,” and then left him, congratulating myself that I had completely mystified him and had much impressed him with my importance as a Carlist emissary.
The next problem was how to get out of the city and follow Sarita to Daroca. As I had said to Dr. Vedia, the railways were infested with police, and watched closely. In all probability every applicant for a ticket would be under observation, and would have to give a sufficient reason for his journey as well as a good account of himself; and not only had I no papers of any kind, but I must almost inevitably be the object of embarrassing police solicitude.
As I neared the station, therefore, I entered a restaurant, and calling for some wine, told the waiter to bring me a time-table and a newspaper. A glance at the paper showed me it was full of the Carlist troubles. There was a short official account of the young King’s adventure and a dozen unofficial ones, while from all parts of the country were scores of telegrams speaking of Carlist outbreaks, actual and anticipated. Among these was one that arrested my attention instantly.
The Carlist movement was described as being in chief force along the eastern littoral, from Alicante to the north of Barcelona; and spreading over the whole of Catalonia and Aragon; while Huesca, Saragossa and Daroca were referred to as so many central danger spots inland.
The message from Saragossa contained the following:
“Telegrams from Daroca suggest that that secluded place, being so difficult of access, has been used as a kind of headquarters for a strong and active Carlist body; the proximity to the mountains having rendered it especially liked by those bands of wild and lawless mountaineers who are known to be deeply embroiled in the present disturbances. The government agents here (Saragossa) have learnt that a man known as Solano, believed to be one of the most reckless and venturesome of the Carlist propagandists, came here lately from Daroca. He narrowly escaped capture, and in the room he had occupied were found a quantity of compromising documents, such as addresses to the people and stamped brevets of appointments in a Castilian rifle brigade. A quantity of arms and ammunition were also discovered through the papers he left when he fled. The situation here is decidedly serious. A conflict has occurred between here and Huesca, in which blood was shed, and the military beaten by the superior numbers of the Carlists. The authorities have now closed all the known Carlist clubs, have arrested a number of the leaders, and have placed many others under close police and military surveillance. There is every fear of an outbreak.”
The news might well make me grave. It was into this hornets’ nest I had to follow Sarita, and in following her had to take the double risk of danger from both sides.
If the police agents identified me, I should be clapped into gaol by them as the dangerous revolutionary, Ferdinand Carbonnell; while the Carlists might very probably hold me for a spy and a traitor, the proper mark for either bullet or dagger.
But go to Saragossa and on to Daroca, aye, and on to the end of the world, I would, if necessary, and if I could get there, in search of Sarita; and, putting down the paper, I picked up the railway guide to find the route and the train time.
Then came a very pertinent and unpleasant reminder of the difficulties ahead of me. Chancing to glance into the street, I saw three men in earnest conversation close to the door, and recognised two of them; Senor Rubio, the official who had been at Quesada’s house the night before, and the man who had come in search of me to the Hotel de l’Opera. The third was a stranger.
They stood for two or three minutes talking earnestly, and when they parted, the two I knew went together hurriedly toward the railway. I sauntered to the door and watched them enter the station, after exchanging a word with one or two men standing about in front of the building.
How could I hope to get away unrecognised, was my perplexed thought as I returned to my table. These men knew me personally, and had spoken to me; one of them had my photograph, and I did not doubt that it had been reproduced by the hundred and distributed among the police spies. Quesada was not the man to do things by halves, and this Rubio was no doubt both a willing and clever agent.
Still, the attempt must be made, and if they laid hold of me I must rely on the Embassy or the palace to procure my liberty; and I turned up Daroca in the guide. It was a beast of a place to get at and there was no train for some hours.
It was the terminus of a loop-line some forty odd miles south of Saragossa, and could only be reached by going to that place first. It seemed to be a sort of cul-de-sac with the mountains all about it—just the place of all others in the country that would be most difficult to reach, and having been reached, probably a hundred times worse to leave. As I realised the inaccessibility of the spot, and the proportionate increase in my difficulties and risks, my irritation and chagrin found vent in a curse which paradoxically proved most providential.
“Damn the place,” I exclaimed aloud, heartily, as I tossed the book on the table.
“That’s just the sweetest word I’ve heard to-day, and if it is anything to do with the railway, sir, I’d like to join you in the curse.”
The speaker was a florid, flabby-faced, square-shouldered, middle-aged man, who was sitting at the other end of my table, and received my look of surprised and somewhat intolerant protest at his interruption, with a broad, good-natured, knowing smile.
“No offence, I hope,” he went on, glibly, “I meant none; but when I heard you swear in dear old English, I couldn’t help chipping in. This is an infernal country to do business in at the best of times, but at the worst, and I suppose this is about the worst; it’s the most God-forsaken, riotous, bundle-you-about, stick-a-knife-into-you-if-you-say-anything, and run-you-in-if-you-don’t cursed hole that ever a man was condemned to travel in. I don’t do much in their beastly lingo at any time, and I haven’t heard a word of English this day till I heard your ‘damn,’ and if there’s any sympathy in any word of ours, I say it’s in a good old hearty damn. And damn the place I say too.”
“You put it crudely, my friend, but there’s something in the theory, perhaps; though I haven’t heard it before,” I replied, amused, in spite of myself. “What’s your worry? I know what you call the lingo, and if I can help you, well, we’re both English, and that’s enough.”
“My name’s Hunter, David Hunter, of the firm of Ross and Catter, the lace people of London, Nottingham, Calais, and everywhere where lace counts. You’ll know them if you’re on the road, or ever have been;” and he gave me one of his business cards.
“I’ve been on a good many roads,” said I, taking the card; “but never on such a queer one as this.”
“May I ask your name, sir?”
“Glisfoyle.”
“Glisfoyle, umph, I haven’t met it. In any particular line, may I ask?”
“In no particular line at present; travelling for myself, and not exactly on business, commercial business, that is. But all the same, if I can be of any service, I shall be glad.”
“I wish you could, but it isn’t anything to do with the language, as you suggested. I can patter along in my way, sufficient for what I want. But this isn’t the lingo. I wanted to get to Daroca; a big order depends on my getting certain samples there, and now they tell me the place is full of those hot-headed fools of Carlists, and that it’s as much as a man’s life is worth to poke his head into the hole. I like my firm, and like a good order too, but I like my head a thundering sight better; and so I say, damn the place and the Carlists too—stopping business in this fat-headed way.”
The mention of Daroca set my ears tingling, as may be imagined. Here might be a chance in a thousand for me to get there, and while he chattered, I thought and planned.
“I am going to Daroca,” I said quietly. “If you like we could travel in company, and if one of us chanced to get killed—not, perhaps, a great improbability—the other could deliver your samples. The order might thus reach your firm, and even if you were not fortunate to live and profit by it your widow might be glad of the commission. I know there’s danger there, but then a man can only die once, Mr. Hunter, and how better than in the performance of his duty?”
His fat, flabby face paled slightly, and I went on to give a vivid and coloured picture of the risks, until he was obviously very much frightened indeed.
“And you are going to such a place?” he asked, looking at me as though I were a madman.
“Oh yes, why not? It’s so difficult to find a little excitement nowadays,” I said, in a rather languid, bored tone. “You’ll find it pleasant enough after a bit.”
“No thank you, sir. David Hunter doesn’t travel in bullets and guns and explosives. My skin ain’t warranted not to puncture either. It’s out of my line altogether. But if you really mean that you are going, that you’re really bent on going——” he stopped and looked at me.
“Well?”
“I wouldn’t do a blessed thing to persuade any fellow creature to shove his head into such a devil’s pit, but if you are going, perhaps you wouldn’t mind undertaking a little commission for me.”
“Not the least in the world. What is it?”
“It’s only to deliver a few samples—they aren’t big enough to bother you, and just say they’re from me,” and he gave me particulars of what he wanted. “It wouldn’t take me an hour, and I’d be awfully obliged to you, and so would my firm.”
“I don’t care a cent for your firm, but I’ll do it to oblige you, Mr. Hunter, if you think you can trust me with the samples.”
“I hope I know a gentleman when I see one, Mr. Glisfoyle; and you’re one of the right sort. Besides, the samples are of no great value;” and this excellent caution made me smile.
“I won’t run away with them, anyhow; and if you’ll go to the station when the time comes and get me a ticket—get a return if you can, and if any questions are asked just give your own name and the lace business as the reason for the journey, and you may consider the thing settled.” I handed him a bank-note.
“Oh, you think they mightn’t let you go then?” he said, shrewdly.
“They will let a man with definite business to do pass much more readily than one who can plead nothing more than a wish to see the fun.”
He gave me a meaning look, a knowing twist of the head, and a wink.
“I twig. I’ll soon have a ticket,” he said, and went off briskly. He was soon back with the ticket. “It’s all right. I gave a card and showed ’em my samples, and that did the trick. And if you don’t mind my giving you a wrinkle, you take my case with you and some of my cards. Looks workmanlike;” and seeing the policy of it, I accepted the case.
“We’ll go over together when the train’s due out,” I said; “and as there might still be some questions asked, you’d better appear to be going until the last moment.”
In this way we managed. Just before the train was due out we went together and I kept as much out of sight as possible; and taking care to avoid Rubio and the other official who knew me, I succeeded, under the pretence of seeing Mr. Hunter off, in getting away without any difficulty at all. It was so simple a matter indeed that I was disposed to laugh at my careful precautions; but I had ample reason to be glad of them before we had travelled far. Not once only but half a dozen times I had to show my ticket and explain the purpose of my journey, and that I was Mr. David Hunter, representing the great lace firm of Messrs. Ross & Catter.
Nor were those the only exciting incidents of the journey. We made a stoppage of some minutes at a station some thirty miles out from Madrid, Guadalajara, and there I made the unpleasant discovery that the police agent Rubio was travelling by the same train. I caught sight of him as he was walking along the platform scanning the passengers pretty closely. I thrust my head out of the opposite window, therefore, and kept it out until we started again, feeling, I must admit, profoundly uncomfortable.
He did not see me, however, or at any rate recognise me, but I did not breathe freely until we were well clear of the station and again steaming north, when I drew in my head and resumed my seat, with a casual look at the fresh passengers who had entered the carriage at the station. And then I made a discovery, which sent the blood for an instant rushing to my heart and made me catch my breath in sudden dismay.
Right opposite me, their knees almost touching mine and their eyes staring full into my face, were two men, whom I recognised instantly, and who were as unwelcome fellow-passenger’s as the keenest scented police spy in Spain could have been.
They were two of the men from whose hands I had snatched the young King on the previous day. One was the man I had ridden down and then knocked unconscious on the road, and the other was he who had come running up at the last moment, whose horse I had borrowed for the young King’s use.
If they recognised me, and both were staring at me as though trying to place me in their memory, who could tell what would be the result? We had over 100 miles to travel together, if they were bound for Saragossa; and the thought of it might well set my teeth on edge.
With an effort I pulled myself together, however, and to get my nerves quite steady, I opened Mr. Hunter’s despatch case, holding it on my knees with the name turned towards them, and made a pretence of looking through my samples, watching them well the while. I saw them interchange a sneer and a shrug of the shoulders as they rolled fresh cigarettes. I thanked my luck profusely. That little ruse of the small silken mask had kept my secret safe, and they did not know me. Very soon their interest in my features slackened, and they began to talk in low tones.
When I felt safe, my doubts gave place to pleasure; and I set to work to consider whether I could turn the incident to good account and make use of the two men for the purpose I had in view.
What better chance could I ever hope to have of playing my part of Carlist leader? These two were sure to be among the best known of the Carlists; for none but picked men would have been told off for such a task as theirs of the previous day. It was clear they did not know me; and as Ferdinand Carbonnell was to them or to anyone no more than a name, why should I not declare myself to them in that name? That I knew them would be sufficient to impress them greatly; while the interchange of the password would probably convince them of my sincerity.
It was an easy guess that they were on their way either to Saragossa or to Daroca; and they had no doubt come so far on horseback or on foot, deeming it safer to join the train where they had, than to risk going back to do so at Madrid. In all probability their object in going there was the same which had taken Sarita in the same direction. Either it had been pre-arranged that the leaders should gather there in the event of the abduction plot failing, or there had been some summons when the failure was known.
All these thoughts and a hundred other conjectures rushed into my mind as I sat fiddling with the bits of lace and making sham jottings in a pocket-book. And I resolved to take the risk.
Catching one of them looking at a bit of the lace I smiled and, holding it towards him, said casually—
“A pretty bit of work that, senor.”
He took hold of it gingerly and nodded with a laugh, as if to humour me.
“Very, senor; but I don’t know anything about it; and don’t want any.”
“I’m not offering to sell it you. But anyone can tell good lace, I should think. That’s a bit of a kind—fit for a King’s ransom;” and I looked him straight in the eyes. It was a somewhat daring move, but I wanted them both to look well at me with the thought of the King in their minds; and so that I could be quite positive that they did not know me. They both grunted, and one of them swore softly under his breath; but no look of recognition came into his eyes.
“Thank you, I don’t want any, senor,” was the answer, shortly spoken, as though to close the conversation.
“Ah well, I suppose you’ve no King to ransom,” I returned, and laughed pleasantly; but as the laugh ended, I looked again at him meaningly; and then surprise and question showed on his face.
“Do you travel in this?” he asked, sharply.
“Yes, my name’s Hunter, David Hunter, of the great lace firm of Ross and Catter, of London. Here’s my card;” and I handed him one; I said this for the benefit of the rest of the people in the carriage who were listening. “If you care about such things, I can find you something of interest.”
“I don’t, thank you, Senor Hunter. Odd time for such business, I should think,” and he returned the card.
“Depends on the business, of course,” said I, “and of course on the man. I’m going to Daroca; and expect to do a good stroke there,” and while I was speaking, I wrote on the back of the card: “Counting all Renegades lovers of Satan. By the Grace of God;” and covering it with a piece of lace, I handed it to him again. “Now, there’s something you might care to see.”
The start he gave caused him to let his cigarette fall, and as he stooped down to recover it, he whispered for me to hear—
“By the Grace of God,” and when he sat up his face was set like steel in his sudden excitement. He muttered a word to his companion and passed him the card. He in his turn was scarcely less excited.
“It’s quite a unique pattern. Very rare;” I said; and when he returned me the lace and card, I scribbled hurriedly my name, “Ferdinand Carbonnell;” and as they read it our eyes met.
“You are right, senor. We have never seen anything like it before, and are more glad than we can tell you to have seen it to-day.”
“I thought you would be interested,” I replied, lightly; and taking the card I tore it into a hundred pieces, and flung it out of the window; and in silence put the samples away into the case.
All had gone well, so far, very well; for I had turned two of the most dangerous enemies a man could well have, into two staunch allies at the very moment of peril.