His Unknown Wife. Tracy Louis

said Maseden, tearing open the tight-fitting blue coat. “I can put faith in you, I suppose?”

      “Señor – ”

      “Yes, I take it for granted. Besides, if you stick to me you may come out on top yourself. Valdez is dead. He was murdered last night, and Enrico Suarez stepped into his shoes… Oh, I know Enrico’s real name, but I haven’t a second to spare. I was sentenced to death early this morning, and married about an hour ago, just before being taken out to be shot… Well, I got away; how – is of no concern to you. In fact, it is better that you shouldn’t know.

      “A lady will come into possession here. She will call herself the Señora Maseden. Señor Porilla will introduce her. She and the lawyer are playing some game to suit Suarez and Steinbaum, the German consul at Cartagena. My escape may bother them a bit, but I cannot guess just how things will work out. What orders did Enrico’s lieutenant give you?”

      The foreman’s wits were rather mixed by his master’s extraordinary budget of news, but he answered readily.

      “He told me, señor, if I valued my life, to see that nothing was disturbed in the estancia till the president came or sent a representative.”

      “I thought so. That gives me a sporting chance.”

      Maseden had changed rapidly into his own clothes, an ordinary riding costume suitable to a tropical climate. He opened the safe, stuffed some papers into his pockets, also a quantity of gold, silver, and notes.

      Then he wrote a letter, and filled in a check. Having addressed and stamped the envelope, he handed it to his assistant.

      “In five minutes or less, you will be riding at a steady gallop towards Cartagena,” he said. “If possible, deliver that letter yourself to Señor Peguero, the American consul. By ‘possible’ I mean if you are not held up by soldiers or police on the way. Otherwise, keep it concealed, and post it when the opportunity serves.”

      Lopez knew the pleasant methods of his fellow-republicans.

      “They may search me, señor,” he said.

      “Not if you do as I tell you. Curse me fluently enough, and they’ll look on you as their best friend.”

      “Señor!” protested the old man.

      “Yes. I mean it. Call me all the names you can lay tongue to. When I leave this room I’ll follow you, revolver in hand. Be careful to scowl and act unwillingly. I want some food and a couple of bottles of wine, also a leather bottle full of water and a tin cup. Saddle the Cid, and see that three or four good measures of corn are put in the saddle-bags with the other things.

      “When I vanish rush to the stables, pick out a good mustang, and be in Cartagena within the hour. If not interfered with, take the letter to Señor Peguero. Don’t wait for an answer, but hurry at top speed to the Castle, where you must tell some one that I came back to the ranch and ordered you about at the muzzle of a revolver.

      “Lead the soldiers straight here. If Captain Gomez is in command, assure him that you rescued his uniform, and he’ll be your friend forever. Should you meet them on the way, turn back with them. You understand? You’re for the president and against me.”

      Lopez smiled till his face was a mass of wrinkles. He was beginning to see through the scheme, and was Spaniard enough to appreciate the leaven of intrigue.

      “But when and where shall I find you, señor, if you are taking a long journey?” he said, still grinning.

      “Not a mile away, if all goes well. Soon after dusk come to the Grove of the Doves at sunset. I’ll turn up. If you are delayed, and it is dark, hoot like an owl, and I’ll answer. If you don’t come at all I’ll know it’s too dangerous, and will be there again at dawn, at noon, and at sunset to-morrow. Pick up some news in Cartagena. You will be told, of course, that I have shot Suarez. Be careful to show your horrified surprise, and ask if the dear man is really dead. If he is, try and find out who is in power. Of course there’s a bare chance that Porilla may be made president, in which case I might be given a fair trial when an American man-of-war is anchored in the roads… Oh, by the way, you might find out who the lady is I married this morning.”

      “Señor!” gasped Lopez, in sheer bewilderment.

      “I haven’t the remotest notion who she is, or even what she looks like,” laughed Maseden. “Now, there’s no more time for talk,” and he raised his voice. “Obey me at once, you lazy old hound, or I’ll blow your brains out! Send a peon for the Cid. Fail me in one single thing, and I’ll put a bullet through your head!.. Margarita! Some bread and meat, quick! I’ll soon show you who is master in this house. Suarez may give orders in Cartagena, but I give them here!”

      Lopez hurried out, wringing his hands. Maseden followed, brandishing the revolver. Some timid servants, who had gathered in the patio at the news of their employer’s return, made as though they would run, but he stopped them with a fierce threat, and, while munching the food brought by an aged housekeeper, behaved and spoke so outrageously that they thought he was mad.

      Poor creatures! They had served him well in the past. Now he was trying to save their lives by giving them something to say against him when questioned by the president’s henchmen.

      Meanwhile, he had a sharp ear for the hoof-beats of a galloping horse. Pedro, knowing nothing of the scene in the estancia, was still on guard at the bend in the avenue, and might be trusted to give warning of the enemy’s approach. But Maseden was allowed to eat his fill.

      A very terrified Lopez brought a hardy-looking mustang to the gateway, and his master saw a repeating rifle slung to the saddle. That was a thoughtful thing. Such a weapon might be exceedingly useful.

      “Where are the cartridges?” he thundered.

      “Here, most excellent one,” stammered the other, producing a bandolier.

      The American swung into the saddle, swore at his co-conspirator heartily, and was off.

      So Lopez had a fine tale to tell when his mustang loped up to the entrance of the Castle of San Juan. He had a fine tale to hear, too, as he rode back to the ranch with a body of horse led by the fastidious and color-loving Ferdinando Gomez.

      The servants, of course, bore out the superintendent’s story of Maseden’s extraordinary behavior. Obviously, no one at the estancia was to blame for this daring prisoner’s second escape. The officer who had arrested him at daybreak should have left a guard in charge, but the plain truth was that the Cartagena men had been so anxious to take part in the stirring doings anticipated at the capital that no heed was given to this flaw in the procedure.

      That night, however, when Maseden met Lopez at the rendezvous, the Spaniard’s account of events was not reassuring.

      Suarez was living, and not very badly hurt, it was true; but every man’s hand seemed to be against the foreigner who had tried to kill him. Maseden was puzzled, at first, by this excess of patriotism on the part of the citizens of Cartagena and San Juan generally.

      “What do they think has become of me?” he inquired.

      “They argue, señor, that you have ridden into the interior, and telegrams have been sent to all the inland towns ordering your instant arrest. If you resist you are to be shot dead, and a reward of one thousand dollars will be paid when you are identified.”

      “Do they pay for me dead only?”

      “They offer two thousand for you alive, señor.”

      “Just to have the pleasure of potting me as per schedule… Any fear that you have been followed to-night, old friend?”

      “None, señor. The soldiers at the estancia believe you are many miles away. Moreover, I have put good wine on the table.”

      “Who is in charge there? Captain Gomez?”

      “No, señor, a stranger. El capitan went back to Cartagena. He nearly wept when he saw his boots. You had split them.”

      “You gave the consul my letter?”

      “I