The Key to Yesterday Part 13

The other spoke eagerly.

"That morning when General Ojedas' forces entered Puerto Frio, and the government seized me, you were free. Then, I was released, and you arrested. You drew your conclusions. Oh, they were natural enough.

But, before heaven, they were wrong!"

Saxon felt that, until he had learned the full story, he must remain the actor. Accordingly, he allowed himself a skeptical laugh. Rodman, stung by the implied disbelief, took up his argument again:

"You think I'm lying. It sounds too fishy! Of course, it was my enterprise. It was a revolution of my making. You were called in as the small lawyer calls in the great one. I concede all that. For me to have sacrificed you would have been infamous, but I didn't do it. I had been little seen in Puerto Frio. I was not well known. I had arranged it all from the outside while you had been in the city. You were less responsible, but more suspected. You remember how carefully we planned--how we kept apart. You know that even you and I met only twice, and that I never even saw your man, Williams."

Through the bitterness of conviction, a part of Saxon's brain seemed to be looking on impersonally and marveling, almost with amus.e.m.e.nt, at the remarkable position in which he found himself. Here stood a man before him with a pistol pressed close to his chest, threatening execution, denouncing, cursing, yet all the while giving evidence of terror, almost pleading with his victim to believe his story! It was the armed man who was frightened, who dreaded the act he declared he was about to commit. And, as Saxon stood listening, it dawned upon him, in the despair of the moment, that it was a matter of small concern to himself whether or not the other fired. The story he had heard had already done the injury. The bullet would be less cruel....

Rodman went on:

"I bent every effort to saving you, but Williams had confessed. He was frightened. It was his first experience. He didn't know of my connection with the thing. So help me G.o.d, that is the true version."

The story sickened Saxon, coming to him as it did in a form he could no longer disbelieve. He raised his hands despairingly. At last, he heard the other's voice again.

"When the sc.r.a.p ended, and you were in power, I had gone. I was afraid to come back. I knew what you would think, and then, after you left the country, I couldn't find where you had gone."

"You may believe me or not," the painter said apathetically, "but I have forgotten all that. I have no resentment, no wish for vengeance.

I had not even suspected you. I give you my word on that."

"Of course," retorted Rodman excitedly, "you'd say that. You're looking down a gun-barrel. You're talking for your life. Of course, you'd lie."

Then, the revolutionist did a foolish and unguarded thing. He came a step nearer, and pressed the muzzle closer against Saxon's chest, his own eyes glaring into those of his captive. The movement threw Saxon's hands out of his diminished field of sight. In an instant, the painter had caught the wrist of the slighter man in a grip that paralyzed the hand, and forced it aside. The pistol fell from the nerveless fingers, and dropped clattering to the flagstones. As it struck, Saxon swept it backward with his foot.

Rodman leaped frantically backward, and stood for a moment rearranging his crumpled cuff with the dazed manner of a man who hopes for no quarter. His lower jaw dropped, and he remained trembling, almost idiotic of mien. Then, as Saxon picked up the weapon and stood fingering its trigger, the filibuster drew himself up really with dignity. He stretched out both empty hands, and shrugged his shoulders.

The fear of an enemy silently stalking him had filled his days with terror. Now that he regarded death as certain, his cowardice dropped away like a discarded cloak.

"I don't ask much," he said simply; "only, for G.o.d's sake kill me here! Don't surrender me to the government! At least, let the other fellows know that I was dead before their plans were betrayed."

"I told you," said Saxon in a dull voice, "that I had no designs on you. I meant it! I told you I had forgotten. I meant it!"

As he spoke, Saxon's head dropped forward on his chest, and he stood breathing heavily. The moonlight, falling full on his face, showed such heart-broken misery as might have belonged to the visage of some unresting ghost in an Inferno. His eyes were the eyes of utter despair, and the hand that held the pistol hung limp at his side, the weapon lying loose in its palm. Rodman stood wide-eyed before him. Had he already been killed and returned to life, he could hardly have been more astonished, and, when Saxon at last raised his face and spoke again, the astonishment was greater than ever.

"Take your gun," said the painter, raising his hand slowly, and presenting the weapon stock first. "If you want to kill me--go ahead."

Rodman, for an instant, suspected some subterfuge; then, looking into the eyes before him, he realized that they were too surcharged with sadness to harbor either vengeance or treachery. He could not fathom the meaning, but he realized that from this man he had nothing to fear. He slowly reached out his hand, and, when he had taken the pistol, he put it away in his pocket.

Saxon laughed bitterly.

"So, that's the answer!" he muttered.

Without a word, the painter turned, and walked toward the front of the cathedral; without a word, Rodman fell in by his side, and walked with him. When they had gone a square, Saxon was again himself except for a stonily set face. Rodman was wondering how to apologize. Carter had never been a liar. If Carter said he had no thought of vengeance, it was true, and Rodman had insulted him with the surmise.

Finally, the thin man inquired in a different and much softer voice:

"What are you doing in Puerto Frio?"

"It has nothing to do with revenge or punishment," replied Saxon, "and I don't want to hear intrigues."

A quarter of an hour later, they reached the main plaza, Rodman still mystified and Saxon walking on aimlessly at his side. He had no definite destination. Nothing mattered. After a long silence, Rodman demanded:

"Aren't you taking a chance--risking it in Puerto Frio?"

"I don't know."

There was another pause, broken at last by Rodman:

"Take this from me. Get at once in touch with the American legation, and keep in touch! Stand on your good behavior. You may get away with it." He interrupted himself abruptly with the question: "Have you been keeping posted on South American affairs of late?"

"I don't know who is President," replied Saxon.

"Well, I'll tip you off. The only men who held any direct proof about--about the $200,000 in gold that left about the same time you did"--Saxon winced--"went into oblivion with the last revolution. Time is a great restorer, and so many similar affairs have intervened that you are probably forgotten. But, if I were you, I would get through my affairs early and--beat it. It's a wise boy that is not where he is, when he's wanted by some one he doesn't want."

Saxon made no reply.

"Say," commented the irrepressible revolutionist, as they strolled into the arcade at the side of the main plaza, "you've changed a bit in appearance. You're a bit heavier, aren't you?"

Saxon did not seem to hear.

The plaza was gay with the life of the miniature capital. Officers strolled about in their brightest uniforms, blowing cigarette smoke and ogling the senoritas, who looked shyly back from under their mantillas.

From the band-stand blared the national air. Natives and foreigners sauntered idly, taking their pleasure with languid ease. But Rodman kept to the less conspicuous sides and the shadows of the arcade, and Saxon walked with him, unseeing and deeply miserable.

Between the electric glare of the plaza and the first arc-light of the _Calle Bolivar_ is a corner comparatively dark. Here, the men met two army officers in conversation. Near them waited a handful of soldiers. As the Americans came abreast, an officer fell in on either side of them.

"Pardon, senors," said one, speaking in Spanish with extreme politeness, "but it is necessary that we ask you to accompany us to the Palace."

The soldiers had fallen in behind, following. Now, they separated, and some of them came to the front, so that the two men found themselves walking in a hollow square. Rodman halted.

"What does this signify?" he demanded in a voice of truculent indignation. "We are citizens of the United States!"

"I exceedingly deplore the inconvenience," declared the officer. "At the Palace, I have no doubt, it will be explained."

"I demand that we be taken first to the United States Legation,"

insisted Rodman.

The officer regretfully shook his head. "Doubtless, senors," he a.s.sured them, "your legation will be immediately communicated with. I have no authority to deviate from my orders."

CHAPTER X

At the Palace, the Americans were separated. Saxon was ushered into a small room, barely furnished. Its one window was barred, and the one door that penetrated its thick wall was locked from the outside. It seemed incredible that under such stimulus his memory should remain torpid. This must be an absolute echo from the past--yet, he could not remember. But Rodman remembered--and evidently the government remembered.

About the same hour, Mr. Partridge called at the "Frances y Ingles,"

where he learned that Senor Saxon had gone out. He called again late in the evening. Saxon had not returned.