The Fate of a Crown

“Because Dom Miguel suddenly developed inventive genius on his own part. I was absent when the work was completed, and too late I discovered that de Pintra had made pockets everywhere between the steel plates, and filled every pocket with nitro-glycerine.”

“Well?”

“That is all. To drill into the vault is to explode a pocket of nitro-glycerine, which in turn will explode all the other pockets through concussion.”

“And then?”

“And then the contents of the vault would be blown to atoms. Of the mansion itself not one stone would remain upon another. The records we seek would be lost irrevocably.”

Valcour, pale with fear, uttered a cry and dashed through the door, while the Emperor rose to his feet with a look of terror upon his face.

“They are drilling now!” he gasped.

Silently we stood, none daring to move; and into our drawn faces Piexoto gazed with a grim and derisive smile.

Paolo, more composed than any of the others, except Piexoto, began rolling a cigarette, but remembering the Emperor’s presence he ceased.

And so we stood, motionless and silent, until footsteps were again heard and Valcour re-entered wiping the perspiration from his forehead with an embroidered handkerchief. His face wore a look of relief, but there was a slight tremor in his voice as he said:

“I have ordered the drilling stopped, your Majesty.”

Dom Pedro, thus reassured, strode back and forth in evident perplexity.

“We must have the key!” he said, angrily. “There is no other way. And the key cannot be far off. Has your prisoner, the Mexican, recovered?”

“I will go and see,” answered the detective, and again left the room.

I caught a look of surprise upon the face of the Minister of Police. It was fleeting, but I was sure it had been there.

“May I inquire who this prisoner is?” he asked. One of the men who acted as secretary to the Emperor, receiving a nod from Dom Pedro, informed Paola of the finding of the dead body in the shrubbery, and of the consequent arrest of the Mexican.

“And the key was not found in his possession?” he inquired, eagerly.

“No.”

“Then he secreted it, fearing arrest. Have the out-buildings been searched?”

“Not yet.”

“Let it be done at once.”

Valcour, entering in time to hear this, flushed angrily.

“That is my business, Senhor Paola. I will brook no interference from the police.”

“Ah! had it not been for the police, Senhor Valcour would have blown his Emperor into eternity,” returned Paola, smiling blandly into the spy’s disturbed countenance.

“Enough of this!” cried the Emperor. “Let the grounds and out-buildings be carefully searched. Is your prisoner recovered, Valcour?”

“He is raving mad,” returned the detective, in a surly tone. “It requires two soldiers to control him.”

I breathed a sigh of relief, for I had feared the Mexican, in his terror, would betray the fact that he had given me the ring.

CHAPTER XVI

TRAITOR TO THE CAUSE

The Emperor retired while the search of the grounds was being conducted, and Piexoto and I were escorted to another room upon the ground floor and locked in. There were two unbarred windows looking upon the grounds, but a sentry was posted at each of these, and as we were still hand-cuffed, our escape was impossible.

For a time my companion did nothing but curse Paola in the most hearty and diversified manner, and I made no effort to stop him. But finally this amusement grew monotonous even to its author, and he asked me how I had allowed myself to be captured.

I therefore related my adventures, but said nothing about the ring.

“I have always suspected Paola,” he told me, “and often warned Dom Miguel against him. The man’s very nature is frivolous. He could not be expected to keep faith. Yet it is surprising he did not choose to betray the Emperor, rather than us; for the Revolution is too powerful and too far advanced to be quelled by the arrest of a few of its leaders.”

“But what of Fonseca?” I asked curiously. “Why was he not arrested also? Why was not his name mentioned to the Emperor?”

“I confess the fact puzzles me,” returned Piexoto, thoughtfully. “Fonseca is even more compromised than I am myself, and unless he had a secret understanding with Paola, and purchased immunity, I cannot account for his escaping arrest.”

“But the general will not forsake the cause, I am sure,” I said, earnestly. “And it seems that Senhor Bastro, also, has succeeded in eluding arrest. Therefore, should the royalists fail to find the key to the vault, all may yet be well, in spite of Paola’s treachery.”

“There is another perplexing matter,” returned Piexoto, pacing the room in deep thought. “Miguel de Pintra never told me the vault was sheathed with nitro-glycerine. Did you know it?”

“Yes,” I answered. “But the secret was revealed to me by Lesba Paola, the Minister’s sister.”

“I can scarcely believe it, nevertheless,” he resumed. “Yet what object could the traitor have in preventing their reaching the records, unless he knew the attempt to drill through the walls would destroy us all – himself included?”

“Perhaps he has fear that the records would incriminate him with the Emperor,” I suggested.

“Bah! He has made his terms, evidently. That he worked faithfully in our interests for a time is quite believable; but either the Emperor’s bribes were too tempting or he lost faith in the Cause.”

I was about to reply when the door opened to admit Paola. Piexoto paused in his walk to glare at the Minister, and I was myself no less surprised at the inopportune visit.

But Paola, with the old, smirking smile upon his face that nothing ever seemed to banish, nodded pleasantly at us and sat down in an easy-chair. He rolled a cigarette and carefully lighted it before he addressed us.

“Senhors, you are about to denounce me as a traitor to the Cause,” said he; “but you may both spare your words. Before the Cause existed I was Minister to the Emperor. A policeman walks in devious paths. If I am true to the oath I gave the Emperor, how dare you, Floriano Piexoto, who have violated yours, condemn me?”

“I don’t,” answered the other. “It is absurd to condemn a man like you. Treachery is written on every line of your false face. My only regret is that I did not kill you long ago.”

“Yet the chief, Dom Miguel de Pintra, trusted me,” remarked Paola, in a musing tone, at the same time flicking the ash from his cigarette with a deliberate gesture. “He was, it seems, the only one.”

“Not so,” said I, angry at his insolent bearing. “Your sister, sir, had faith in you.”

He looked at me with a quizzical expression, and laughed. I had ventured the remark in an endeavor to pierce his shield of conceit and indifference. But it seemed that even Lesba’s misplaced confidence failed to shame him, for at that moment the girl’s loyalty to the Cause seemed to me beyond a doubt.

“My sister was, I believe, an ardent republican. Poor little girl! How could she judge the merits of a political controversy? But there, senhors, let us have done with chidings. I am come for the key.”

Piexoto and I stared at each other aghast. The key! Could the Minister suspect either of us of possessing it?