Torres tossed the dead cigarette away, twisted his mustache fiercely, and advanced to meet them across the piazza.
“One does not expect to see a shameless murderer here.”
Francis smiled.
“Another lunatic in this lunatic land,” he said. “The last time, Leoncia, that I saw this gentleman was in New York. He was really anxious to do business with me. Now I meet him here and the first thing he tells me is that I am a shameless murderer.”
“Senor Torres, you must apologize,” she declared angrily. “We don’t insult guest in the house of Solano.”
“Senor Torres,” Francis said. “I know what your mistake is. You think I am Henry Morgan. I am Francis Morgan, and you and I, not long ago, transacted business together in Regan’s office in New York.”
Torres, overwhelmed for the moment by his mistake, uttered apologies both to Francis and Leoncia.
“And now,” said Leoncia, “Senor Torres, we will tell you about Henry.”
While she departed, Torres found he was more amazed and angry than ever. A newcomer, a stranger put a ring on Leoncia’s engagement finger! He thought quickly and passionately for a moment. Leoncia, whom to himself he always named the queen of his dreams, had engaged herself to a strange Gringo from New York. It was unbelievable, monstrous. He clapped his hands, summoned his hired carriage.
After lunch, Francis, eager to bring to Henry the good word that his ring adorned Leoncia’s finger, resolutely declined her hospitality to remain for the night and meet Enrico Solano and his sons. Francis had a further reason for hasty departure. He could not endure the presence of Leoncia. She charmed him, drew him, to such extent that he dared not endure her charm. So Francis departed with a letter to Henry from Leoncia in his pocket. Leoncia stared at the ring on her finger with a vaguely troubled expression.
From the beach, Francis signaled the Angelique to send a boat ashore for him. But suddenly half a dozen horsemen rode down the beach upon him at a gallop. Two men led. The following four had guns. Of the two leaders, Francis recognized Torres.
“Now, sirs, tell me, what do you want? Is it my ears, or merely my mustache, you want?”
“We want you,” answered the stranger leader.
“And who might you be?”
“He is the honorable Senor Mariano Vercara e Hijos,[45] Jefe Politico of San Antonio,” Torres replied.
“Good night,” Francis laughed, remembering the man’s description as given to him by Henry. “I suppose you think I’ve broken some sanitary regulation by anchoring here. But I am only the charterer of the schooner just a passenger. You must talk to the Captain.”
“You are wanted for the murder of Alfaro Solano,” was Torres’ answer. “You didn’t fool me, Henry Morgan, with your talk up at the hacienda that you were some one else. I know that some one else. His name is Francis Morgan, and he is not a murderer, but a gentleman.”
“Oh!” Francis exclaimed. “But you recognized me, Senor Torres!”
“I was fooled,” Torres admitted sadly. “But only for a moment. Will you come peaceably?”
“Yes,” Francis shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose you’ll hang me at daybreak.”
“Justice is swift in Panama,” the Jefe Politico replied. “But not so quick as that. We will not hang you at daybreak. Ten o’clock in the morning is more comfortable, don’t you think?”
“Oh, by all means,” Francis retorted. “Make it eleven, or twelve noon I won’t mind.”
