to the nature of the disaster. Perhaps he lay dead in his room;
perhaps the government, suspecting him of treachery, had torn him away.
I did not hit on the exact truth, but my conjectures went very near it.

Rosa's wild fit had passed; she was no longer a weeping girl, but an
imperious mistress. Her tears were dried; she had banished her fear.
There was a light of scorn and command in her eyes.

"Away, cowards!" she cried. "Do you call yourselves men, and would not
try to save your master? Begone!" and she stamped her foot in passion.

The servants slunk off abashed, and she led me along the corridor. The
door of her father's room was closed, but she opened it, and said,
"Come in, Juan; see your friends' handiwork!"

The apartment was in total disorder. Chairs were overthrown; the table
was stripped of its contents; all kinds of articles lay strewn about
the floor: there were very evident signs of a fierce and prolonged
struggle. On one wall was the mark of a bullet, and a corner of the
apartment was splashed with blood. I gazed round eagerly for
Montilla's body, but it was not there.

"See," said the girl, "he was sitting there when the ruffians burst in
upon him. He fought for his life like a cavalier of old Spain, but the
cowards were too many. They flung themselves upon him like a pack of
wolves, and bore him to the ground."

"But who were they?" I asked in amazement. "Who did it? Tell me
plainly what happened."

"Need you ask?" she said coldly. "The ruffians were your friends--your
servants, for all I know."

"Rosa, you are speaking wildly. I do not wonder at it: this terrible
affair has upset your nerves."

Then she turned upon me, her eyes blazing with angry scorn.

"What is it that you wear beneath your tunic, Juan Crawford?" she
cried. "Are you ashamed that it should be seen?"

At first I did not understand her meaning; then a glimmer of the truth
began to dawn on me, and slowly I drew out the silver key.

"Do you mean this?"

"Yes! 'The chief of the Silver Key'--that is what the black-browed
ruffian called himself. Fancy my father, a Spanish gentleman, the
prisoner of a band of half-dressed savages--your friends, Juan
Crawford!"

"But I know nothing about it," I cried. "These men take no orders from
me. The key was given me by the chief when I myself stood in need of
protection."

"Nevertheless they are your friends, and they have dragged my father
from his home."

"Bu