It was not, I must confess, a very alluring prospect. The oldhouse with its atmosphere of murder, the singular and formidableinhabitants, the unknown dangers of the approach, and thefact that we were putting ourselves legally in a false position allcombined to damp my ardour. But there was something in theice-cold reasoning of Holmes which made it impossible to shrinkfrom any adventure which he might recommend. One knew thatthus, and only thus, could a solution be found. I clasped his handin silence, and the die was cast.
But it was not destined that our investigation should have soadventurous an ending. It was about five o’clock, and the shadowsof the March evening were beginning to fall, when an excitedrustic rushed into our room.
“They’ve gone, Mr. Holmes. They went by the last train. Thelady broke away, and I’ve got her in a cab downstairs.”
“Excellent, Warner!” cried Holmes, springing to his feet.
“Watson, the gaps are closing rapidly.”
In the cab was a woman, half-collapsed from nervous exhaustion.
She bore upon her aquiline and emaciated face the traces of somerecent tragedy. Her head hung listlessly upon her breast, butas she raised it and turned her dull eyes upon us I saw that herpupils were dark dots in the centre of the broad gray iris. She wasdrugged with opium.
“I watched at the gate, same as you advised, Mr. Holmes,” saidour emissary, the discharged gardener. “When the carriage cameout I followed it to the station. She was like one walking in hersleep, but when they tried to get her into the train she came to lifeand struggled. They pushed her into the carriage. She fought herway out again. I took her part, got her into a cab, and here we are.
I shan’t forget the face at the carriage window as I led her away.
I’d have a short life if he had his way—the black-eyed, scowling,yellow devil.”
We carried her upstairs, laid her on the sofa, and a couple ofcups of the strongest coffee soon cleared her brain from the mistsof the drug. Baynes had been summoned by Holmes, and thesituation rapidly explained to him.
“Why, sir, you’ve got me the very evidence I want,” said theinspector warmly, shaking my friend by the hand. “I was on thesame scent as you from the first.”
“What! You were after Henderson?”
“Why, Mr. Holmes, when you were crawling in the shrubberyat High Gable I was up one of the trees in the plantation and sawyou down below. It was just who would get his evidence first.”
“Then why did you arrest the mulatto?”
Baynes chuckled.
“I was sure Henderson, as he calls himself, felt that he wassuspected, and that he would lie low and make no move so long ashe thought he was in any danger. I arrested the wrong man to makehim believe that our eyes were off him. I knew he would be likely toclear off then and give us a chance of getting at Miss Burnet.”
Holmes laid his hand upon the inspector’s shoulder.
“You will rise high in your profession. You have instinct andintuition,” said he.
Baynes flushed with pleasure.
“I’ve had a plain-clothes man waiting at the station all the week.
Wherever the High Gable folk go he will keep them in sight. Buthe must have been hard put to it when Miss Burnet broke away.
However, your man picked her up, and it all ends well. We can’tarrest without her evidence, that is clear, so the sooner we get astatement the better.”
“Every minute she gets stronger,” said Holmes, glancing at thegoverness. “But tell me, Baynes, who is this man Henderson?”
“Henderson,” the inspector answered, “is Don Murillo, once callthe Tiger of San Pedro.”
The Tiger of San Pedro! The whole history of the man cameback to me in a flash. He had made his name as the most lewdand bloodthirsty tyrant that had ever governed any country witha pretence to civilization. Strong, fearless, and energetic, he hadsufficient virtue to enable him to impose his odious vices upona cowering people for ten or twelve years. His name was a terrorthrough all Central America. At the end of that time there wasa universal rising against him. But he was as cunning as he wascruel, and at the first whisper of coming trouble he had secretlyconveyed his treasures aboard a ship which was manned bydevoted adherents. It was an empty palace which was stormedby the insurgents next day. The dictator, his two children, hissecretary, and his wealth had all escaped them. From that momenthe had vanished from the world, and his identity had been afrequent subject for comment in the European press.
“Yes, sir, Don Murillo, the Tiger of San Pedro,” said Baynes. “Ifyou look it up you will find that the San Pedro colours are greenand white, same as in the note, Mr. Holmes. Henderson he calledhimself, but I traced him back, Paris and Rome and Madrid toBarcelona, where his ship came in in ’86. They’ve been lookingfor him all the time for their revenge, but it is only now that theyhave begun to find him out.”
“They discovered him a year ago,” said Miss Burnet, who had satup and was now intently following the conversation. “Once alreadyhis life has been attempted, but some evil spirit shielded him.
Now, again, it is the noble, chivalrous Garcia who has fallen, whilethe monster goes safe. But another will come, and yet another,until some day justice will be done; that is as certain as the riseof to-morrow’s sun.” Her thin hands clenched, and her worn faceblanched with the passion of her hatred.
“But how come you into this matter, Miss Burnet?” askedHolmes. “How can an English lady join in such a murderousaffair?”
“I join in it because there is no other way in the world by whichjustice can be gained. What does the law of England care for therivers of blood shed years ago in San Pedro, or for the shipload oftreasure which this man has stolen? To you they are like crimescommitted in some other planet. But we know. We have learnedthe truth in sorrow and in suffering. To us there is no fiend in helllike Juan Murillo, and no peace in life while his victims still cry forvengeance.”
“No doubt,” said Holmes, “he was as you say. I have heard thathe was atrocious. But how are you affected?”