“No, no!” she repeated, almost hysterically; “no beezness.  Ah, Dios!  El esta muerte.”

A physician was sent for, and the lady, who was fast reaching a stage of nervous prostration, placed in his care.  The hotel detective proceeded at once to Police Headquarters, whence telegrams were despatched to the various precincts, giving a description of the missing man, and making inquiries concerning him.  The replies were all in the negative:  no such person had come under the notice of the police.

From what has thus far been narrated, it might be inferred that Blanco’s absence was due to one of those strange disappearances which happen in great cities.  The inference, however, would be wrong.  Blanco had not disappeared.

True, his agonized wife and the police of New York City had no trace of his whereabouts; but Mr. Michael Chalmette, an officer detailed by the U.S.  Marshal in New Orleans to arrest Leon Sangrado, at the request of the Republic of Chili, on the charge of repeatedly committing murder and highway robbery in that country, was entirely sure that the missing person was sitting beside him, handcuffed to his left wrist, and that both were speeding toward New Orleans as fast as a railway-car could take them.

When the French steamer “Canada” arrived, Mr. Michael Chalmette, wearing the uniform and badge of a Custom House officer, stationed himself by the gang-plank and narrowly scrutinized each passenger that came ashore.  While Blanco’s trunks were being examined, he stood near that gentleman, and furtively compared his features with those on a photograph.  It was Chalmette who sent the card to Blanco’s room, in the hotel, next day, and who induced Blanco to accompany him in a carriage, as he said, to the Custom House, to arrange some irregularity in the passing of Blanco’s luggage.  The driver of that carriage, however, was told to go to the Pennsylvania Railroad Depot, in Jersey City.

Blanco evinced some surprise on being taken across the ferry, but was easily satisfied by his companion’s explanation that the branch of the Custom House to be visited was on the Jersey side.

When the station was reached Chalmette led the way to the waiting-room, and quietly observed, before the unsuspecting Blanco could finish a sentence beginning: 

“Ees it posseeble zat zees is ze Custom—­”

“You are my prisoner.  You had better come without making trouble.”

Blanco looked at him aghast—­not half comprehending the words.

“A prisoner—­I—­for what?”

Chalmette returned no answer, but produced his warrant.

“But I no understand—­I—­”

Just then the warning bell rung.  Chalmette seized his prisoner by the arm and pushed him through the gateway.

On the platform Blanco made some slight resistance.  The policeman, whose attention was attracted thereby, after a few words with Chalmette, assisted the latter in forcing him upon the train, which was already slowly moving out of the depot.