* * * * *

It is necessary to break the thread of the story here to note an odd coincidence.  While there is a French steamer “Canada” belonging to the Compagnie Generale Trans Atlantique, and plying between New York and Havre, there is also an English steamer “Canada” belonging to the National Line, which travels between New York and London.  It so happened that on the same afternoon that the French vessel came in, as before narrated, the English steamer of like name also arrived.

Among the passengers who landed from the English “Canada” there was also a couple, man and woman, apparently Spaniards, and there was an undeniable resemblance between the man and Blanco.  The former, however, had features cast in a much rougher mould, and his general bearing indicated that he was not a gentleman, as plainly as Blanco’s did the reverse.

The luggage of the pair consisted of a single valise, which was carried by the woman, the man striding on ahead, leisurely puffing a cigarette.  They hired no carriage, but walked from the pier, across and up West Street, and took a street-car going to the east side of the city.

As soon as they left the conveyance the man spread out his arms and expanded his chest with a long breath.  The woman half smiled, and said something to him in Spanish.  Then they mingled with the crowd around Tompkins Square and disappeared.

* * * * *

Two days after Blanco’s arrest the physician, now in constant attendance upon his wife, filed the death certificate of a stillborn child.  Puerperal fever set in, and the life of the unhappy woman for more than two weeks trembled in the balance.  During the first week a telegram from New Orleans, which Blanco’s captor had permitted him to send, came, addressed to her.

The physician opened it; but as she was almost constantly unconscious, it was impossible to inform her of its contents for some days.  Then she was simply told that her husband had been heard from, and was safe.  The doctor peremptorily forbade any information being given her of Blanco’s true situation; and as she could not understand the language, and so glean intelligence from the newspapers, which contained reports of the inquiry conducted by the Commissioner, and the complete identification of the prisoner as Leon Sangrado, she, of course, remained in ignorance of what had happened.

Some five weeks elapsed before she was judged sufficiently strong to bear the shock which such news would inevitably produce.  Then she was told as gently as possible, all mention of the nature of the charges against Blanco being avoided.

She listened in silent surprise.

“But he has never been in Chili in his life,” she insisted.

The old doctor, himself a Spaniard, looked at her pityingly, but said nothing.

“He has been Consul before nowhere but at Trieste; how could he have been in South America?” she continued.