“It was to learn if she spoke the truth.”

“Oh, we’re married, right enough.  And you’ll have some difficulty in breaking it up before I get out.”

“You expect, then, to prove your innocence easily?”

“I do.”

“But I hear there are other serious charges.”

“It is quite the same with them.”

“But—­suppose you should not clear yourself of this—­murder—­would you wish to drag down my daughter’s name?”

“Of course not.”

“I understand you have not spoken of this marriage.  Perhaps you might consent to remain silent.  If by any chance you should be convicted of guilt, what satisfaction could you derive from injuring me and mine?”

“None at all, sir.”

“I am rich,” Garavel went on, meaningly.  “If you are acquitted, I might, perhaps, arrange amply for your future—­upon conditions.”

“In other words, if I am to be hanged or shot or whatever it is they do to people down here, you’ll expect me to keep my mouth shut on general principles, and if I’m acquitted you’ll pay me well to disappear.  Is that it?  Well, there is some family pride to that.”  He laughed lightly.

“My political future may depend upon it.”

“If I can help you in that way I’ll gladly keep silent as long as you wish, but I don’t think I care to make any further terms.”

“Make sure of this,” snapped the father, “your marriage will be annulled, no matter what you prove or fail to prove.  Already Chiquita is repentant, and I shall not rest until she is free.  You have done me a great injury, and I shall not forget it.”

On the following morning the leading American attorney of the city called at the jail, announcing that he had been retained as counsel, but refusing to tell who had employed him.  Supposing, of course, that he had been sent by friends who wished no publicity in the matter, Kirk did not press him for information.  Together they outlined their defence as best they could.  With characteristic optimism, Kirk insisted upon treating the charge against him as of little consequence, and it was not until he had undergone his preliminary hearing that he fully realized the gravity of his situation.

To his unspeakable indignation, the officer who had discovered Cortlandt’s body swore that he had seen the deceased pass him shortly before the time of his death, evidently taking a walk along the water’s edge for relief from the heat, and that immediately afterward—­perhaps a minute or so—­the prisoner had also passed, going in the same direction!  There was a street light close by, he said, and there could be no possible mistake as to Anthony’s identity.  A few moments later there had been a pistol-shot, muffled, but unmistakable, and the policeman had hastened in the direction from which it came.  The prisoner had appeared suddenly out of the darkness and hurried past.  In the politest manner possible, the witness declared, he had questioned him regarding