“I watched at the gate, same as you advised, Mr. Holmes,” said our emissary, the discharged gardener. “When the carriage came out I followed it to the station. She was like one walking in her sleep, but when they tried to get her into the train she came to life and struggled. They pushed her into the carriage. She fought her way 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 of cups of the strongest coffee soon cleared her brain from the mists of the drug. Baynes had been summoned by Holmes, and the situation rapidly explained to him.
“Why, sir, you’ve got me the very evidence I want,” said the inspector warmly, shaking my friend by the hand. “I was on the same scent as you from the first.”
“What! You were after Henderson?”
“Why, Mr. Holmes, when you were crawling in the shrubbery at High Gable I was up one of the trees in the plantation and saw you down below. It was just who would get his evidence first.”
“Then why did you arrest the mulatto?”
“I was sure Henderson, as he calls himself, felt that he was suspected, and that he would lie low and make no move so long as he thought he was in any danger. I arrested the wrong man to make him believe that our eyes were off him. I knew he would be likely to clear 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 and intuition,” 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. But he 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’t arrest without her evidence, that is clear, so the sooner we get a statement the better.”
“Every minute she gets stronger,” said Holmes, glancing at the governess. “But tell me, Baynes, who is this man Henderson?”
“Henderson,” the inspector answered, “is Don Murillo, once called the Tiger of San Pedro.”
The Tiger of San Pedro! The whole history of the man came back to me in a flash. He had made his name as the most lewd and bloodthirsty tyrant that had ever governed any country with a pretence to civilization. Strong, fearless, and energetic, he had sufficient virtue to enable him to impose his odious vices upon a cowering people for ten or twelve years. His name was a terror through all Central America. At the end of that time there was a universal rising against him. But he was as cunning as he was cruel, and at the first whisper of coming trouble he had secretly conveyed his treasures aboard a ship which was manned by devoted adherents. It was an empty palace which was stormed by the insurgents next day. The dictator, his two children, his secretary, and his wealth had all escaped them. From that moment he had vanished from the world, and his identity had been a frequent subject for comment in the European press.
“Yes, sir, Don Murillo, the Tiger of San Pedro,” said Baynes. “If you look it up you will find that the San Pedro colours are green and white, same as in the note, Mr. Holmes. Henderson he called himself, but I traced him back, Paris and Rome and Madrid to Barcelona, where his ship came in in ’86. They’ve been looking for him all the time for their revenge, but it is only now that they have begun to find him out.”
“They discovered him a year ago,” said Miss Burnet, who had sat up and was now intently following the conversation. “Once already his life has been attempted, but some evil spirit shielded him. Now, again, it is the noble, chivalrous Garcia who has fallen, while the monster goes safe. But another will come, and yet another, until some day justice will be done; that is as certain as the rise of to-morrow’s sun.” Her thin hands clenched, and her worn face blanched with the passion of her hatred.
“But how come you into this matter, Miss Burnet?” asked Holmes. “How can an English lady join in such a murderous affair?”
“I join in it because there is no other way in the world by which justice can be gained. What does the law of England care for the rivers of blood shed years ago in San Pedro, or for the shipload of treasure which this man has stolen? To you they are like crimes committed in some other planet. But _we_ know. We have learned the truth in sorrow and in suffering. To us there is no fiend in hell like Juan Murillo, and no peace in life while his victims still cry for vengeance.”
“No doubt,” said Holmes, “he was as you say. I have heard that he was atrocious. But how are you affected?”
“I will tell you it all. This villain’s policy was to murder, on one pretext or another, every man who showed such promise that he might in time come to be a dangerous rival. My husband–yes, my real name is Signora Victor Durando–was the San Pedro minister in London. He met me and married me there. A nobler man never lived upon earth. Unhappily, Murillo heard of his excellence, recalled him on some pretext, and had him shot. With a premonition of his fate he had refused to take me with him. His estates were confiscated, and I was left with a pittance and a broken heart.