Kitabı oku: «Frank Merriwell's Triumph: or, The Disappearance of Felicia», sayfa 5
CHAPTER VII.
A STARTLING TELEGRAM
Sunset in the Enchanted Valley. Below the little waterfall which plunged down into the fissure at the southern end of the valley Frank and Bart had toiled hard all through the day. Their sleeves were rolled up and their clothes mud-bespattered. There they had worked in the sandy soil near the stream, and there they had found the shining stuff for which they sought. Every panful was carefully washed in the stream, showing dull yellow grains in the bottom when the last particles remained.
Not far away, on the level of the valley above them, set near the stream, was their tent. In front of it little Abe was building a fire and was seeking to prepare supper for them, knowing they would be ravenously hungry when they quit work for the night. At intervals the cripple hobbled to the brink of the fissure and looked down at them as they toiled.
No one had troubled them since their return to the valley. No longer did the place seem enchanted or mysterious. All the mysteries were solved, and it lay sleeping and silent amid that vast mountainous solitude.
“Well, Bart,” said Frank, as he dropped his spade, “it seems to me that the thing is done to our satisfaction. At the northern end of the valley we have found Clark’s quartz claim, and the specimens we have taken from it seem decidedly promising. Here we have located this placer, and we know from what we have washed out that it is rich and will prove extremely valuable while it lasts. Now it’s up to us to register our claims and open them for operation in the proper manner. We ought to be satisfied.”
“Satisfied!” exclaimed Bart. “You bet I am satisfied! What if I had remained in Boston, Merry? Why, I would be plugging away to-day on a poor paying job, with decidedly poor prospects ahead of me. It was a most fortunate thing for me when I decided to stick by you and come West.”
Frank smiled.
“It was lucky, Hodge,” he agreed. “But I don’t forget that you came without a selfish thought on your part. You came to help me in my fight against Milton Sukes. I am far better pleased for your sake than for my own that we have had this streak of luck. Let’s knock off for the night, old man. There’s no reason why we should stick to it longer.”
As they were climbing from the fissure by the narrow and difficult path, little Abe came rushing excitedly to the brink above and called to them.
“Come quick! Come quick!” he cried.
“What’s the matter, Abe?” asked Frank, alarmed by the boy’s manner.
“Somebody’s coming,” said the hunchback; “a man on a horse. He is coming right this way. He has seen the tent!”
“We may have some trouble after all, Merry,” said Hodge.
Ere they could reach the head of the path near the waterfall they plainly heard the thudding hoofs of the horse coming rapidly in that direction. When they had reached the level ground above they beheld the horseman approaching. It seemed that he observed them at the same time, for he suddenly waved his hat in the air and gave a yell.
“By Jove!” exclaimed Merry, “I know him! It is Wiley!”
“Right you are!” agreed Hodge. “What the dickens could have brought him here at this time?”
“Perhaps he has some message for me. You know I made arrangements with him to bring any message of importance.”
The sailor drew up his horse as he approached.
“Ahoy there, mates!” he cried. “At last I have struck port, although I’d begun to wonder if I’d ever find it. This confounded old valley has moved since I was here last. I thought I knew just where it was, but I have spent two whole days cruising around in search of it.”
“Hello, cap’n!” said Frank. “You’re just in time for supper.”
“Supper!” exclaimed the sailor. “Say it again! Supper! Why, I have been living on condensed air for the last twenty-four hours. Look at me! I am so thin and emaciated that I can’t cast a shadow. Hungry! Mates, a bootleg stew would be a culinary luxury to me. I will introduce ravage and devastation among your provisions. This morning I found an empty tomato can and another that once contained deviled ham, and I lunched off them. They were rather hard to digest, but they were better than nothing.”
He sprang down from his horse, which betrayed evidence of hard usage.
“How did you happen to come?” asked Merry.
Wiley fumbled in his pocket and brought forth a telegram.
“I believe I made arrangements to deliver anything of importance directed to you,” he said. “This dispatch arrived in Prescott, and I lost no time in starting to fulfill my compact.”
Merry took the telegram and quickly tore it open. There was a look of anxiety on his face when he had read its contents.
“Anything serious the matter?” asked Hodge.
“It’s a message from my brother, Dick,” answered Frank. “You know I wired him to address his letters to Prescott. He didn’t stop to send a letter. Instead he sent this telegram. You know Felicia Delores, Dick’s cousin, with whom he was brought up? The climate of the East did not agree with her, therefore I provided a home for her in San Diego, California, where she could attend school. Dick has learned that she is ill and in trouble. He wants me to go to her at once.”
“What will you do?” asked Hodge.
“I must go,” said Frank quietly.
Frank mounted the steps of a modern residence, standing on a palm-lined street in San Diego, and rang the bell. He was compelled to ring twice more before the door was opened by a sleepy-looking Mongolian.
“I wish to see Mr. Staples at once,” said Merry. “Is he home?”
“Mistal Staple not home,” was the serene answer, as the Chinaman moved to close the door.
Frank promptly blocked this movement with a foot and leg.
“Don’t be so hasty,” he said sharply. “If Mr. Staples is not home, where can I find him?”
“No tellee. Velly solly.”
“Then I must see Mrs. Staples,” persisted Merry.
“She velly sick. Velly solly. She can’t slee anyblody.”
“Well, you take her my card,” directed Merry, as he took out a card-case and tendered his card to the yellow-skinned servant.
“No take cald. She tellee me no bothal her. Go ’way. Come bimeby – to-mollow.”
“Now, look here, you son of the Flowery Kingdom,” exclaimed Merry, “I am going to see Mrs. Staples immediately, if she’s in condition to see anyone. If you don’t take her my card, you will simply compel me to intrude without being announced.”
“Bold, blad man!” chattered the Chinaman, with growing fear. “I callee police; have you ’lested.”
“You’re too thick-headed for the position you hold!” exasperatedly declared Merry. “Take my card to Mrs. Staples instantly, and she will see me as soon as she reads my name, Frank Merriwell, upon it.”
“Flank Mellowell!” almost shouted the Celestial. “You Flank Mellowell? Clome light in, quickee! Mladam, she expectee you.”
The door was flung open now, and Frank entered.
“Well, you have come to your senses at last!” he said.
“You no undelstand. Blad men velly thick. Blad men make velly glate tloubal. Little glil she glone; mladam she cly velly much, velly much!”
“Hustle yourself!” ordered Frank. “Don’t stand there chattering like a monkey. Hurry up!”
“Hully velly flast,” was the assurance, as the Mongolian turned and toddled away at a snail’s pace, leaving Frank in the reception room.
A few moments later there was a rustle of skirts, and a middle-aged woman, whose face was pale and eyes red and who carried a handkerchief in her hand, came down the stairs and found him waiting.
“Oh, Mr. Merriwell!” she exclaimed, the moment she saw him. “So it’s really you! So you have come! We didn’t know where to reach you, and so we wired your brother. He wired back that he had dispatched you and that he thought you would come without delay.”
Her agitation and distress were apparent.
“Felicia,” questioned Frank huskily; “what of her?”
“Oh, I can’t tell you – I can’t tell you!” choked the woman, placing the handkerchief to her eyes. “It’s so dreadful!”
“Tell me, Mrs. Staples, at once,” said Frank, immediately cool and self-controlled. “Don’t waste time, please. What has happened to Felicia? Where is she?”
“She’s gone!” came in a muffled voice from behind the handkerchief.
“Gone – where?”
The agitated woman shook her head.
“No one knows. No one can tell! Oh, it’s a terrible thing, Mr. Merriwell!”
“Where is Mr. Staples?” questioned Frank, thinking he might succeed far better in obtaining the facts from the woman’s husband.
“That I don’t know. He is searching for her. He, too, has been gone several days. I heard from him once. He was then in Warner, away up in the mountains.”
Merry saw that he must learn the truth from the woman.
“Mrs. Staples,” he said, “please tell me everything in connection with this singular affair. It’s the only way that you can be of immediate assistance. You know I am quite in the dark, save for such information as I received from my brother’s telegram. It informed me that Felicia was in trouble and in danger. What sort of trouble or what sort of danger threatens her, I was not told. In order for me to do anything I must know the facts immediately.”
“It was nearly a month ago,” said Mrs. Staples, “that we first discovered anything was wrong. Felicia had not been very well for some time. She’s so frail and delicate! It has been my custom each night before retiring to look in upon her to see if she was comfortable and all right. One night, as I entered her room, light in hand, I was nearly frightened out of my senses to see a man standing near her bed. He saw me or heard me even before I saw him. Like a flash he whirled and sprang out of the window to the veranda roof, from which he easily escaped to the ground.
“I obtained barely a glimpse of him, and I was so frightened at the time that I could not tell how he looked. Felicia seemed to be sleeping soundly at the time, and didn’t awake until I gave a cry that aroused her and the whole house as well. I never had a thought then that the man meant her harm. She was so innocent and helpless it seemed no one would dream of harming her. I took him for a burglar who had entered the house by the way of her window. After that we took pains to have her window opened only a short space, and tightly locked in that position, so that it could not be opened further from the outside without smashing it and alarming some one. I was thankful we had escaped so easily, and my husband felt sure there would be no further cause for worry. He said that, having been frightened off in such a manner, the burglar was not liable to return.
“Somehow it seemed to me that Felicia was still more nervous and pale after that. She seemed worried about something, but whenever I questioned her she protested she was not. The doctor came to see her several times, but he could give her nothing that benefited her. I continued my practice of looking in at her each night before retiring. One night, a week later, after going to bed, something – I don’t know what – led me to rise again and go to her room. Outside her door I paused in astonishment, for I distinctly heard her voice, and she seemed to be in conversation with some one. I almost fancied I heard another voice, but was not certain about that. I pushed open the door and entered. Felicia was kneeling by her partly opened window, and she gave a great start when I came in so quickly. A moment later I fancied I heard a sound as of some one or something dropping from the roof upon the ground.
“I was so astonished that I scarcely knew what to say. ‘Felicia!’ I exclaimed. ‘What were you doing at that window?’
“‘Oh, I was getting a breath of the cool night air,’ she answered. ‘With my window partly closed it is almost stuffy in here. Sometimes I can’t seem to breathe.’
“‘But I heard you talking, child,’ I declared. ‘Who were you talking to?’
“‘I talk to myself sometimes, auntie, you know,’ she said, in her innocent way. She always called me auntie. I confess, Mr. Merriwell, that I was completely deceived. This came all the more natural because Felicia was such a frank, open-hearted little thing, and I’d never known her to deceive me in the slightest. I decided that my imagination had led me to believe I heard another voice than her own, and also had caused me to fancy that some one had dropped from the roof of the veranda. After that, however, I was uneasy. And my uneasiness was increased by the fact that the child seemed to grow steadily worse instead of better.
“Often I dreamed of her and of the man I had seen in her room. One night I dreamed that a terrible black shadow was hanging over her and had reached out huge clawlike hands to clutch her. That dream awoke me in the middle of the night, and I could not shake off the impression that some danger menaced her. With this feeling on me I slipped out of bed, lighted a candle, and again proceeded to her room. This time I was astonished once more to hear her talking as if in conversation with some one. But now I knew that, unless I was dreaming or bewitched, I also heard another voice than her own – that of a man. My bewilderment was so great that I forgot caution and flung her door wide open. The light of the candle showed her sitting up in bed, while leaning on the footboard was a dark-faced man with a black-pointed mustache. I screamed, and, in my excitement, dropped the candle, which was extinguished. I think I fainted, for Mr. Staples found me in a dazed condition just outside Felicia’s door. She was bending over me, but when I told her of the man I had seen and when she was questioned, she behaved in a most singular manner. Not a word would she answer. Had she denied everything I might have fancied it all a grewsome dream. I might have fancied I’d walked in my sleep and dreamed of seeing a man there, for he was gone when my husband reached the spot.
“She would deny nothing, however, and what convinced us beyond question that some one had been in her room was the fact that the window was standing wide open. After that we changed her room to another part of the house and watched her closely. Although we persisted in urging her to tell everything, not a word could we get from her. Then it was that Mr. Staples wired Richard, your brother.
“Three days later Felicia disappeared. She vanished in the daytime, when every one supposed her to be safe in the house. No one saw her go out. She must have slipped out without being observed. Of course we notified the police as soon as we were sure she was gone, and the city was searched for her. Oh! it is a terrible thing, Mr. Merriwell; but she has not been found! Mr. Staples believes he has found traces of her, and that’s why he is now away from home. That’s all I can tell you. I hope you will not think we were careless or neglected her. She was the last child in the world to do such a thing. I can’t understand it. I think she must have been bewitched.”
Frank had listened quietly to this story, drinking in every word, the expression on his face failing to show how much it affected him.
“I am sure it was no fault of yours, Mrs. Staples,” he said.
“But what do you think has happened to her? She was too young to be led into an intrigue with a man. Still, I – ”
“You mustn’t suspect her of that, Mrs. Staples!” exclaimed Merry. “Whatever has happened, I believe it was not the child’s fault. When I placed her in your hands, you remember, I hinted to you of the fact that there was a mystery connected with her father’s life, and that he was an outcast nobleman of Spain. Where he is now I cannot say. I last saw him in Fardale. He was then hunted by enemies, and he disappeared and has never been heard from since. I believe it was his intention to seek some spot where he would be safe from annoyance and could lead his enemies to believe he was dead. I believe this mystery which hung like a shadow over him has fallen at last on little Felicia. I would that I had known something of this before, that I might have arrived here sooner. I think Felicia would have trusted me – I am sure of it!”
“But now – now?”
“Now,” said Frank grimly, shaking his head, “now I must find her. You say you heard from your husband, who was then in a place called Warner?”
“Yes.”
“Then he may have tracked her thus far. It’s a start on the trail.”
Mrs. Staples placed a trembling hand on Frank’s sleeve.
“If you find her – the moment you find her,” she pleaded, “let me know. Remember I shall be in constant suspense until I hear from you.”
“Depend upon me to let you know,” assured Frank.
A moment later he was descending the steps. He walked swiftly along the palm-lined streets, revolving in his mind the perplexing problem with which he was confronted. Seemingly he was buried in deep thought and quite oblivious of his surroundings. As he passed around a corner into another street he glanced back without turning his head. Already he had noted that another man was walking rapidly in the same direction, and this sidelong glance gave him a glimpse of the man.
Three corners he turned, coming at length to the main street of the city. There he turned about a moment later and was face to face with the man who had been following him. This chap would have passed on, but Frank promptly stepped out and confronted him. He saw a small, wiry, dark-skinned individual, on whose right cheek there was a triangular scar.
“I beg your pardon,” said Merry.
“Si, señor,” returned the man with the scar, lifting his eyebrows in apparent surprise.
“You seem very interested in me,” said Merry quietly. “But I wish to tell you something for your own benefit. It is dangerous for you to follow me, and you had better quit it. That’s all. Adios!”
“Carramba!” muttered the man, glaring at Frank’s back as Merriwell again strode away.
CHAPTER VIII.
FELIPE DULZURA
Frank did not find Rufus Staples at Warner. He had been there, however, and gone; but no one seemed to know where. The afternoon of a sunny day found Merry mounted on a fine horse, emerging from the mountains into a black valley that was shut in on either side by savage peaks. Through this valley lay a faint trail winding over the sand and through the forests of hideous cactus and yucca trees.
He had not journeyed many miles along this trail ere he drew up. Turning his horse about, he took a powerful pair of field glasses from a case and adjusted them over his eyes. With their aid he surveyed the trail behind him as far as it could be seen.
“I thought I was not mistaken,” he muttered, as his glasses showed him a mounted man coming steadily along from the foothills of the mountains. “I wonder if he is the gentleman with the scarred cheek. I think I will wait and see.”
He dismounted and waited beside the trail for the horseman to approach. The man came on steadily and unhesitatingly and finally discovered Frank lingering there. Like Merry, the stranger was well mounted, and his appearance seemed to indicate that there was Spanish blood in his veins. He had a dark, carefully trimmed Van Dyke beard and was carelessly rolling a cigarette when he appeared in plain view. His clothing was plain and serviceable.
Merry stood beside his horse and watched the stranger draw near. Frank’s hand rested lightly on his hip close to the butt of his holstered revolver, but the unknown made no offensive move. Instead of that he called, in a pleasant, musical voice:
“Good-day, sir. I have overtaken you at last. I saw you in advance, and I hastened somewhat.”
“Did you, indeed?” retorted Merry, with a faint smile. “I fancied you were coming after me in a most leisurely manner. But, then, I suppose that’s what you call hurrying in this country.”
“Oh, we never rush and exhaust ourselves after the manner of the East,” was the smiling declaration, as the handsome stranger struck a match and lighted the cigarette.
Although Frank was confident the man was a Spaniard, he spoke with scarcely a hint of an accent. In his speech, if not in his manner, he was more like an American.
“Seems rather singular,” questioned Frank, “that you should be traveling alone through this desolate region.”
“The same question in reference to you has been troubling me, sir,” retorted the stranger, puffing lightly at his cigarette. “To me it seems altogether remarkable to find you here.”
“In that case, we are something of a mystery to each other.”
“Very true. As far as I am concerned, the mystery is easily solved. My name is Felipe Dulzura. I am from Santa Barbara. I own some vineyards there.”
Having made this apparently frank explanation, the man paused and looked inquiringly at Merry, as if expecting at least as much in return.
Frank did not hesitate.
“My name is Frank Merriwell,” he said, “and I am a miner.”
“A miner?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You can’t have any mines in this vicinity.”
“Possibly I am looking the country over for an investment.”
“It’s possible,” nodded Dulzura. “But from your intelligent appearance, I should fancy it hardly probable.”
“Thanks for the compliment. In regard to you, being a planter, it seems quite unlikely that you should be surveying this region in search of a vineyard. It seems to me that I have been fully as frank, sir, as you have.”
Felipe Dulzura lifted an objecting hand.
“I have not finished,” he protested. “I didn’t mean to give you the impression that I was seeking vineyards here. Far from it. On the contrary, having a little leisure, I am visiting the old missions in this part of the country. They interest me greatly. There was a time, long ago, you know, when this land belonged to my ancestors. My grandfather owned a vast tract of it. That was before gold was discovered and the great rush of ’forty-nine occurred.
“I presume it is needless to state that my grandfather’s title to his lands was regarded as worthless after that and he lost everything. He died a poor man. My father was always very bitter about it, and he retired to Old Mexico where he spent his last days. I am happy to say that he did not transfer his bitterness toward the people of this country to me, and I have found it to my advantage to return here and engage in my present occupation. You should see my vineyard, Mr. Merriwell. I think I have one of the finest in the State.”
The manner in which this statement was made seemed frankly open and aboveboard. To all appearances, Felipe Dulzura had nothing to conceal and was unhesitating in telling his business.
“I, too,” declared Merry, “am interested in the old Spanish missions. They remind me of the days of romance, which seem so far removed.”
“Ah!” cried Dulzura, “then it may happen that we can journey a while in company. That will be agreeable to me. I confess that the trail has been lonely.”
The planter was most agreeable and friendly in his manner, and his smile was exceedingly pleasant. In every way he seemed a most harmless individual, but experience had taught Merry the danger of always trusting to outward appearances.
“Company of the right sort will not be disagreeable to me,” assured Frank.
“Good!” laughed Dulzura. “I am sick of talking to myself, to my horse, or to the landscape. I am a sociable chap, and I like some one to whom I can talk. Do you smoke, Mr. Merriwell? I have tobacco and papers.”
“Thank you; I don’t smoke.”
“Ah, you miss one of the soothing friends of life. When I have no other company, my cigarette serves as one. This beastly valley is hot enough! The mountains shut it in and cut off all the cool breezes. However, ere nightfall we should get safely out of it and come to San Monica Mission. It lies yonder near the old Indian reservation. I have heard my father tell of it, and it has long been my object to see it.”
For some little time they chatted, Dulzura seeming to be in the most communicative mood, but finally they prepared to go on together. When they were ready Frank suggested that his companion lead the way, as it was far more likely that he knew the trail better.
“No, no, Mr. Merriwell,” was the protest. “There is but one trail here. Like you, I have never passed over it. You were in advance; it would scarcely be polite for me to take the lead.”
Frank, however, had no thought of placing himself with his back turned on the self-styled planter, and, therefore, he insisted that Dulzura should proceed in advance, to which the latter acquiesced. As they rode on through the somewhat stifling heat of the valley, the Spaniard continued to talk profusely, now and then turning his head and smiling back at Merry.
“Next year,” he said, “I mean to visit Spain. I have never been there, you know. Years and years ago my ancestors lived there. I trust you will pardon the seeming egotism, Mr. Merriwell, if I say it’s not poor blood that runs in my veins. My ancestors far back were grandees. Did you ever hear of the Costolas? It’s likely not. There were three branches of the family. I am a descendant of one branch.”
“Costola?” murmured Frank. “The name seems familiar to me, but I presume there are many who bear it.”
“Quite true. As for our family, however, an old feud has nearly wiped it out. It started in politics, and it divided the Costolas against themselves. A divided house, you know, cannot stand. My grandmother was a Costola. She was compelled to leave Spain. At that time another branch of the family was in power. Since then things have changed. Since then that powerful branch of the family has declined and fallen. It was not so many years ago that the sole surviving member was compelled, like my grandmother, to escape secretly from Spain. He came to this country and here lived under another name, taking that of his mother’s family. I don’t even remember the name he assumed after reaching America; but I did know that the surviving Costolas hunted him persistently, although he managed to evade and avoid them. What has become of him now is likewise a mystery. Perhaps he is dead.”
The speaker suddenly turned so that he could look fairly into Frank’s face, smiling a little, and said:
“It’s not likely this interests you, sir.”
“On the contrary,” Merry smiled back, “I find it quite interesting. To me Spain is a land of romance. Being a plain American, the tales of those deadly feuds are fascinating to me. I presume the Costolas must have possessed large estates in Spain?”
“Once they did.”
“And the one you speak of – the one who was compelled to flee from the country – was he wealthy?”
“I believe he was reckoned so at one time.”
“And now,” said Frank, “if this feud were ended, if any offense of his were pardoned, could he not claim his property?”
“That I don’t know,” declared Dulzura, shaking his head.
“Well, then, if he has any descendants, surely they must be the rightful heirs to his estate.”
“I doubt, sir, if they could ever possess it. It must eventually be divided among his living relatives.”
“Ah!” cried Merry. “I understand, Mr. Dulzura, why you must have a particular interest in visiting Spain. It seems probable that you, being distantly related to this exiled nobleman, may finally come into possession of a portion of his property.”
“It’s not impossible,” was the confession, as the man in advance rolled a fresh cigarette. “But I am not counting on such uncertainties. Although my grandfather and my father both died poor, I am not a pauper myself. To be sure, I am not immensely rich, but my vineyards support me well. I have lived in this country and in Mexico all my life. In fact, I feel that I am more American than anything else. My father could not understand the democracy of the Americans. He could not understand their disregard of title and royalty.”
Frank laughed.
“Had he lived in these days,” he said, “and associated with a certain class of degenerate Americans, he would have discovered that they are the greatest worshipers of titles and royal blood in the whole world.”
“I think that may be true,” agreed the Spaniard, puffing at his cigarette. “I have seen some of it. I know that many of your rich American girls sell themselves for the sake of titles to broken-down and rakish noblemen of other countries. I think most Americans are ashamed of this.”
“Indeed they are,” seriously agreed Merry. “It makes them blush when a rich American girl is led to the altar by some broken-down old roué with a title, who has spent his manhood and wrecked his constitution in dissipation and licentiousness. Almost every week we read in the papers of some titled foreigner who is coming to America in search of a rich wife. We don’t hear of the scores and scores of American girls with wealthy parents who go abroad in search of titles. But we have forgotten the Costolas. Can you tell me anything more of them?”
“You seem strangely interested in them,” said Dulzura, again glancing back. “It almost seems as if you had heard of them before.”
“And it almost seems so to me,” confessed Frank. “I think I must have heard of them before. Sometime I shall remember when it was and what I have heard.”
But, although they continued to talk, the Spaniard told Merry nothing more of interest in that line. Finally they relapsed into silence and rode on thus.
Frank’s thoughts were busy when his tongue became silent. He remembered well that the most malignant and persistent enemy of little Felicia’s father was a man who called himself Felipe Costola. This man had made repeated efforts to get possession of Felicia, but had been baffled by Delores and had finally lost his life in Fardale. Beyond question, Felipe Costola was dead, and what had become of Juan Delores no man seemed to know.
Putting two and two together, Frank began to wonder if Delores might not be a Costola who had assumed the name of his mother’s family while living in Spain, thus arousing the everlasting enmity of all the Costolas, and who had finally been compelled to flee to America. In many respects the history of this man agreed with that told by Juan Delores himself. He had once told Frank the name and title by which he was known in Spain, but never had he explained the fierce enmity of Felipe Costola. Now Merry was speculating over the possibility that Delores must have once been a Costola.
If this was true, then little Felicia was, by the statement of Dulzura, the rightful heir to the estate in Spain. Meditating on this possibility, Frank fancied he obtained a peep behind the curtain which hid the mystery of Felicia’s disappearance. With the child out of the way, a false heir might be substituted, and the schemers behind the plot would reap their reward.
