that there really was some fear that his mental faculties would lose
their balance. He jumped about, and twisted about, and wrestled about
as if he really had got hold of his enemy’s body. Then suddenly he
cried, “Now for chance! Heaven help me now, logic is powerless!”
His hand seized a bell-pull hanging near his table. The bell rang
furiously, and the magistrate strode up to the door, which he opened.
“Bobo!” he shouted.
A moment or two elapsed.
Bobo was a freed negro, who was the privileged servant of Jarriquez.
He did not appear; it was evident that Bobo was afraid to come into
his master’s room.
Another ring at the bell; another call to Bobo, who, for his own
safety, pretended to be deaf on this occasion. And now a third ring
at the bell, which unhitched the crank and broke the cord.
This time Bobo came up. “What is it, sir?” asked Bobo, prudently
waiting on the threshold.
“Advance, without uttering a single word!” replied the judge, whose
flaming eyes made the negro quake again.
Bobo advanced.
“Bobo,” said Jarriquez, “attend to what I say, and answer
immediately; do not even take time to think, or I—-”
Bobo, with fixed eyes and open mouth, brought his feet together like
a soldier and stood at attention.
“Are you ready?” asked his master.
“I am.”
“Now, then, tell me, without a moment’s thought–you understand–the
first number than comes into your head.”
“76223,” answered Bobo, all in a breath. Bobo thought he would please
his master by giving him a pretty large one!
Judge Jarriquez had run to the table, and, pencil in hand, had made
out a formula with the number given by Bobo, and which Bobo had in
this way only given him at a venture.
It is obvious that it was most unlikely that a number such as 76223
was the key of the document, and it produced no other result than to
bring to the lips of Jarriquez such a vigorous ejaculation that Bobo
disappeared like a shot!
CHAPTER XV
THE LAST EFFORTS
THE MAGISTRATE, however, was not the only one who passed his time
unprofitably. Benito, Manoel, and Minha tried all they could together
to extract the secret from the document on which depended their
father’s life and honor. On his part, Fragoso, aided by Lina, could
not remain quiet, but all their ingenuity had failed, and the number
still escaped them.
“Why don’t you find it, Fragoso?” asked the young mulatto.
“I will find it,” answered Fragoso.
And he did not find it!
Here we should say that Fragoso had an idea of a project of which he
had not even spoken to Lina, but which had taken full possession of
his mind. This was to go in search of the gang to which the
ex-captain of the woods had belonged, and to find out who was the
probable author of this cipher document, which was supposed to be the
confession of the culprit of Tijuco. The part of the Amazon where
these people were employed, the very place where Fragoso had met
Torres a few years before, was not very far from Manaos. He would
only have to descend the river for about fifty miles, to the mouth of
the Madeira, a tributary coming in on the right, and there he was
almost sure to meet the head of these _”capitaes do mato,”_ to which
Torres belonged. In two days, or three days at the outside, Fragoso
could get into communication with the old comrades of the adventurer.
“Yes! I could do that,” he repeated to himself; “but what would be
the good of it, supposing I succeeded? If we are sure that one of
Torres’ companions has recently died, would that prove him to be the
author of this crime? Would that show that he gave Torres a document
in which he announced himself the author of this crime, and
exonerated Joam Dacosta? Would that give us the key of the document?
No! Two men only knew the cipher–the culprit and Torres! And these
two men are no more!”
So reasoned Fragoso. It was evident that his enterprise would do no
good. But the thought of it was too much for him. An irresistible