Frank Merriwell's Pursuit Part 35

There was a step outside; a sharp knock on the door.

Felipe leaped back toward the window, outside of which was the fire escape. In a moment he had the window open.

Hagan stepped quickly to the door, against which he placed his solid body, at the same time calling:

"Who is it that knocks? and what do you want here?"

"It is I, Senor Hagan," answered a voice that made the Irishman gasp and caused his eyes to bulge. "Have no fear. Open the door!"

"It's the voice of the dead!" gasped Hagan, his usually florid face gone pale.

"Who is it?" questioned Jalisco.

Instead of answering, with fingers that were not quite steady, Hagan turned the key in the lock and opened the door.

Into the room boldly walked a man who wore a sable overcoat, had hair of snowy white, and eyes of deepest midnight.

Hagan stared at this man in amazement.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"I am Alvarez Lazaro, of Mexico," was the answer, in that same soft, musical voice that had so startled the Irishman.

"But that voice--that voice!" muttered Hagan. "And those eyes! Man, ye gave me a start! Why do you come here? What do you want?"

"I have come to meet the enemies of Frank Merriwell."

"The divvil ye say!" cried Hagan, his excitement flinging him into the brogue he so nearly avoided in quieter moments. "Why do ye come here for that?"

"Because I know you both are his enemies."

"And you--if I didn't know Porfias del Norte to be dead and buried---- But even then you'd not be the man. You're thirty years older; but you have a little of his looks and his voice in perfection."

"Do you think so? Then perhaps it came through my long acquaintance with him. Dear friends sometimes acquire each other's mode of speech and little mannerisms, it is said."

"Were you Del Norte's friend?"

"His nearest and dearest friend in all the world. This may seem strange to you, considering the difference in our ages, but it is the truth.

From me he never had a secret. I knew all his plans, his hopes, his ambitions--everything--everything that he knew and felt."

"Strange he never spoke to me of you," muttered Hagan.

"Not strange, for he was not given to talking freely to any one but me.

And now he is dead! But I am here to avenge him. I have learned that he was buried alive in a cave, and the thought of his frightful sufferings before he died has torn my soul with anguish. They say the real cause of his death was the gringo, Merriwell. I am the avenger of Porfias del Norte, and I have sworn to make him suffer even as Porfias suffered, and then to destroy him at last. It is an oath I shall keep."

"My, but you Mexicans are fierce at revenge and that sort of a thing!"

said Hagan, with a look on his face that was almost laughable. "Here's Felipe--I've been cautioning the boy and holding him in check to keep him from slicing up Merriwell."

Lazaro turned to Felipe.

"What great wrong has Merriwell done you?" he questioned.

Then Felipe hurriedly told how Frank was working a rich mine on land that had been granted to Sebastian Jalis...o...b.. the first president of Mexico, General Victoria, and how the American had declared the grant a forgery and had refused to pay a dollar of tribute to Felipe.

"Dear boy," said Lazaro, with an air of gentleness, "I do not blame you if you can compel the gringo to give you anything; but Porfias had the only real t.i.tle to that property that was worthy of consideration. Had he lived, he would have wrested everything from Merriwell. Now that he is dead, I shall take his place and do the work as he would have done it."

"Of course, you think Senor del Norte's claim the only rightful one,"

said Felipe; "but the grant to Guerrero del Norte was made eight years after that of President Victoria to Sebastian Jalisco. Besides, senor, President Pedraza's grant was revoked by President Santa Anna, and therefore is now wholly worthless."

"There is no need to discuss it," said Lazaro, "You have my sympathy; but I must urge you, for your own sake and for mine, to attempt no harm to Merriwell. Leave him to me, and you shall have the pleasure of seeing all his plans go wrong, his fortune dwindle, his friends drop away, his sweetheart taken from him, his strength sapped, his beauty destroyed, and, at last, his life crushed out of his broken body."

"It's a big job ye've contracted," said Bantry Hagan. "I'm afraid, me man, you don't realize what you're up against."

"You think I cannot accomplish it?"

"I have me doubts, and big ones they are."

"Time will convince you. I learned of the existence of Felipe Jalisco, learned he was in this city, wished to see him, but knew not where to find him. I found you, and I said you should lead me to the boy. You did so."

"You don't mean to tell me ye followed me here?"

"I followed you, even though you fooled the officer who was watching you. I followed you, even though you stopped at corners and watched all who pa.s.sed, seeking to make sure you were not followed. I saw you stand in the doorway and gaze back along the street; but you did not observe me. Thus you led me to Felipe Jalisco. To-night I strike my first blow at Frank Merriwell."

"How?"

"In my own way. First I will ruin his scheme to build a railroad in Sonora. For that purpose the first blow shall be made this night."

"You're like Porfias del Norte turned into his own father!" declared Hagan. "When you talk you are him to the life, only that you are an old man with a furrowed face and snow-white hair. He was in the very flush of vigorous youth."

A sigh escaped Lazaro's lips, and that sigh was precisely like many a one Hagan had heard Del Norte heave.

"Ah, yes," said the man, with pathetic sadness; "I have looked in a mirror, and I know I am an old, old man. But Frank Merriwell shall not find me too old to wreak vengeance upon him!"

CHAPTER XXI.

THE FIRST STROKE.

The main dining room of the Waldorf-Astoria was well filled, almost every table being taken. The place was brilliantly lighted, the guests fashionably dressed, and the scene one to impress the unaccustomed visitor. The hidden orchestra was discoursing music to suit the taste of the most critical.

Seated at a table on the Fifth Avenue side were two men who attracted more or less attention. Old Gripper Scott was known by sight to many of those present, and, being one of the great American money kings, naturally received more than cursory notice.

But it seemed that the remarkable-appearing white-haired man, who sat opposite Old Gripper, was surveyed with even more interest than that accorded the great financier. His deeply furrowed face, his snowy hair, and his black, piercing eyes gave him a remarkable look that was certain to attract the second glance of any one who chanced to observe him.

"Who is he?" was the question asked by scores of diners.