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 Latin Cookbook

An Easy Latin Cookbook with Recipes

from the Entire Latin World

By
BookSumo Press
All rights reserved

Published by
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 LEGAL NOTES
All Rights Reserved. No Part Of This Book May Be Reproduced Or
Transmitted In Any Form Or By Any Means. Photocopying, Posting Online,
And / Or Digital Copying Is Strictly Prohibited Unless Written Permission
Is Granted By The Book’s Publishing Company. Limited Use Of The Book’s
Text Is Permitted For Use In Reviews Written For The Public.
Table of Contents
Bacalao Vizcaina 7
Jibarito 10
Tostones II 11
Flan de Mango 12
Tres Leches 13
Lentils in Argentina 14
Fish Stew from South America 15
Arroz con Pollo I 16
Arroz con Pollo II 17
Coconut Chicken Breast 19
Latin Quinoa 22
Sopaipillas from Chile 23
Portuguese Bread I 24
Cod Casserole 25
Pasteis de Nata 26
Caldo Verde 27
Portuguese Date Appetizer 28
Kale Soup from Portugal 29
Queijadas 30
Easy Portuguese Bread 31
Malasadas 34
Spicy Spanish Beef Stir Fry 35
Maggie’s Easy Portuguese Soup 36
Rice from Portugal 37
 Brazilian Bananas Fried 38
Brasilia Cookies 39
Caipirinha 40
Brazilian Inspired Pizza 41
Quindim 42
Brazilian Coconut Candies 43
Brazilian Condensed Smoothie 46
Palmito ao Forno 47
Brazilian Apple Pastry 48
Creamy Seafood Stew From Brazil 50
Traditional Beef Hash 51
Picadinho'a Brasiliera 52
Sao Paulo Pesto 53
Brazilian Nutty Cake 54
Rice and Beans In Belize City 55
Isabella's Secret Belize BBQ Sauce 58
Belizean Belmopan Beach Pudding 59
Central American Chicken and Cabbage Soup 60
Guatemalan Pepian 61
Chilaquilas 62
Rice from Guatemala City 63
Full Guatemalan Dinner 64
Salad of Cabbage from El Salvador 66
Santa Tecla Cake 67
Spicy South American Chicken 70
San Salvador Butterflied White Fish 71
 Pupusas 72
Cancun Style Caviar 73
Pepperjack Pizza 74
Puerto Vallarta Eggplant 75
Mexican Veggie Puree 76
Classical Mexican Ceviche 77
Honey & Beans Latin Salad 78
Taco Tuesday’s Lasagna 79
A Mexican Corn Drink for Winter 82
A Baked Mexican Medley 83
Bacalao Prep Time: 30 mins

Vizcaina Total Time: 9 hrs 15 mins

(Codfish Soup) Servings per Recipe: 8

Calories 475 kcal
Fat 18.9 g
Carbohydrates 31.6g
Protein 42.3 g
Cholesterol 192 mg
Sodium 4353 mg

Ingredients
1 lb salted cod fish, submerged in 2 qts 1 (4 oz.) jar roasted red bell peppers, drained
of water, for 8 hours, change the water 4 1/2 C. golden raisins
times, then cut into small pieces 1 bay leaf
4 potatoes, sliced thick 1 (8 oz.) can tomato sauce
2 onions, sliced 1/2 C. extra virgin olive oil
4 hard-boiled eggs, sliced 1 C. water
2 tsps capers 1/4 C. white wine
2 large cloves garlic, minced
1/4 C. pitted green olives

Directions
1. Get a big pot and add in half of the following in layers: raisins, potatoes, roasted red
peppers, fish, olives, onions, garlic, boiled eggs, and capers.
2. Now add in half of the tomato sauce and half of the olive oil.
3. Add the bay leaf and repeat the process.
4. Now add in the wine and the water.
5. Get everything boiling without stirring the mix.
6. Once everything is boiling place a lid on the pot and set the heat to low.
7. Let the contents cook for 35 mins.
8. Enjoy.

Bacalao Vizcaina 7
JIBARITO
(Sandwich in Fried
Prep Time: 10 mins
Total Time: 25 mins

Plantains Buns) Servings per Recipe: 1

Calories 1219 kcal
Fat 100.4 g
Carbohydrates 165.4g
Protein 23.6 g
Cholesterol 68 mg
Sodium 551 mg

Ingredients
2 C. vegetable oil for frying 1 pinch dried oregano
1 green plantain, peeled and halved 1 tbsp mayonnaise
lengthwise 1 slice processed American cheese, cut in
2 tbsps vegetable oil half
1 clove garlic, minced 2 slices tomato
4 oz. beef skirt steak, cut into thin strips 3 leaves lettuce
1/4 medium yellow onion, thinly sliced
1 pinch cumin
Directions
1. Get 2 C. of veggie oil to 350 degrees then fry your plantains for 2 mins per side.
2. Place them on some paper towel then flatten them.
3. Now fry the flat plantains for 2 more mins then place them on the paper towels again.
4. Begin to stir fry your oregano, garlic, cumin, onion, and steak in 2 tbsps of oil until the
steak is fully done.
5. Place a layering of mayo on one side of a plantain and then add some cheese, steak mix,
tomato and lettuce.
6. Add another piece of plantain and cut the sandwich into two pieces.
7. Enjoy.

10 Jibarito
Tostones Prep Time: 10 mins

II Total Time: 22 mins

Servings per Recipe: 8

Calories 88 kcal
Fat 0.9 g
Carbohydrates 21.5g
Protein 0.9 g
Cholesterol 0 mg
Sodium 51 mg

Ingredients
1/4 C. vegetable oil 1 pinch garlic powder
3 green plantains, peeled, and cut into salt to taste
1-inch pieces

Directions
1. Fry your plantains for 7 mins, until tender, then place them on some paper towels.
2. Flatten your plantains and fry them for 3 more mins.
3. Place them to the side as well.
4. While the plantains are still hot add your salt and garlic to each.
5. Enjoy.

Tostones II 11
FLAN DE MANGO
(Mango Pudding)
Prep Time: 15 mins
Total Time: 1 hr

Servings per Recipe: 12

Calories 259 kcal
Fat 7g
Carbohydrates 42.7g
Protein 7.3 g
Cholesterol 110 mg
Sodium 99 mg

Ingredients
1 C. white sugar 6 eggs, beaten
1 tbsp lemon juice 1 pinch salt
2 C. pureed mango
1 (14 oz.) can sweetened condensed
milk
2 tbsps cornstarch
1 tbsp rum (optional)
1 C. evaporated milk
Directions
1. Add about 1.5 inches of water to a casserole dish then set your oven to 350 degrees before
doing anything else.
2. Now heat and stir the lemon juice and sugar until it becomes a caramel color then add the
mango, salt, condensed milk, eggs, cornstarch, evaporated milk, and rum.
3. Place the pan into the casserole dish and cook everything in the oven for 50 mins.
4. Let the contents cool.
5. Enjoy.

12 Flan de Mango
Tres Leches Prep Time: 10 mins

(Spanish 3 Milk Total Time: 1 hr

Cake) Servings per Recipe: 24

Calories 280 kcal
Fat 13.7 g
Carbohydrates 34.6g
Protein 5.5 g
Cholesterol 81 mg
Sodium 87 mg

Ingredients
1 1/2 C. all-purpose flour 1 (12 fluid oz.) can evaporated milk
1 tsp baking powder 1 1/2 C. heavy whipping cream
1/2 C. unsalted butter 1 C. white sugar
1 C. white sugar 1 tsp vanilla extract
5 eggs
1/2 tsp vanilla extract
2 C. whole milk
1 (14 oz.) can sweetened condensed milk
Directions
1. Coat a casserole dish with oil and flour then set your oven to 350 degrees before doing
anything else.
2. Get a bowl, sift: baking powder and flour.
3. Get a 2nd bowl, combine: 1 C. sugar and butter. Then add: 1/2 tsp vanilla extract and
eggs.
4. Combine both bowls and stir the mix until everything is smooth.
5. Enter the mix into your casserole dish and cook everything in the oven for 35 mins.
6. Now poke holes through the cake with a fork.
7. Get a 3rd bowl, combine: evaporated milk, condensed milk, and whole milk.
8. Pour the milk mix over the cake once it has cooled.
9. Get a 4th bowl, mix: 1 tsp vanilla, whipping cream, and 1 C. of sugar.
10. Coat your cake with the whipped cream mix then serve.
11. Enjoy.

Tres Leches 13
LENTILS
in Argentina
Prep Time: 15 mins
Total Time: 55 mins

Servings per Recipe: 4

Calories 266 kcal
Fat 4.3 g
Carbohydrates 46.3g
Protein 13.4 g
Cholesterol 0 mg
Sodium 225 mg

Ingredients
1 C. dry lentils 1/2 C. frozen peas
1 quart water 1 large clove garlic
1 cube vegetable bouillon 1 tbsp olive oil
3 medium tomatoes, peeled and diced 1/4 C. barbeque sauce
1 large onion, diced 1/2 tsp paprika
1 carrot, sliced salt and pepper to taste
1 medium apple - peeled, cored and
diced
Directions
1. Combine your water, lentils, and veggie bouillon.
2. Get everything boiling, set the heat to low, and let the mix cook for 22 mins.
3. Add in: paprika, tomatoes, bbq sauce, onions, olive oil, carrots, garlic, peas, and apples.
4. Let the mix continue to cook for 22 more mins then add some pepper and salt.
5. Enjoy.

14 Lentils in Argentina
Fish Stew Prep Time: 20 mins

from South America Total Time: 1 hr 5 mins

Servings per Recipe: 6

Calories 359 kcal
Fat 21.8 g
Carbohydrates 15.6g
Protein 27.4 g
Cholesterol 42 mg
Sodium 600 mg

Ingredients
3 tbsps lime juice 2 onions, diced
1 tbsp ground cumin 4 large bell peppers, sliced
1 tbsp paprika 1 (16 oz.) can diced tomatoes, drained
2 tsps minced garlic 1 (16 oz.) can coconut milk
1 tsp salt 1 bunch fresh cilantro, diced (optional)
1 tsp ground black pepper
1 1/2 lbs tilapia fillets, cut into chunks
2 tbsps olive oil
Directions
1. Get a bowl, combine: pepper, lime juice, salt, cumin, garlic, and paprika.
2. Now add in the tilapia and stir the contents.
3. Place a covering of plastic around the dish and put everything in the fridge for 1 hr.
4. Now being to stir fry your onions for 3 mins in olive oil then add in the diced tomatoes,
bell peppers, and tilapia.
5. Set the heat to a medium level then add the coconut milk.
6. Place a lid on the pot and let the contents cook for 17 mins.
7. Stir the mix at least 2 times.
8. Now add the cilantro and continue cooking everything for 7 more mins.
9. Enjoy.

Fish Stew from South America 15

ARROZ
con Pollo I
Prep Time: 20 mins
Total Time: 2 hrs 5 mins

(Rice and Servings per Recipe: 6

Calories 745 kcal

Chicken) Fat
Carbohydrates
40.6 g
65.2g
Protein 30 g
Cholesterol 105 mg
Sodium 1926 mg

Ingredients
8 boneless chicken thighs, with skin 1 (4 oz.) can diced green chilis
1/2 C. olive oil 1 1/4 C. chicken broth
2 C. diced onion 3/4 C. fresh peas
1 clove garlic, crushed 1 (4 oz.) jar pimentos, drained
1/2 tsp crushed red pepper flakes 1/2 (8 oz.) jar pimiento-stuffed green
2 C. converted long-grain white rice olives, drained and sliced
2 1/2 tsps salt 1/2 C. water
1/2 tsp black pepper
1/4 tsp saffron threads
1 (28 oz.) can diced tomatoes

Directions
1. Set your oven to 325 degrees before doing anything else.
2. Begin to sear your chicken in olive oil then place the pieces to the side.
3. Now add to the same pot: your pepper flakes, onions, and garlic.
4. Let the mix cook for 7 mins then add the rice, saffron, pepper, and salt.
5. Toast the rice for 12 mins while stirring then add the broth, green chilies, and tomatoes.
6. Add the chicken thighs on top of everything and get the mix boiling.
7. Once everything is boiling, place a lid on the pot, and place the pot in the oven for 60
mins.
8. Now add the olives, pimentos, water, and peas.
9. Place the lid back on the pot and do not stir the contents.
10. Continue cooking everything for 25 mins.
11. Enjoy.

16 Arroz con Pollo I

Arroz Prep Time: 25 mins

con Pollo II Total Time: 1 hr 35 mins

(Rice and Chicken) Servings per Recipe: 6

(Peruvian Style)
Calories 739 kcal
Fat 29.7 g
Carbohydrates 65.2g
Protein 45.7 g
Cholesterol 136 mg
Sodium 198 mg

Ingredients
1/4 C. vegetable oil, divided 1/2 C. orange juice
6 chicken thighs, skinned and patted dry 2 C. uncooked white rice
6 chicken drumsticks with skin, patted dry 2 onions, diced
salt and black pepper to taste 1/2 C. white wine
1 1/2 bunches fresh cilantro, leaves picked 3 1/2 C. chicken broth
from stems 1 tsp freshly ground black pepper
6 cloves garlic, peeled and coarsely diced 1 large carrot, peeled and diced
1 aji (Peruvian) pepper, seeded and 1 bell pepper, any color, sliced into rings
deveined 3/4 C. frozen pea
1 tbsp Worcestershire sauce

Directions
1. Begin to heat up two frying pans, each with 2 tbsps of veggie oil in them.
2. Coat your chicken with pepper and salt and divide the chicken between the pans.
3. Fry your chicken pieces for 17 mins then place them on some paper towels.
4. Now begin to process the following in a blender, until smooth: orange juice, cilantro
leaves, Worcestershire, garlic, aji pepper, and garlic.
5. Add this mix to one of the pots and get it boiling.
6. Let the mix cook for 7 mins until it becomes a dark green color.
7. Now add your onions to the other pan and stir fry them for 7 mins then add in the rice
and toast the kernels for 7 more mins.
8. Add in the white wine to the cilantro mix and get the mix boiling with a medium level of
heat.
9. Combine the rice mix with the cilantro mix and also add the black pepper and the broth.
10. Get everything boiling again then add the chicken pieces and the carrots.
11. Stir the contents then place a lid on the pan.
Arroz con Pollo II 17
12. Set the heat to a lower level and cook everything for 30 mins.
13. Now take off the lid and add in the pepper rings and the peas.
14. Place the lid back on the pot and cook the mix for 17 more mins.
15. Now shut the heat and let the mix sit for 10 mins with no covering.
16. Enjoy.

18
Coconut Prep Time: 15 mins

Chicken Breast Total Time: 45 mins

Servings per Recipe: 4

Calories 345 kcal
Fat 19.9 g
Carbohydrates 11.5g
Protein 29.3 g
Cholesterol 72 mg
Sodium 234 mg

Ingredients
1 tsp ground cumin 1 tbsp minced fresh ginger
1 tsp ground cayenne pepper 2 jalapeno peppers, seeded and diced
1 tsp ground turmeric 2 cloves garlic, minced
1 tsp ground coriander 3 tomatoes, seeded and diced
4 skinless, boneless chicken breast halves 1 (14 oz.) can light coconut milk
salt and pepper to taste 1 bunch diced fresh parsley
2 tbsps olive oil
1 onion, diced
Directions
1. Get a bowl, combine: coriander, cumin, turmeric, and cayenne.
2. Add in the chicken and some pepper and salt.
3. Stir the contents to evenly coat the chicken with the spices.
4. Now for 12 mins per side fry your chicken in 1 tbsp of olive oil until fully done then
place it to the side.
5. Add the rest of the olive oil to the pan and begin to stir fry the garlic, onions, jalapenos,
and ginger for 7 mins.
6. Now add in the tomatoes and cook the mix for 7 more mins before adding the coconut
milk.
7. Top the chicken with the tomato mix and some parsley then serve.
8. Enjoy.

Coconut Chicken Breast 19

LATIN
Quinoa
Prep Time: 5 mins
Total Time: 25 mins

Servings per Recipe: 4

Calories 198 kcal
Fat 6.1 g
Carbohydrates 28.7g
Protein 7.3 g
Cholesterol 2 mg
Sodium 167 mg

Ingredients
1 C. quinoa, rinsed and drained 1 tomato, diced
2 C. chicken broth salt and pepper to taste
2 tbsps basil pesto

Directions
1. Get your broth and quinoa boiling, place a lid on the pot, set the heat to a low level, and
cook the quinoa for 17 mins.
2. Now shut the heat and add in the pesto.
3. Once the pesto has been mixed into everything add in the tomatoes, pepper, and salt.
4. Enjoy.

22 Latin Quinoa
Sopaipillas Prep Time: 20 mins

from Chile Total Time: 1 hr

(Squash Pastry) Servings per Recipe: 12

Calories 286 kcal
Fat 13.8 g
Carbohydrates 35.6g
Protein 4.9 g
Cholesterol 25 mg
Sodium 369 mg

Ingredients
9 oz. zapallo squash, skins removed, seeds 10 tbsps butter, melted
removed, and chunked 2 C. canola oil for pan-frying
4 1/4 C. all-purpose flour
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp salt

Directions
1. Submerge your squash under water, in a big pot, and get it all boiling.
2. Once it is boiling let the veggies cook for 17 mins. Now remove all the liquids.
3. Get a bowl, combine: salt, baking soda, and flour.
4. Get a 2nd bowl, combine: melted butter and squash.
5. Combine both bowls and form a dough.
6. Knead the dough on a cutting board coated with flour then place the dough in a bowl
with a towel as a covering.
7. Let the dough sit for 20 mins then roll it out into a thickness of 1/8 of an inch.
8. Use a cookie cutter to make 3 inch circles then poke holes into each with a fork.
9. Add your veggie oil to a pan and get it hot to about 380 degrees then fry your pieces of
dough for 5 mins.
10. After frying the dough place them on some paper towels to drain.
11. Enjoy.

Sopaipillas from Chile 23

PORTUGUESE
Bread I
Prep Time: 5 mins
Total Time: 3 hrs 5 mins

Servings per Recipe: 12

Calories 179 kcal
Fat 3.2 g
Carbohydrates 31.7g
Protein 5.6 g
Cholesterol 17 mg
Sodium 181 mg

Ingredients
1 C. milk 3 C. bread flour
1 egg 2 1/2 tsps active dry yeast
2 tbsps margarine
1/3 C. white sugar
3/4 tsp salt
Directions
1. To make this bread grab your bread maker. Enter the following into it: yeast, milk, flour,
beaten eggs, salt, and margarine.
2. Set the bread machine to its basic cycle and let the machine go.
3. Let the bread sit for 10 mins before serving.
4. Enjoy.

24 Portuguese Bread I
Cod Prep Time: 20 mins

Casserole Total Time: 1 d 1 h 5 m

Servings per Recipe: 12

Calories 476 kcal
Fat 15.6 g
Carbohydrates 31.9g
Protein 50.5 g
Cholesterol 1115 mg
Sodium 5346 mg

Ingredients
2 lbs salted cod fish 1 tbsp diced fresh parsley
5 large potatoes, peeled and sliced 1 1/2 tsps crushed red pepper flakes
3 large onions, sliced 1 tsp paprika
3/4 C. olive oil 3 tbsps tomato sauce
2 cloves garlic, minced

Directions
1. Submerge your cod in water for 8 hrs. Then remove all the liquids and let it sit for
another 8 hours in new water.
2. Now get a saucepan boiling with more fresh water.
3. Once the water is boiling place your cod into the pot and cook the fish for 7 mins.
4. At the same time set your oven to 375 degrees before doing anything else.
5. Get a bowl, combine: tomato sauce, olive oil, paprika, garlic, pepper flakes, and parsley.
6. Place your potato pieces into a baking dish and then layer the cod and then the onions
over the potato. Now add more potatoes and the dry mix.
7. Cook everything for 50 mins in the oven.
8. Enjoy.

Cod Casserole 25
PASTEIS
de Nata
Prep Time: 20 mins
Total Time: 40 mins

(Portuguese Servings per Recipe: 12

Calories 336 kcal

Custard Dessert) Fat

Carbohydrates
18.2 g
38.7g
Protein 5g
Cholesterol 104 mg
Sodium 114 mg

Ingredients
1 C. milk 1 (17.5 oz.) package frozen puff pastry,
3 tbsps cornstarch thawed
1/2 vanilla bean
1 C. white sugar
6 egg yolks
Directions
1. Coat a muffin pan with nonstick spray or oil and set your oven to 375 degrees before
doing anything else.
2. Heat the following, while mixing, until it is thick: vanilla, milk, sugar, and cornstarch.
3. Now get a bowl, add in your yolks and half of a C. of the vanilla mix.
4. Stir the mix until it is smooth, and add the yolks into the pot and stir the contents again.
5. Stir and cook this mix for 6 more mins and then discard the beans.
6. Now line the sides and bottom of the muffin tin with puff pastry and top the pastry with
the vanilla mix.
7. Cook everything for 25 mins in the oven.
8. Enjoy.

26 Pasteis de Nata
Caldo Prep Time: 20 mins

Verde Total Time: 1 hr

Servings per Recipe: 6

Calories 402 kcal
Fat 20.2 g
Carbohydrates 45.2g
Protein 11.7 g
Cholesterol 25 mg
Sodium 1352 mg

Ingredients
4 tbsps olive oil, divided 6 oz. linguica sausage, thinly sliced
1 onion, minced 2 1/2 tsps salt
1 clove garlic, minced ground black pepper to taste
6 potatoes, peeled and thinly sliced 1 lb kale, rinsed and julienned
2 quarts cold water

Directions
1. Stir fry your garlic and onions, in olive oil, in a big pot, for 5 mins.
2. Now add the potatoes and continue cooking for 5 more mins before adding the water.
3. Get everything boiling and cook the potatoes for 22 mins.
4. At the same time stir fry your sausage for 12 mins then remove any excess oils.
5. Once the potatoes are done mash them in a food processor, then add them back into the
pot with the sausage and some pepper and salt.
6. Get the soup hot again, place a lid on the pot, and cook everything for 7 mins.
7. Now add the kale and cook the mix for 7 more mins then add some olive oil.
8. Enjoy.

Caldo Verde 27
PORTUGUESE
Date Appetizer
Prep Time: 10 mins
Total Time: 40 mins

Servings per Recipe: 10

Calories 278 kcal
Fat 20.5 g
Carbohydrates 19g
Protein 5.9 g
Cholesterol 31 mg
Sodium 379 mg

Ingredients
1 lb sliced bacon
30 dates

Directions
1. Cut your pieces of bacon in half then wrap your dates with them.
2. Now stake a toothpick through each to preserve the structure.
3. Cook the dates under the broiler for 7 mins with a broiler pan.
4. Now flip each date and brown the opposite side.
5. Enjoy.

28 Portuguese Date Appetizer

Kale Soup Prep Time: 1 hr 30 mins

from Portugal Total Time: 8 hrs

Servings per Recipe: 10

Calories 302 kcal
Fat 9.4 g
Carbohydrates 42.2g
Protein 14.9 g
Cholesterol 20 mg
Sodium 321 mg

Ingredients
1/2 lb dried white pea beans 2 bunches kale - rinsed, dried and diced
1/2 lb chorizo sausage, thinly sliced 5 potatoes, peeled and cubed
1 lb beef soup bones 1 quart hot water or as needed
1 quart water salt and pepper to taste
1 medium head cabbage, diced

Directions
1. Let your beans sit submerged in water throughout the night.
2. Cook the following for 65 mins: 1 qt. of water, beans, soup bones, and chorizo.
3. Now add in: potatoes, kale, and cabbage.
4. Pour in more water to submerge the contents and cook everything for 25 more mins
before adding some pepper and salt.
5. Enjoy.

Kale Soup from Portugal 29

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“Now, I’ll go, and you take off your things. I’ll bring you up your
supper in half an hour. Be quick, you’re soaking. I’ll tell them
downstairs you’re too tired to come down.”
He went out, softly closing the door. She sat on in her wet clothes,
feeling the growing warmth of the flames on her face and hands.
She seemed to fall into a lethargy of exhaustion and sat thus
motionless, the water running unheeded on the carpet, frissons of
cold occasionally shaking her, till a knock at the door roused her.
Then she suddenly remembered Barron and his command to take off
her wet clothes. She had them on still and he would be angry.
“Put it down on the chair outside,” she called through the door; “I’m
not ready.”
“Won’t you open the door and take this whisky and drink it at once?”
came his answer.
She opened the door a crack and, putting her hand through the
aperture, took the glass with the whisky.
“Are you warm and dry?” he said; all she could see of him was his
big hand clasped round the glass.
“Yes, quite,” she answered, though she felt her skin quivering with
cold against the damp garments that seemed glued to it.
“Well, drink this now, right off. And listen—” as the door began to
close—“if you get nervous or anything just come to your door and
call me. I’ll leave mine open, and I’m a very light sleeper.”
Then before she could answer she felt the door-handle pulled from
the outside and the door was shut.
She hastily took off her things and put on dry ones, and then
shrugged herself into the thick wrapper of black and white that had
been her mother’s. Even her hair was wet, she found out as she
undressed, and she mechanically undid it and shook the damp locks
loose on her shoulders. She felt penetrated with cold, and still
overmastered by fear. Every gust that made the long limb of the
pepper-tree grate against the balcony roof caused her heart to leap.
When she opened the door to get her supper, the glow of light that
fell from Barron’s room, across the hallway, came to her with a hail
of friendship and life. She stood listening, and heard the creak of his
rocking-chair, then smelt the whiff of a cigar. He was close to her.
She shut the door, feeling her terrors allayed.
She picked at her supper, but soon set the tray on the center-table
and took the easy-chair before the fire. The sense of physical cold
was passing off, but the indescribable oppression and apprehension
remained. She did not know exactly what she dreaded, but she felt
in some vague way that she would be safer sitting thus clad and
wakeful before the fire than sleeping in her bed. Once or twice, as
the hours passed and her fears strengthened in the silence and
mystery of the night, she crept to her door, and opening it, looked
up the hall. The square of light was still there, the scent of the cigar
pungent on the air. She shut the door softly, each time feeling
soothed as by the pressure of a strong, loving hand.
Sometime toward the middle of the night the heaviness of sleep
came on her, and though she fought against it, feeling that the
safety she was struggling to maintain against mysterious menace
was only to be preserved by wakefulness, Nature overcame her.
Curled in her chair before the crumbling fire, she finally slept—the
deep, motionless sleep of physical and mental exhaustion.
 CHAPTER XXII
A NIGHT’S WORK

“Have is have, however men may catch.”

—Shakespeare.

Under cover of the darkness Essex hurried down the street toward
where the city passed from a place of homes to a business mart. He
had at first no fixed idea of a goal, but after a few moments’ rapid
march, realized that habit was taking him in the direction of
Bertrand’s. An illumined clock face shining on him over the roofs told
him it was some time past his dinner hour. He obeyed his instinct
and bent his steps toward the restaurant, throwing the cloak over
the fence of a vacant lot and wiping the trickle of blood from his
cheek with his handkerchief.
He was cool and master of himself once more. His brain was cleared,
as a sky by storm, and he knew that to-night’s interview must be
one of the last he would have with the woman who had come to
stand to him for love, wealth, success and happiness. He must win
or lose all within the next few days.
Bertrand’s looked invitingly bright after the tempestuous blackness
of the streets. Many of the white draped tables were unoccupied. His
accustomed eye noted that the lady in the blue silk dress and black
hat, and her companion with the bald head and cross-eye, who
always sat at the right-hand corner table, were absent. He had fallen
into the habit of bowing to them, and had more than once idly
wondered what their relations were.
“Monsieur Esseex” to-night ate little and drank much. Etienne, the
waiter, a black-haired, pink-cheeked garçon from Marseilles, noticed
this and afterward remarked upon it to Madame Bertrand. To the
few other habitués of the place, the thin-faced, handsome man with
an ugly furrow down his cheek, and his hair tumbled on his forehead
by the pressure of his hat, presented the same suavely
imperturbable demeanor as usual. But Madame Bertrand, as a
woman whose business it was to observe people and faces, noticed
that monsieur was pale, and that when she spoke to him on the way
in he had given a distrait answer, not the usual phrase of debonair,
Gallic greeting she had grown to expect.
She looked at him from her cashier’s desk and reflected. As Etienne
afterward repeated, he ate little and drank much. And how pale he
looked, with the lamp on the wall above him throwing out the high
lights on his face and deepening the shadows!
“He is in love,” thought the sentimental Madame Bertrand, “and to-
night for the first time he knows that she does not respond.”
He sat longer than he had ever done before over his dinner, blowing
clouds of cigarette smoke about his head, and watching the thin blue
flame of the burning lump of sugar in the spoon balanced on his
coffee-cup.
Everybody had left, and he still sat smoking, leaning back against
the wall, his eyes fixed on space in immovable, concentrated
thought. Bertrand came out of his corner, and in his cap and apron
stood cooling himself in the open door watching the rain. Etienne
and Henri, the two waiters apportioned to that part of the room,
hung about restless and tired, eagerly watching for the first
symptoms of his departure. Even Madame Bertrand began to burrow
under the cashier’s desk for her rubbers, and to struggle into them
with much creaking of corset bones and subdued French
ejaculations. It was after nine when the last guest finally pushed
back his chair. Etienne rushed to help him on with his coat, and
Madame Bertrand bobbed up from her rubbers to give him a parting
smile.
A half-hour later he was lighting the gas in his own room in Bush
Street. The damp air of the night entered through a crack of opened
window, introducing a breath of sweet, moist freshness into the
smoke-saturated chamber. He threw off his coat and lit the fire. As
soon as it had caught satisfactorily he left the room, crossed the hall
noiselessly, and with a slight preliminary knock, opened Harney’s
door. The man was sitting there in a broken rocking-chair, reading
the evening paper by the light of a flaming gas-jet. He had the air of
one who was waiting, and as Essex’s head was advanced round the
edge of the door, he looked up with alert, expectant eyes.
“Come into my room,” said the younger man; “there’s work for you
to-night.”
Harney threw down his paper and followed him across the hall. It
was evident that he was sober, and beyond this some new sense of
importance and power had taken from his manner its old
deprecation. They were equals now, pals and partners. The drunken
typesetter and one-time thief was still under Barry Essex’s thumb,
but he was also deep in his confidence.
He sat down in his old seat by the fire, his eyes on Essex.
“What’s up?” he said; “what work have you got for me such a night
as this?”
“Big work, and with big money behind it,” said the younger man;
“and when it’s done we each get our share and go our ways, George
Harney.”
He drew his chair to the other side of the fire and began to talk—his
voice low and quiet at first, growing urgent and authoritative, as
Harney shrank before the dangers of the work expected of him. The
moments ticked by, the fire growing hotter and brighter, the roaring
of the storm sounding above the voices of the master and his tool.
The night was half spent before Harney was conquered and
instructed.
Then the men, waiting for the hour of deepest sleep and darkness,
continued to sit, occasionally speaking, the light of the leaping
flames catching and losing their anxious faces as the firelight in
another room was touching the face of the sleeping girl of whom
they talked.
It was nearly three when a movement of life stirred the blackness of
the Garcia garden. The rushing of the rain beat down all sound; in
the moist soddenness of the earth no trace lingered. The pepper-
tree bent and cracked to the gusts as it did to the additional weight
of the creeping figure in its boughs.
This was merely a shapeless bulk of blackness amid the fine and
broken blackness of the swaying foliage. It stole forward with
noiseless caution, though it might have shouted and all sound been
lost in the angry turmoil of the night. Creeping upward along the
great limb that stretched to the balcony roof, a perpendicular knife-
edge of light that gleamed from between the curtains of a window,
now and then crossed its face, sometimes dividing it clearly in two,
sometimes illuminating one attentive eye, a small shining point of
life in the dead murk around it, one eye, aglow with purpose,
gleaming startlingly from blackness.
The loud drumming of the rain on the balcony roof drowned the
crackle of the tin under a feeling foot. To slide there from the limb
only occupied a moment. The branch had grown well up over the
roof, grating now and then against it when the wind was high. The
thin streak of light from between the curtains made the man wary.
Why was she burning a light at this hour unless she was sleepless
and up?
Pressed close to the pane he applied his eye to the crack which was
the widest near the sill. He saw a portion of the room, looking
curiously vivid and distinct in the narrow concentration of his view. It
seemed flooded with unsteady, warmly yellow light. Straight before
him he saw a table with a rifled tea-tray on it, and back of that
another table. The one eye pressed to the crack grew absorbed as it
focused itself on the second table. Among a litter of books,
ornaments and feminine trifles, stood a small desk of dark wood. It
was as if it had been placed there to catch his attention—the goal of
his line of vision.
Shifting his position he pressed his cheek against the glass and
squinted in sidewise to where a deepening and quivering of the light
spoke of a fire. Then he saw the figure of the sleeping woman, lying
in an attitude of complete repose in the armchair. He gazed at her
striving to gage the depth of her sleep. One of her hands hung over
the arm of the chair, with the gleam of the fire flickering on the
white skin. The same light touched a strand of loosened hair. Her
face was in profile toward him, the chin pressed down on the
shoulder. It looked like a picture in its suggestion of profound
unconsciousness.
He pushed fearfully on the cross-bar of the pane, and the window
rose a hair’s-breadth. Then again, and it was high enough up for him
to insert his hand. He did so, and drew forward the curtain of heavy
rep so as to hide from the sleeper the gradual stages of his
entrance. By degrees he raised it to a height sufficient to permit the
passage of his body. The curtain shielded the girl from the current of
cold air that entered the room. He crept in softly on his hands and
knees, then rose to his feet.
For a moment he made no further movement, but stood, his gaze
riveted on the sleeper, watching for a symptom of roused
consciousness. She slept on peacefully, the light sound of her
breathing faintly audible.
The silence of the hushed house seemed weirdly terrifying after the
tumult of the night outside. The thief stole forward to the desk, his
eye continually turned toward her. When he reached the table she
was so far behind him that he could only see the sweep of her
wrapper on the floor, her shoulder, and the top of her head over the
chair-back.
He tried the desk with an unsteady hand. It was locked, but the
insertion of a steel file he carried broke the frail clasp. It gave with a
sharp click and he stood, his hair stirring, watching the top of her
head. It did not move, the silence resettled, he could again hear her
light, even breathing.
There were many papers in the desk, bundles of letters, souvenirs of
old days of affluence. He tossed them aside with tremulous
quickness until, underneath all, he came on a long, dirty envelope
and a little chamois leather bag. He lifted the latter. It was heavy
and emitted a faint chink. The old thief’s instincts rose in him. But he
first opened the envelope, and softly drew out the two certificates,
took the one he wanted, and put the other back. Then he opened
the mouth of the bag. The gleam of gold shone from the aperture.
Stricken with temptation he stood hesitating.
At that moment the fire, a heap of red ruins, fell together with a
small, clinking sound. It was no louder noise than he had made
when opening the desk, but it contained some penetrating quality
the former had lacked. Still hesitating, with the sack of money in his
hand, he turned again to the chair. A face, white and wide-eyed, was
staring at him round the side.
He gave a smothered oath and the sack dropped from his hand to
the table. The money fell from it in a clattering heap and rolled
about, in golden zigzags in every direction. The sound roused the
still unawakened intelligence of the girl. She saw the paper in his
hand, half-opened. Its familiarity broke through her dazed senses.
She rose and rushed at him gasping:
“The certificate! the certificate!”
Harney made a dash for the open window, but she caught him by
the shoulder and arm, and with the unimpaired strength of her
healthy youth struggled with him hand to hand, reaching out for the
paper he tried to keep out of her grasp. In the fury of the moment’s
conflict, neither made any sound, but fought like two enraged
animals, rocking to and fro, panting and clutching at each other.
He finally wrenched his arm free and struck her a savage blow,
aimed at her head but falling on her shoulder, which sent her down
on her knees and then back against the fire. He thought he had
stunned her, and raised his arm again when she sprang up, tore the
paper out of his grasp and pressed it with her hand down into the
coals beside her. As she did so, for the first time she raised her voice
and shrieked:
“Mr. Barron! Mr. Barron! Come, come! Oh hurry!”
From the hall Harney heard a movement and an answering shout.
With the cries echoing through the room he beat her down against
the grate, and tore the paper, curling with fire on the edges, from
her hand. With it, he dashed through the open sash, a shiver of
glass following him.
Almost simultaneously, Barron burst into the room. He had been
reading and had fallen asleep to be waked by the shrieks of the girl’s
voice, which were still in his ears. The falling of broken glass and a
rush of cold air from the opened window greeted him. Piled on the
table and scattered about the floor were gold pieces. Mariposa was
kneeling on the rug.
“He’s got it!” she cried wildly, and struggling to her feet rushed to
the window. “He’s got it! Oh go after him! Stop him!”
“Got what?” he said. “No, he hasn’t got the money. It’s all there.”
He seized her by the arm, for she seemed as if intending to go
through the broken window.
“Not the money—not the money,” she shrieked, wringing her hands;
“the paper—the certificate! He’s got it and gone, this way, through
the window.”
Barron grasped the fact that she had been robbed of something
other than the money, the loss of which seemed to render her half
distracted. With a hasty word of reassurance, he turned and ran
from the room, springing down the stairs and across the hall. In the
instant’s pause by the window he had heard the sound of feet on the
steps below and judged that he could get down more quickly by the
stairs than by the limb of the tree.
But the few minutes’ start and the darkness of the night were on the
side of the thief. The roar of the rain drowned his footsteps. Barron
ran this way and that, but neither sight nor sound of his quarry was
vouchsafed to him. The man had got away with his booty, whatever
it was.

“WITH THE STRENGTH OF HER HEALTHY YOUTH SHE

STRUGGLED WITH HIM”
In fifteen minutes Barron was back and found the Garcia ladies in
Mariposa’s room, ministering to the girl who lay in a heavy swoon,
stark and white on the hearth-rug.
The old lady, in some wondrous and intimate déshabille, greeted him
eagerly in Spanish, demanding what had happened. He told her all
he knew and knelt down beside the younger Mrs. Garcia, who was
attempting with a shaking hand to pour brandy between Mariposa’s
set teeth.
“We heard the most awful shrieks, and we rushed up, and here she
was standing and screaming: ‘He’s got it! He’s got it!’ And then she
fell flat, quite suddenly, and has lain here this way ever since.”
“It was a robber,” said the old woman, looking at the scattered gold,
“but he didn’t get her money. What was it he took, I wonder?”
“Some papers, I think,” said Barron, “that were evidently of value to
her. I’ll lift her up and put her on the bed and then I’ll go. As soon as
she’s conscious ask her what the man took and come and tell me,
and I’ll go right to the police station.”
“Oh, don’t leave us,” implored Mrs. Garcia, junior—“if there are
burglars anywhere round. Oh, please don’t go. Pierpont’s away and
we’d have no man in the house. Don’t go till morning. I’m just as
scared as I can be!”
“There’s nothing to be scared about. The man’s got what he wanted,
and he’ll take precious good care not to come back.”
“Oh, but don’t go till it gets light. The window’s broken and any one
can come in who wants.”
“All right, I’ll wait till it gets light. I’ll lift her up now, if you’ll get the
bed ready.”
With the assistance of old Mrs. Garcia he lifted her and carried her to
the bed. One of her arms fell limp against his shoulder as he laid her
down, and the old lady uttered an exclamation. She lifted it up and
showed him a curious red welt on the white wrist.
“It’s a burn,” she said. “How did she get that?”
“She must have fallen against the grate,” he answered. His eyes
grew dark as they encountered the scar. “As soon as she’s conscious
tell me.”
A few minutes later, the young widow found him sitting on a chair
under a lamp in the hall.
“Well,” he said eagerly, “how is she?”
“She’s come back to her senses all right. But she doesn’t seem to
want to tell what he took. She says it was a paper, and that’s all, and
that she never saw him before. Mother doesn’t think we ought to
worry her. She says she’s got a fever, and she’s going to give her
medicine to make her sleep, and not to disturb her till she wakes up.
She’s all broken up and sort of limp and trembly.”
“Well, I suppose the señora knows best. It’ll be light soon now, and
I’ll go to the police station. The señora and you will stay with her?”
“O yes,” said Mrs. Garcia, the younger. “My goodness, what a night
it’s been! It’s lucky the man didn’t get her money. There was quite a
lot; about five hundred dollars, I should think. Oh, my curl papers! I
forget them. Gracious, what a sight I must look!” and she shuffled
down the stairs.
Barron sat on till the dawn broke gray through the hall window. He
was beginning to wonder if this girl was the central figure of some
drama, secret, intricate and unsuspected, which was working out to
its conclusion.
 CHAPTER XXIII
THE LOST VOICE

“There may be heaven; there must be hell;

Meantime there is our earth here—well!”

—Browning.

The fears of Mrs. Garcia held Barron to the house till the morning
light was fully established. This was late, even for the winter season,
as the rain still fell heavily, retarding the coming of day with a leaden
veil.
He made his report at the police station, and then went down town
to his office where business detained him till noon. It was his habit
to lunch at the Lick House, but to-day he hurried back to the
Garcias’, striding up the series of hills at top speed, urged on by his
desire to hear news of Mariposa. He burst into the house to find it
silent—the hall empty. As he was hanging his hat on the rack, young
Mrs. Garcia appeared from the kitchen, her bang somewhat limp,
though it was still early in the day, her face looking small and peaked
after her exciting night’s vigil.
Mariposa was still asleep, she said in answer to his query. The
señora had given her a powerful sleeping draft and had said that the
rest would be the best restorative after such a shock. If, when she
waked, she showed symptoms of suffering or prostration, they
would send for the doctor.
“Have you found her paper?” she asked anxiously. “She seemed in
such a way about it last night.”
He muttered a preoccupied answer, mentioning his visit to the police
station.
“What was it, anyway? Do you know?” inquired the young woman
who was not exempt from the weaknesses of her sex.
“Some legal document, I think, but I don’t know. The police can’t do
much till they know what it is.”
“Perhaps it was a will,” said the widow, whose sole literature was
that furnished by the daily press; “though I should think if it was a
will she’d have told about it by now and not kept it hid away up
there. Anyway, she thought a lot of it, for when she came to I told
her her money was all right, and she said she didn’t care about the
money, she wanted the paper.”
“I’ll see her when she wakes,” said Barron, “and find out what it
was. Our affair now is to see that she is not frightened again and
gets well.”
“Well, mother says to let her sleep. So that’s what we’re going to do.
No one’s going to disturb her, and Pierpont, who got back an hour
ago, has promised not to give any lessons all afternoon.”
The conversation was here interrupted by the appearance of the
Chinaman, who loungingly issued from the kitchen, shouted an
unintelligible phrase at his mistress, and disappeared into the dining-
room. His words seemed to have meaning to her, for she pulled off
her apron, saying briskly:
“There, dinner’s ready and we’re going to have enchilados. Don’t you
smell them? The boys will be crazy.”
A cautious inspection made after dinner by young Mrs. Garcia,
resulted in the information that Mariposa still slept. Barron, who was
feverishly desirous to know how she progressed and also anxious to
learn from her the nature of the lost document, was forced to leave
without seeing her. A business engagement of the utmost
importance claimed him at his office at two or he would have
awaited her awakening.
It was nearly an hour later before this occurred. The drug the señora
had administered was a heroic remedy, relic of the days when
doctors were a rarity and the medicine chest of the hardy Spaniard
contained few but powerful potions. The girl rose, feeling weak and
dizzy. For some time she found it difficult to collect her thoughts and
sat on the edge of her bed, eying the disordered room with
uncomprehending glances. Bodily discomfort at first absorbed her
mind. A fever burned through her, her head ached, her limbs felt
leaden and stiff.
The sight of the opened desk gave the fillip to her befogged
memory, and suddenly the events of the night rushed back on her
with stunning force. She felt, at first, that it must be a dream. But
the rifled desk, with the money which the Garcias had gathered up
and laid in a glittering heap on the table, told her of its truth. The
man’s face, yellow and flabby, with the dark line of the shaven beard
clearly marked on his jaws, and the frightened rat’s eyes, came back
to her as he had turned in the first paralyzed moment of fear. With
hot, unsteady hands she searched through the scattered papers and
then about the room, in the hope that he had dropped the paper in
the struggle. But all search was fruitless. She remembered his
tearing it from her grasp as Barron’s shout had sounded in the
passage. He had escaped with it. The irrefutable evidence of the
marriage was in Essex’s hands. He had her under his feet. It was the
end.
She began to dress slowly and with constant pauses. Every
movement seemed an effort; every stage of her toilet loomed
colossal before her. The one horror of the situation kept revolving in
her brain, and she found it impossible to detach her thoughts from it
and fix them on anything else. At the same time she could think of
no way to escape, or to fight against it.
Next Sunday it would all be in The Era. Those words seemed written
in letters of fire on the walls, and repeated themselves in maddening
revolution in her mind. It would all be there, sensationally displayed
as other old scandals had been. She saw the tragic secret of the two
lives that had sheltered hers, the love that had been so sacred a
thing written of with all the defiling brutality of the common scribe
and his common reader, for all the world of the low and ignoble to
jeer at and spit upon.
She stopped in her dressing and pressed her hands to her face. How
could she live till next Sunday, and then, when Sunday came, live
through it? There were three days yet before Sunday. Might not
something be done in three days? But she could think of nothing.
Something had happened to her brain. If there was only some one
to help her!
And with that came the thought of Barron. A flash of relief went
through her. He would help her; he would do something. She had no
idea what, but something, and, uplifted by the idea, she opened the
door and looked up the hall. She felt a sudden drop of hope when
she saw that his door was closed. But she stole up the passage,
watching it, not knowing what she intended saying to him, only
actuated by the desire to throw her responsibilities on him and ask
for his help.
The door was ajar and she listened outside it. There was no sound
from within and no scent of cigar-smoke. She tapped softly and
receiving no answer pushed it open and peered fearfully in. The
room was empty. The man’s clothes were thrown about carelessly,
his table littered with papers and books. From the crevice of the
opened window came the smell and the sound of the rain, with a
chill, bleak suggestion.
A sudden throttling sense of lonely helplessness overwhelmed her.
She stood looking blankly about, at the ashes of cigars in a china
saucer, at an old valise gaping open in a corner. The room seemed to
her to have a vacated air, and she remembered hearing Barron, a
few days before, speak of going to the mines again soon. Her mind
leaped to the conclusion that he had gone. Her hopes suddenly fell
around her in ruins, and in his looking-glass she saw a blanched face
that she hardly recognized as her own.
Stealing back to her room she sat down on the bed again. The
house was curiously quiet and in this silence her thoughts began
once more to revolve round the one topic. Then suddenly they broke
into a burst of rebellion. She could not bear it. She must go,
somewhere, anywhere to escape. She would flee away like a hunted
animal and hide, creeping into some dark distant place and cowering
there. But where would she go, and what would she do? The world
outside seemed one vast menace waiting to spring on her. If her
head would stop aching and the fever that burned her body and
clouded her brain would cease for a moment, she could think and
come to some conclusion. But now—
And suddenly, as she thought, a whisper seemed to come to her,
clear and distinct like a revelation—“You have your voice!”
It lifted her to her feet. For a moment the pain and confusion of
developing illness left her, and she felt a thrill of returning energy.
She had it still, the one great gift neither enemies nor misfortune
could take from her—her voice!
The hope shook her out of the lethargy of fever, and her mind
sprang into excited action like a loosened spring. She went to her
desk and placed the gold back in its bag. The five hundred dollars
that had seemed so meaningless had now a use. It would take her
away to Europe. With the three hundred she still had in the bank, it
would be enough to take her to Paris and leave her something to live
on. Money went a long way over there, she had heard. She could
study and sing and become famous.
It all seemed suddenly possible, almost easy. Only leaving would be
hard—fearfully. She thought of the door up the passage and the
voice that in those first days of her feebleness had called a greeting
to her every morning; the man’s deep voice with its strong, cheery
note. And then like a peevish child, sick and unreasonable, she
found herself saying:
“Why does he leave me now when I want him so?”
No—her voice was all she had. She would live for it and be famous,
and the year of terror and anguish she had spent in San Francisco
would become a dim memory upon which she could some day look
back with calm. But before she went she would sing for Pierpont and
hear what he said.
The thought had hardly formed in her mind when she was out in the
hall and stealing noiselessly down the stairs of the silent house. It
struck her as odd that the house should be so quiet, as these were
the hours in which Pierpont’s pupils usually made the welkin resound
with their efforts. Perhaps he was out. But this was not so, for in the
lower hall she met the girl with the fair hair and prominent blue eyes
who possessed the fine soprano voice she had so often listened to,
and who in response to her query told her that Mr. Pierpont was in,
but not giving lessons this afternoon.
In answer to her knock she heard his “come in” and opened the
door. He was sitting on a divan idly turning over some loose sheets
of music. The large, sparsely furnished room—it was in reality the
back drawing-room of the house—looked curiously gray and cold in
the drear afternoon light. It was only slightly furnished—his bed and
toilet articles being in a curtained alcove. In the center of its
unadorned, occupied bareness, the grand piano, gleaming richly,
stood open, the stool in front of it.
“Miss Moreau,” he said, starting to his feet, “I thought you were sick
in bed. How are you? You’ve had a dreadful experience. I’ve been
sending away my pupils because I was told you were asleep.”
“Oh, I’m quite well now,” she said, “only my head aches a little. Yes,
I was frightened last night—a burglar came in, crept up the bough of
the pepper-tree. I was dreadfully frightened then, but I’m all right
now. I’ve come to sing for you.”
“To sing for me!” he exclaimed; “but you’re not well enough to sing.
You’ve had a bad fright and you look—excuse me”—he took her
hand—“you’re burning up with fever. Take my advice and go
upstairs, and as soon as Mrs. Garcia comes in we’ll get a doctor.”
“No—no!” she said almost violently; “I’m quite well now. My hand’s
hot and so is my head, but that’s natural after the fright I had last
night. I want to sing for you now and see what you say about my
voice.”
“But, you know, you can’t do yourself justice and I can’t form a fair
opinion. Why do you want to sing this afternoon when you wouldn’t
all winter?”
“Well,” she said, “I don’t mind telling you. I’m going to Europe to
study. I’ve just made up my mind.”
“Going to Europe! Isn’t that very sudden? But it will be splendid!
When are you going?”
“Soon—in a day or two—as soon as I can get my things packed in
my trunks.”
He looked at her curiously. Her manner, which was usually calm and
deliberate, was marked by tremulous restlessness. She spoke rapidly
and like one laboring under suppressed excitement.
“Come,” she said, going to the piano stool and pushing it nearer the
keyboard, “I’ll be very busy now and I don’t want to waste any
time.”
He moved reluctantly to the piano and seated himself.
“Have you your music?” he asked.
“No, but I can sing what some of your pupils do. I can sing ‘Knowest
thou the land?’ and Mrs. Burrell sings that. Where is it?”
Her feverish haste and nervousness impressed him more than ever
as her hands tossed aside the sheets of piled-up music, throwing
them about the piano and snatching at them as they slipped to the
floor. From there he picked up the ‘Mignon’ aria which she had
overlooked and spreading it on the rack struck the opening notes.
She leaned over him to see the first line and he felt that she was
trembling violently. He raised his hands and wheeled round on the
stool.
“Miss Moreau,” he said, “I truly don’t think you’re well enough to
sing. Don’t you think we’d better put it off till to-morrow?”
“No, no—I’m going to now. I’m ready. I’m anxious to. I must. Begin
again, please.”
He turned obediently and began again to play the chords of
accompaniment. He had been for a long time intensely anxious to
hear her voice, of which he had heard so much. It irritated him now
to have her determined to sing when she was obviously ill and still
suffering from the effects of her fright.
The accompaniment reached the point where the voice joins it. He
played softly, alert for the first rich notes. Mariposa’s chest rose with
an inflation of air and she began to sing.
A sound, harsh, veiled and thin, filled the room. There was no
volume, nor resonance, nor beauty in it. It was the ghost of a voice.
The teacher was so shocked that for a moment he stumbled in the
familiar accompaniment. Then he went on, bending his head low
over the keys, fearful of her seeing his face. Sounds unmusical,
rasping, and discordant came from her lips. Everything that had
once made it rich and splendid was gone, the very volume of it had
dwindled to a thin, muffled thread, the color had flown from every
tone.
For a bar or two she went on, then she stopped. Pierpont dared not
turn at first. But he heard her behind him say hoarsely:
“What—what—is it?”
Then he wheeled round and saw her with wild eyes and white lips.
For a moment he could say nothing. Her appearance struck him with
alarm, and he sat dumb on the stool staring at her.
“What is it?” she cried. “What has happened to it? Where is my
voice?”
“It’s—it’s—certainly not in good condition,” he stammered.
“It’s gone,” she answered in a wail of agony; “it’s gone. My voice has
gone! What shall I do? It’s gone!”
“Your fright of last night has affected it,” he said, speaking as kindly
as he could, “and you’re not well. I told you you were feverish and
ought not to sing. Rest will probably restore it.”
“Let me try it again,” she said wildly. “It may be better. Play again.”
He played over the opening bars again, and once more she drew the
deep breath that in the past had always brought with it so much of
exultation and began to sing. The same feeble sounds, obscured as
though passing through a thick, muffling medium, hoarse, flat,
unlovely, came with labor from her parted lips.
They broke suddenly into a wild animal cry of despair. Pierpont rose
from the stool and went toward her where she stood with her arms
drooping by her sides, pallid and terrible.
“Don’t look like that,” he said, taking her hand; “there’s no doubt the
voice has been injured. But rest does a great deal, and after a shock
like last night—”
She tore herself away from him and ran to the door crying:
“Oh, my voice! My voice! It was all I had!”
He followed her into the hall, not knowing what to say in the face of
such a calamity, only anxious to offer her some consolation. But she
ran from him, up the stairs with a frantic speed. As he put his foot
on the lower step he heard her door.
He turned round and went back slowly to his room. He was shocked
and amazed, and a little relieved that he had failed to catch her for
he had no words ready for such a misfortune. Her voice was
completely gone. She was unquestionably ill and nervous—but— He
sat down on the divan, shaking his head. He had never heard a
voice more utterly lost and wrecked.

Barron’s business engagement detained him longer than he had

expected. The heavy rain was shortening the already short February
day with a premature dusk when he opened the gate of the Garcia
house and mounted the steps.
He had made a cursory investigation of the ground under the
pepper-tree when he went out in the early morning. Now, before the
light died, he again stepped under its branches for a more thorough
survey. The foliage was so thick that no grass grew where the tree’s
shadow fell, and the rain sifted through it in occasional dribbles or
shaken showers. The bare stretch of ground was now an expanse of
mud, interspersed with puddles. Here and there a footprint still
remained, full of water. He moved about the base of the tree
studying these, then looking up into the branch along which the
burglar had crept to the balcony. What paper could the girl have
possessed of sufficient value to lure a man to such risks?
With his mind full of this thought his glance dropped to the root of
the trunk. A piece of burnt paper, half covered with the trampled
mud, caught his eye, and he picked it up and absently glanced at it.
He was about to throw it over the fence into the road, when he saw
the name of Jacob Shackleton. The next moment his eyes were
riveted on the printed lines here and there filled in with writing. He
moved so that the full light fell on it through a break in the
branches. It was a minute or two before he grasped its real
meaning. But he knew the name of Lucy Fraser, too. Mariposa had
once told him it had been her mother’s maiden name.
For a space he stood motionless under the tree, staring at the paper,
focusing his mind on it, seizing on waifs and strays from the past
that surged to the surface of his memory. It dazed him at first. Then
he began to understand. The mysterious drama that environed the
girl upstairs began to grow clear to him. This was the document that
had been stolen from her last night, the loss of which had thrown
her into a frenzy of despair—the record of a marriage between her
mother and Jake Shackleton.
Without stopping to think further he thrust it into his pocket and ran
to the house. As he mounted the porch steps the scene of his first
meeting with Mariposa flashed suddenly like a magic-lantern picture
across his mind. He heard her hysterical cry of—“He was my father!”
Another veil of the mystery seemed lifted.
And now he shrank from penetrating further, for he began to see. If
Mariposa had some sore secret to hide let her keep it shut in her
own breast. All he had to do was to give the paper to her as soon as
he could. In the moment’s passage of the balcony and the pause
while he inserted his latch-key in the door he tried to think how he
could restore it to her without letting her think he had read it. The
key turned and as the door gave he decided that it must be given
her at once without wasting time or bothering about comforting lies.
He burst into the hall and then stood still, the door-handle in his
hand. In the dim light, the two Garcia ladies and the two boys met
his eyes, standing in a group at the foot of the stairs. There was
something in their faces and attitudes that bespoke uneasiness and
anxiety. Their four pairs of eyes were fastened on him with curious
alarmed gravity.
He kicked the door shut and said:
“How’s Miss Moreau?”
The question seemed to increase their disquietude.
“We don’t know where she is,” said young Mrs. Garcia.
“Isn’t she in her room?” he demanded.
“No—that’s what’s so funny. I thought she was sleeping an awful
long time and I just peeked in and she isn’t there. And Benito’s been
all over the house and can’t find her. It seems so crazy of her to go
out in all this rain, but her outside things are not in the closet or
anywhere.”
They stood silent for a moment, eying one another with faces of
disturbed query.
The opening of Pierpont’s door roused them. The young man
appeared in the aperture and then came slowly forward.
“Have you seen Miss Moreau?” he said to young Mrs. Garcia.
“No,” said Barron hurriedly; “but have you?”
“Yes, she was down in my room this afternoon singing.”
“Singing!” echoed the others in wide-eyed amazement.
“Yes, and I’m rather anxious about her. That’s why I came out when
I heard your voices. She’s had a pretty severe disappointment, I’m
afraid. She seems to have lost her voice.”
“Lost her voice!” ejaculated Mrs. Garcia in a low gasp of horror.
“Good heavens!”
The boys looked from one to the other with the round eyes of
growing fear and dread. The calamity, as announced by Pierpont, did
not seem adequate for the consternation it caused, but an
oppressive sense of apprehension was in the air.
“What made her want to sing?” said the widow; “she was too sick to
sing.”
“That’s what I told her, but she insisted. She was determined to. She
said she was going to Europe to study.”
“Going to Europe!” It was Barron’s deep voice that put the question
this time, Mrs. Garcia being too astonished by this last piece of
intelligence to have breath for speech. “When was she going to
Europe?”
“In a day or two—as soon as she could pack her trunks, she said. I
don’t really think she was quite accountable for what she said. She
was burning with a fever and she seemed in a tremendously
wrought-up state. I think her fright of the night before had quite
upset her. I tried to cheer her up, but she ran away as if she was
frantic. Have any of you seen her?”
“No,” said Mrs. Garcia, her voice curiously flat. “She’s gone.”
“Gone?” echoed Pierpont. “Gone where?”
“We don’t any of us know. But she’s not in the house anywhere. And
now it’s getting dark and—”
There was a pause, one of those pregnant pauses of mute anxiety
while each eyed the other with glances full of an alarmed surmise.
“Perhaps the robber came and took her away,” said Benito in a voice
of terror.
No one paid any attention. As if by common consent all present
fastened questioning eyes on Barron. He stood looking down, his
brows knit. The silence of dumb uneasiness was broken by the
entrance of the Chinaman from the kitchen. With the expressionless
phlegm of his race he lit the two hall gas-jets, gently but firmly
moving the señora out of his way, and paying no attention to the
silent group at the stair foot.
“Ching,” said Barron suddenly, “have you seen Miss Moreau this
afternoon?”
“Yes,” returned the Celestial, carefully adjusting the tap of the
second gas, “she go out hap-past four. She heap hurry. She look
welly bad—heap sick I guess; no umblella; get awful wet.”
With his noiseless tread he retreated up the passage to the kitchen.
“Well, I’ll go,” said Barron suddenly. “She’s just possibly gone out to
see some one and will be back soon. But no umbrella in this rain!
Have her room warm and everything ready.”
He turned round and in an instant was gone. The little group at the
stairpost looked at one another with pale faces. It was possible that
Mariposa had gone out to see some one. But the dread of disaster
was at every heart.
 CHAPTER XXIV
A BROKEN TOOL

“A plague o’ both your houses!

They have made worms’ meat of me.”

—Shakespeare.

It had been close upon half-past two when Harney had left the
house in Bush Street. Essex at the window had heard the sound of
his retreating feet soon lost in the rush of the rain, and had then
returned to the fire. He had made a close calculation of the time
Harney should take. To go and come ought not to occupy more than
a half-hour. The theft, itself, if no mischances occurred, should be
accomplished in ten or fifteen minutes.
As the hands of the clock on the table drew near three, the man
rose from his post by the fire and began to move restlessly about
the room. The house was wrapped in the dead stillness of sleep,
round which the turmoil of the storm circled and upon which it
seemed to press. Pausing to listen he could hear the creaks and
groan of the old walls, as the wind buffeted them. Once, thinking he
heard a furtive step, he went to the door, opened it and peered out
into the blackness of the hall. The stairs still creaked as if to a light
ascending foot, but his eyes encountered nothing but the
impenetrable darkness, charged with the familiar smell of stale
smoke.
Back in his room he went to the window and throwing it wide,
leaned out listening. The rain fell with a continuous drumming rustle,
through which the chinks and gurgles of water caught in small
channels penetrated with a near-by clearness. Here and there the
darkness broke away in splinters from a sputtering lamp, and where
its light touched, everything gleamed and glistened. Gusts of wind
rose and fell, tore the wet bushes in the garden below, and banged
a shutter on an adjacent house.
Essex left the window, drawing the curtain to shut its light from the
street. It was a quarter past three. If at four Harney had not
returned he would go after him. The thief might easily have missed
his footing in the tree and have fallen, and be lying beneath it,
stunned, dead perhaps, the papers in his hand.
The clock hands moved on toward twenty—twenty-five minutes past.
The creaking came from the stairs again, exactly, to the listening ear,
like the soft sound of a cautiously-mounting step. From the cupboard
came a curious loud tick and then a series of rending cracks. It
made Essex start guiltily, and swearing under his breath, he again
turned toward the window and, as he did so, caught the sound of
hurrying feet. He drew the curtain and leaned out. Above the uproar
of the night he heard the quick, regular thud of the feet of a runner,
rushing onward through the storm, and then, across the gleam of a
lamp, a dark figure shot, with head down, flying.
He dropped the curtain and waited, immense relief at his heart. In a
moment he heard the footsteps stop at the gate, furtively ascend
the stairs of the two terraces, and then the stealthy grating of the
door. He silently pushed his own door open that the light might
guide the ascending man, and he heard Harney’s loud breathing as
he crept up.
The thief rose up out of the gulf of darkness like an apparition of
terror. He dropped into a chair, his face gray, white and pinched, the
sound of his rasping breaths, drawn with pain from the bottom of his
lungs, filling the room. He was incapable of speech, and Essex,
pouring him out whisky, was forced to take the glass from his
shaking hand and hold it to his lips. From his soaked clothes and the
cap that crowned his head, like a saturated woolen rag, water
streamed. But the rain had not been able to efface from his coat a
caking of mud that half-covered one arm and shoulder, and there
was blood on one of his hands. He had evidently fallen.
“Have you got it?” said Essex, putting the glass down.
The other nodded and let his head sink on the chair-back.
“I’m dead,” he gasped, “but I done it.”
“Where is it? Give it to me.”
The man made a faint movement of assent, but evidently had not
force enough to produce the paper and lay limp in the chair, Essex
watching him impatiently. Presently he put his feeble hand out for
the glass and drank again. The rattling loudness of his breathing
moderated. Without moving his head he turned his eyes on Essex
and said:
“I’m most killed—I’m all shook up. I fell coming down the tree, some
way—I don’t know how far—but I got it all right. She fought like a
wildcat, tried to burn it—but I got it. Then she hollered and a man
answered. I knew it was a man’s voice, and I made a dash for the
winder only jest in time. I’m cut somewheres—”
He raised the hand with the blood on it and fumbled at his coat-
sleeve. The other hand was smeared with blood from the contact.
“Like a pig,” he said in a low voice, and pulled out a rag of
handkerchief which he tried to push up his sleeve; “I’m cut
somewheres all right, but I don’t know where.”
“Give me the paper and take your things off. You’re dripping all over
everything,” said Essex, extending his hand.
Harney sat up.
“I dunno how I done it,” he said; “how I got down. The man was
right on my heels. When I fell I saw him, pullin’ her up on her feet—
I saw that through the winder. Then I riz up and I went—God, how I
went!”
He had stuffed his handkerchief up his sleeve by this time, and now
put his bloody tremulous hand into the outer breast-pocket of his
coat. As the hand fumbled about the opening he said:
“I didn’t stop to look no more nor take no risks. I wanted to git away
from thar and I tell you I lit out, and—”
He stopped, his jaw dropped, his nerveless figure stiffened, a look of
animal terror came into his eyes.
“Where is it?” he almost yelled, staring at Essex.
“How the devil should I know! Where did you put it? Isn’t it there?”
Essex himself had suddenly paled. He stood erect before the
crouched and trembling figure of his partner, his eyes fiercely
intense.
“It ain’t here,” cried Harney, his hand clawing about in the pocket.
“It ain’t there. Oh Lordy, Lordy! I’ve lost it! It’s gone. It fell out when
I came off the tree. I fell. I told you I fell. Didn’t I tell you I fell?” he
shouted, as if he had been contradicted.
He rose up, his face pasty white, wringing his hands like a woman.
There was something grotesque and almost overdone in his terror,
but his pallor and the fear in his eyes were real.
“Lost it!” cried Essex. “No more of those lies! Give me the paper, you
dog.”
“Don’t you hear me say I ain’t got it? Ain’t I told you I fell? When I
jumped for the tree I jest smashed it down into my pocket. I had to
have both hands to climb. And I suppose I ain’t pressed it in tight
enough. God, man, it was ten years in San Quentin for me if I’d lost
two minutes.”
Essex drew closer, his mouth tight, his eyes fixed with a fiercely
compelling gaze on the wretch before him.
“Don’t think you can make anything by stealing that paper. Give it
up; give it up now; I’ve got you here, and I’ll know what you’ve
done with it before you leave or you’ll never leave at all.”
“I lost it, and that’s what I done with it. If you want it, come on with
me now and look round under that tree. Ain’t you understood I fell
sideways from the branch to the ground? Look at my hand—” he
held up his arm, pulling the muddy sleeve back from the blood-
stained wrist.
“Where is it?” said Essex, without moving. “You were gone nearly an
hour. Where have you hidden it?”
“Nowheres. It took time. I had to clim’ up careful, ’cause she had a
light burning, and I thought she was awake. Why can’t you believe
me? What can I do with it alone?”
“You can blackmail Mrs. Shackleton well enough alone. Give me that
paper, or tell me where you put it, or, by God, I’ll kill you!”
Fear of the man that owned him gave Harney the air of guilt. He
backed away in an access of pallid terror, shouting:
“I ain’t lying. Why can’t yer believe me? It took time—it took time!
Ain’t I told you I fell? Look at the mud; and feel, feel in every
pocket.” He seized on them and tore the insides outward. “I’m tellin’
you the whole truth. I ain’t got it.”
“Where is it, then? You’ll tell me where you’ve hidden it, or—”
Essex made a sudden leap forward and caught the man by his neck-
cloth and collar. In his blind alarm Harney was given fictitious
strength, and he tore himself loose and rushed for the door. Essex’s
hat, coat and stick lay on the table. Without thought or
premeditation their owner seized the cane—a heavy malacca—by the
end, flew round the table, and as Harney turned the door-handle,
brought the knob of the loaded cane down on the crown of his head.
It struck with a thud and sent the water squirting from the saturated
cap. The thief, without cry or word, spun round, waving his hands in
the air, and then fell heavily face downward. For a moment he
quivered, and once or twice made a convulsive movement, then lay
still, the water running from his clothes along the floor.
With the cane still in his hand, Essex came around the table and
looked at him. For a space he stood staring, his hand resting on the
edge of the table, his neck craned forward, his face set in a rigid
intensity of observation. The sudden silence that had succeeded to
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