Charles Abbott, now standing by the door, shot in the bolt which secured it, and, by a fortunate, a chance, twist, broke off the handle. Santacilla, undisturbed, remained seated, smiling while his fingers played with the plaited loop of his cane. "This infatuation," he indicated them with a wave, "while it convinced Havana, never entirely satisfied me. I have been watching you, Jobaba has been listening, for days. You were very cunning, but, in the end, you failed; you were neither skilful nor patient enough. Yet, at the last, all that you heard were fairy tales--the spy that was sent to Camagueey, ha!" La Clavel faced him calmly, but, Charles saw, she was pale. He was revolving a hundred impractical schemes: they had only one end, the death of Santacilla, but how that was to be brought about with safety to Cuba evaded him. "I am not a traitor in the way you mean," she declared; "what your conceit never allowed you to note was that, in Spain and here, I have always detested you; and what I did was the result of that. I struck at you and not at our country, for the court and church and army are no longer our strength--if we still have any except the knife and cord--but our weakness." "Fools," he asserted, unmoved. "And now you are the fool," she added. "No, you are wrong; I am only enjoying myself before the show is over. I wanted to see you, and your young devotee, twist and turn before the fact of death. I have killed, and seen executed, a number of people, men and women; but I was still curious--a great dancer and a rich young American. That is an unusual day." It was best, Charles Abbott decided, to bring about as much as possible with no more delay; the prime necessary act accomplished, they could face the problems of the immediate future steadily. He quietly produced his pistol and levelled it. The dry click which alone followed the pulling of the trigger made the officer aware of the attempt upon his life. A dark angry surge invaded his face, and then receded. "No man will ever kill me," he repeated. "It is my star." A hand left the cane and produced a small gold whistle. Charles stared dully at the useless weapon, with its mounting of mother-of-pearl, which he still held. "The cartridges have been too long in their barrels," Santacilla explained; "they have dried and shifted. You should have greased them every week." La Clavel stood, lost in thought, like a woman in a dream. Her hair, over which she had spent such time and curses, was an elaborate silhouette against the light. "Ceaza, Ceaza," she implored, going to him, "you must let me go and dance in Buenos Aires, they have never seen me there, it is necessary to my career." She was close beside him, when he rose suddenly, pushing the chair between them.