Stay, give me ink,
I must add to the record.'
And he wrote in his cipher: 'In May, 1517, the said de Garcia sailed to
England on a trading voyage, and there, in the parish of Ditchingham, in
the county of Norfolk, he murdered Luisa Wingfield, spoken of above as
Luisa de Garcia, his cousin, to whom he was once betrothed. In September
of the same year, or previously, under cover of a false marriage, he
decoyed and deserted one Donna Isabella of the noble family of Siguenza,
a nun in a religious house in this city.'
'What!' I exclaimed, 'is the girl who came to seek your help two nights
since the same that de Garcia deserted?'
'The very same, nephew. It was she whom you heard pleading with him last
night. Had I known two days ago what I know to-day, by now this villain
had been safe in prison. But perhaps it is not yet too late. I am
ill, but I will rise and see to it. Leave it to me, nephew. Go, nurse
yourself, and leave it to me; if anything may be done I can do it. Stay,
bid a messenger be ready. This evening I shall know whatever there is to
be known.'
That night Fonseca sent for me again.
'I have made inquiries,' he said. 'I have even warned the officers
of justice for the first time for many years, and they are hunting de
Garcia as bloodhounds hunt a slave. But nothing can be heard of him. He
has vanished and left no trace.
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