I looked in the direction all were looking.
Before us stood, unmasked at last, the scientific villain who had
been plotting and scheming to capture both the secret and Inez--
well knowing that suspicion would rest either on Lockwood, the
soldier of fortune, or on the jealous Indian woman whose son had
been rejected and whose brother he had himself already, secretly,
driven to an insane suicide in his unscrupulous search for the
treasure of Truxillo.
It was Professor Norton, himself--first thief of the dagger which
later he had hidden but which Whitney's detectives had stolen in
turn from him; writer of anonymous letters, even to himself to
throw others off the trail; maker of stramonium cigarettes with
which to confuse the minds of his opponents, Whitney, Mendoza, and
the rest; secret lover of Inez whom he demanded as the price of
the dagger; and murderer of Don Luis.
Senora de Moche and Alfonso, behind me, could only gasp their
astonishment. Much as she would have liked to have the affair end
in a general vindication of the curse she could not control a
single, triumphant thrust.
"His blood," she cried, transfixing Norton with her stern eyes,
"has cried out of Titicaca for vengeance from that day to this!"
"Want any help?"
We all turned toward the door as Burke, dust-covered and tired,
stamped in, followed by a man whose face was bandaged and bloody.
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