At eleven o'clock next morning a strange taxi-cab appeared in Gibbon Street and drew up before Bickle's grocery. From it stepped a figure so remarkable in that neighborhood that the little boys for the moment were too astonished even to deride it; to wit: Se?or Henry Saunders in full regalia, a red carnation in his buttonhole. He picked his way gingerly into the store and looked about him with an expression of astonished rebuke that the common things of life should dare to approach so close. He inquired of Bessie for "Se?or Greegoree Parr."

Bessie not at all intimidated by his exquisiteness marched him out through the kitchen into the muddy yard where Greg in overalls, a sight for gods and men, was busy greasing and tightening up the flivver.

"Oh, there is a mistake!" said Se?or Saunders elevating his eyebrows. "It is for Se?or Greegoree Parr that I ask."

"That's me," said Greg inelegantly. "I know you of course. How are you?"

The situation was too much for the Castilian youth. He looked about him wildly. The sight of Blossom and Ginger McAfee grinning in the background did not tend to reassure him. "You—you drive dees cab!" he stammered.

"Sure!" said Greg wickedly. "I'm what they call an owl-driver."

"A owl-driver!"

"Sure, you know, a fly-by-night." He opened the door of the flivver. "Get in. We can talk quietly here."

Se?or Henry glanced askance at the overalls. "Thank you, I stand. My taxi waits. I bring you dees note."

"Ah, from Miss Wilmot!" said Greg with a gleaming eye. He wiped his hands preparatory to taking it.

The other young man marked the gleam and stiffened. These two were bound to strike sparks from each other on sight. "Miss Wilmot—I do not understand," he said haughtily.

"Oh, I suppose you call her Se?orita de Socotra," said Greg carelessly. "But she prefers to be known by the other name now."

"Is it so?" queried Se?or Saunders icily. "Did she tell you that?"

"She did," said Greg giving him stare for stare.

Meanwhile he opened his note. There were but four lines.


"I have told Henry everything. He is anxious to help. I hope you're satisfied. F. has not got what we want with him. If I detain him here until after lunch, could you have his room at the hotel searched?

"A. Wilmot."


Meanwhile the dark-skinned youth had been studying the fair one.

"'Ave I not seen you before?" he asked.

"In the bar at the Meriden," said Greg.

"Ah, was that you? Then this is a disguise?"

"If you like."

"You follow me into that bar?"

"Yes. I was trying to get into touch with Miss Wilmot."

"Ah! You think this quite the fair thing?"

"What do you mean?"

"She is so young, so inexperience'——!"

"Do you mean that I'm taking advantage of her?"

Se?or Saunders shrugged. He had command of a most expressive shrug.

"Well, I won't discuss that with you now," said Greg coolly. "More important things to think about. Miss Wilmot says here that you are willing to help us."

The other bowed. "Willing to help her," he amended.

Greg ignored it. He was only anxious to get rid of the man so that he could get to the task that Amy had laid upon him. "Can you tell me the situation in Managuay that has resulted in this crime?"

"I don' know much about Managuayan affairs," was the languid reply. "I am more in Paris and London."

"I see," said Greg. "But what do you think induced de Socotra to kill Antonio Bareda."

"It is incredible!" said Se?or Henry. "There is somewhere a mistake. Why, the de Socotras are the oldest family in Managuay. Se?or Francisco is a man of the world like myself."

"That may be," said Greg dryly, "but he did it just the same, or had it done."

"Should that be so," said the other, "it is not fitting that the Se?orita undertake the duties of a police officer. I do not approve of it."

"Oh, don't you!" thought Greg.

"Hereafter I will act for her in taking whatever measures may be necessary."

"That will be nice," said Greg ironically. "You will excuse me now, I am sure. I have an important job on this morning. Have to get a hustle on. You said your taxi was waiting. You and I can have a nice long talk some other time."

So saying, he wafted Se?or Saunders towards the yard gate. The latter presently found himself out on the sidewalk, a little dazed and wholly disapproving.

Meanwhile Greg rushed up-stairs to dress. As soon as he was ready Hickey took him to the Hotel des Estados Unidos. Greg registered there. He had on his previous visited noted that de Socotra, or Bareda as he called himself here, occupied room 318, and he wished to obtain a room as near to that as possible. He supposed that 318 would be on the third floor.

"Not too high up," he said, as the clerk turned to choose him a room, "say, the third floor."

"Very good, sir. Number 311. Have you any baggage?"

"It will be sent here later."

The clerk looked at him significantly.

"I will pay for a day in advance," said Greg, who had no wish to cheat the hotel out of its just dues.

"Thank you, sir. Two dollars."

Greg was shown to his room. He let the boy go and made a little reconnoissance. His own room looked upon the side street. Number 318 he found was at the end of the same corridor on the other side. It was evidently from its position a corner room with a window on the court and other windows to the west. There was a red light outside the door, indicating that the room possessed a fire escape. Around the corner of the corridor, opposite the elevator, was a window on the court, from which Greg could command the court window of de Socotra's room. The fire escape was outside the court window; moreover the window itself was open. Greg saw that the room might be reached without especial difficulty from five other rooms, i.e. one on the same floor, two above and two below.

He returned to the office. "You haven't a room opening on a fire-escape have you?" he asked the clerk. "I'm a bit nervous about fire in an old building like this."

The clerk consulted his plan. "No," he said. "Those rooms go first. But 316 on your floor is vacant. The fire-escape is adjoining. From the window you could reach out and put your hand on it if there was any need."

"Very well, change me to 316," said Greg, suppressing the desire to thank the amiable clerk who so innocently played into his hand.

Alone in 316 Greg narrowly searched all the windows on the other side of the court. No head was to be seen at any one of them. He reassured himself with the thought that at half-past eleven in the morning in a transient hotel there was not much reason for the guests to be in their rooms. There was a certain risk of course, but that must be taken.

He raised the window of his room to its widest extent and stood back to make sure for the last time that no one was watching him. Then grasping the rail of the fire escape he swung himself over, threw up the window of the adjoining room and slipped in. In all he was not visible above five seconds. Having made the trip he looked sharply behind him, but still no startled face appeared at any window within view. He breathed more freely.

Bolting the door into the hall, he took stock of his surroundings. There was no question but that he was in the right room, for the old suit-case with the collapsible side lay open on the floor, with de Socotra's more elegant valise beside it. The suit-case had been ransacked, but not unpacked. It contained only what an old gentleman of modest tastes might carry on a journey. De Socotra's own things were spread on the bureau and hung in the closet, a bit of stage business for the benefit of the maids, Greg supposed, for it was not likely that the elegant de Socotra troubled this modest room much.

Swiftly and silently Greg made his search. It did not take long, for the room offered but few possible places of concealment; valises, bureau drawers, closet. Greg did not neglect the bed; but no little black book rewarded him. He went over everything twice, taking care to leave all exactly as he had found it. His disappointment was keen. All that thought, not to speak of the risk, deserved a better reward he told himself.

Listening first to make sure there was no one in the corridor, he left the room openly by the door. It locked itself behind him. He went on down-stairs, meaning to return direct to the taxi-yard, for the Hotel des Estados Unidos had served its purpose as far as he was concerned. But a little incident in the lobby changed his plans.

As he stepped from the elevator his attention was attracted by a young man entering the lobby from the street at the same moment, a South American apparently, like the majority of this hotel's patrons. Something in his face appealed instinctively to Greg, his honest, eager gaze perhaps, his sensitive and resolute mouth; anyway there was something about him that caused Greg to think: "He'd make a good friend."

Greg was struck further by an extraordinary look of anxiety on the other's face, a generous anxiety. He came quickly to the desk beside which Greg was standing, and not more than a foot separated them. But the young Spanish-American never noticed Greg; his anxiety filled him. He moistened his lips before he spoke, and asked the clerk a question in Spanish, as if his life depended on the answer.

Greg was almost betrayed into an exclamation of astonishment. The young man asked for "Se?or Antonio Bareda."

The clerk replied in the affirmative, and an extraordinary look of relief passed over the young man's face. For a moment he seemed overcome; he lowered his eyes until he could command himself, and passed his handkerchief over his face. The clerk noticed nothing.

Finding his voice the young man asked another question. Not hard to guess what this was, because the clerk glanced in the box marked 318, and seeing the key there, shook his head. The young man spoke again—was it to ask when Se?or Bareda would return? The clerk shrugged and spread out his hands.

Greg was on fire with curiosity. He lit a cigar, and affected to look idly around like a man with time on his hands. Meanwhile he missed no move of the young man's. The grand question was, was he looking for the real or the false Bareda? Greg wished to believe that he was a friend of the real Bareda's. Certainly he bore no resemblance to others of de Socotra's gang who had all somehow a fishy look. This young fellow's glance was as open as the day. But if it were true that he were on the side of the real Bareda, a dreadful shock awaited him.

After a moment's hesitation the young Spanish-American crossed the lobby and dropped into one of the chairs by the window. He still felt the effects of his late anxiety. He looked exhausted. But a great content had ironed out the harassed lines in his face. Greg's heart was sharp with compassion for him.

"Have I got to deal him a knockout blow?" he thought.

He took a turn up and down the lobby, and finally dropped carelessly into a seat beside the other.

"Do you speak English?" he asked with a friendly grin.

"Why, yes," said the other smiling back.

"Well, I'm glad of that!" said Greg. "I feel like a fish out of water in this joint."

"An American?" said the other. "How did you happen to come here?"

"The hotels are full at this season. I put up at the first where I could get a room." Greg offered him a cigar. "But maybe you won't care for it," he added diffidently. "I expect you Spanish fellows know cigars."

"We know them," the other said accepting it smilingly, "but that's about all. All the best tobacco is shipped to the United States."

"Been in this town long?" asked Greg.

"Just got in from New Orleans."

Greg turned grave. De Socotra had just come from New Orleans. Could he after all be deceived in his man? "Live there?" he asked.

"No, I live in Managuay."

"Ah," said Greg.

"Perhaps you never heard of Managuay?"

"Oh, yes," said Greg feeling his way, as he had once done with another young man from Managuay. "I once met some charming ladies from Managuay. Perhaps you know them. Se?orita de Socotra and her mother."

The young man received the information with polite unconcern. "I know of them of course. They are grand people at home. But I don't move in such circles."

"And there was a Se?orita Guiterrez with them," continued Greg.

"Oh, everybody knows her," was the indifferent comment.

"The father interested me," Greg persisted. "Se?or Francisco de Socotra——" here the young man's eyes gleamed, but Greg could not be sure with what kind of feeling. "Very handsome man," Greg went on, "do you know him?"

"I know him," the young man said curtly.

Greg was still baffled. "What do you think of him?" he asked direct.

The young man's eyes positively blazed. "I prefer not to say," he replied setting his jaw. "It wouldn't be polite."