"'I mean in your mind. It is time you thought of things.'
"'What things?'
"'Well, life and people and how you stand towards them. You must read and observe and make up your own mind as to what is right. You must examine the rules that have been laid down for you and decide for yourself whether they are meet.'
"'But what is the use?' I said like a child. 'Here I am. I can't change anything.'
"'You can change yourself.'
"'What's the matter with me?'
"He smiled in both kindness and fun. 'One who did not love you might call you a thoughtless, pleasure-loving butterfly. Are you satisfied with that?'
"I believe I began to cry then. I had always thought very well of myself, you see.
"He went on: 'I know it seems a dreadful task to the young, to think. But it need not be. Try the wings of thought warily. Be satisfied with little flights at first. I mean, think with your heart, too. That ought not to be hard for a woman. Consider the poor people in the city below, who, by the workings of an evil system, are actually enslaved to the rich. Are you willing to continue to pass your days in delicious idleness at the cost of the women and children down there; the little children already bent and emaciated by overwork, who have no release in sight but death?'
"'I am not responsible!' I cried aghast.
"'But you are!' he said sternly. 'For the very people that I speak of work on the plantations and in the factories that pay the dividends that bought this exquisite dress you are wearing, and that string of pearls around your neck.'
"I tore off the pearls and tried to press them into his hand. 'Take them and sell them and give them the money,' I implored him.
"'Put them on again,' he said coldly. 'They do not ask for charity, but justice.'
"Well, there was much more to the same effect. I don't suppose you need it as much as I did, so I will hasten on with my story. This was exactly the way Francisco had said that Antonio Bareda talked, but somehow in my uncle's own kind voice it had a very different effect; it had the ring of the truth. If he had been content simply to have lectured me like a school-master I should have listened with my tongue in my cheek, and would have hastened to tell Francisco afterward, and laugh with him. But Uncle Tony seemed sorry for me; that was what brought the tears to my eyes. And he was so very kind, and so ready to laugh, too, and he understood me so well. I didn't understand half what he said, but I knew from his deep sad eyes that he was right. I had never seen the proud and confident Francisco's eyes soften.
"When he left me I wept bitterly. I cannot describe my state of mind; fear for him, fear for myself, lonesomeness, self-distrust, all had a part in it. Of course the final effect was what he had intended. Willy-nilly I began to think of these matters. Since that hour I have not been able to stop thinking. And even if this dreadful tragedy had not taken place I should never have been the same as I was before.
"When Francisco came up from the town that day I watched him with a new and critical gaze. Under the elegant, courteous, smiling air, I became aware of a suggestion of ruthless cruelty. For the first time it struck me that his handsome eyes were too close together. On the present occasion I saw that under his debonair nonchalance which never varied, he was deeply concerned about something.
"At dinner when the servants had left the room, the cause of it came out. He was obliged to make a hurried trip to New Orleans on affairs of the government, he said. I must explain that mamma is of a soft and affectionate nature and prides herself on the fact that she has never been parted from Francisco. Francisco, whatever his faults, is devoted to mamma and humors her in all things. Consequently he is obliged to carry us with him wherever he goes, though I am sure it is often inconvenient. So when he said New Orleans we began to plan our packing.
"We would go aboard his yachtLa Tinitaat bed-time, he said, and she would weigh anchor as soon as she was coaled. It must be given out that we were merely going cruising in the Caribbean, he said. Secrecy had often been enjoined on us before, and we had taken it as a matter of course. To his own household Francisco could do no wrong.
"But this time my suspicions were aroused. I wondered what devilment he was up to. It did not occur to me to connect our sudden departure with my uncle's journey. 'New Orleans' put me off the track. TheAlliançawent to New York. Moreover the idea of a personal enmity between the two men had not yet been suggested to me. I merely thought of them as belonging to different parties.
"At sea next day I had the impulse to try to draw out Francisco. He is always especially good-tempered at sea. We were sitting in deck-chairs under the lee of the after deck-house; mamma was there too, and I said:
"'Francisco, what is the political situation in Managuay?'
"He stared and laughed. 'Good Heavens, child! what put the idea of politics into your head?'
"'I'm no longer a child,' I objected. 'I must begin to know about things.'
"'Not politics, I hope!'
"'What is politics, anyway?'
"'Politics is knavish tricks,' he said teasingly.
"'Well, you're a politician, aren't you?'
"'No, I'm a statesman,' he said with a wink.
"'Please be serious. What party do you belong to?'
"'The Conservative party. Why?'
"'What party does my Uncle Tony belong to?'
"I saw that I had flicked him on the raw. His eyes narrowed, he sucked in his lip. Almost immediately he was smiling again. 'What on earth made you think of him just then?'
"'I often think of him.'
"'What have you heard about him lately?'
"The anxiety with which he asked this suggested to me the wisdom of lying. 'Nothing but what you say about him,' I replied with a clear brow.
"'Are you still fond of him?' he asked with a queer look.
"'How could I be?' I answered, 'not having seen him in eleven years.'
"'I'm afraid you would find your Uncle Tony much changed,' he said gravely. Francisco's manner was really admirable, but I could not forget his terrified start at the first mention of the other man's name. 'He too, has become a politician. You ask me to what party he belongs; well, he calls himself a liberal, but that is a cloak used by many an unsuccessful self-seeking man. I'm afraid your Uncle Tony must be put down as a thoroughly bad man, my dear. He is poor, as you know; his patrimony was squandered before it reached him. Well, poverty is no disgrace of course, but it is the way in which a man sets about to rehabilitate his fortunes that betrays his quality. Most men set to work; others fall to scheming. Your Uncle Tony has chosen the worser way, I'm sorry to say. He is what men call an agitator, a demagogue. His sole aim is to stir up strife. He has deliberately set to work to inflame the passions of the mob to the point of revolution, not caring how much ruin is wrought thereby, or what blood spilt, if he may thereby be carried to a place of power. Do you understand?'
"'Perfectly,' I said. I thought of my uncle's deep sad eyes and did not believe a word of it. The possessor of those eyes a 'thoroughly bad man,'—impossible. I began to suspect that the 'thoroughly bad man' was much nearer me at that moment. From that time forward Francisco ceased to have the slightest influence over me.
"Our talk about politics languished. 'Put it out of your pretty head, my dear!' said Francisco. 'Thank God! that horrible unsexed creature, the political woman, has not yet penetrated to our Managuayan Eden. Never forget that a woman's sole duty is to be beautiful. Leave politics to us coarser beings, men.'
"I saw that my political education would not be much furthered by Francisco, and that I should probably learn more from him by appearing to be the feather-headed creature that he commended. So I started to chatter. But he was not perfectly satisfied that he had laid the political bogie in me. More than once during the remainder of the voyage I caught him glancing at me queerly. He was thinking perhaps of my half-American ancestry. Francisco hates Americans, though he never lets that appear of course while he's in America.
"It was on Wednesday night that we left Santiago de Managuay.La Tinitais fast, and we landed in New Orleans on Friday. We had no sooner got there than Francisco announced that his plans were changed, and we were going on to New York by train. As soon as he said New York I began to wonder if his trip had anything to do with my uncle.
"We left New Orleans on the first train. Two men joined us there, Managuayans. When I say joined us, I mean they conferred with Francisco en route. He did not present them to us. My curiosity was fully aroused now. I longed to hear what they talked about. But they held all their conferences in a private compartment.
"We reached New York on Sunday morning and went to the Meriden. We found Bianca Guiterrez already established there. Bianca is a second cousin of Francisco's. I don't know how she got to New York. She was in Managuay three weeks ago. I must say that in Managuay the women look rather askance at Bianca, and she does not exactly move in society. She is a prime favorite with the men of our set, particularly Francisco. I have sometimes thought,—but that doesn't signify.
"When we reached the Meriden other men kept turning up, none of whom was presented to us. From one thing and other, scraps of telephone conversation, chance remarks picked up, I gathered that there was a little circle of Managuayan politicians established here in New York, whose meeting-place was in that house on Ninth Street. What their purpose was I could not guess. There were some Americans among them too.
"In particular there was one man, Abanez, who seemed to be a sort of leader among them, a leader under Francisco you understand; for it was clear to me that Francisco was the master of them all.
"The day we arrived this Abanez was closeted with Francisco for awhile in our sitting-room at the hotel, and at last I had an opportunity to overhear one of Francisco's mysterious conferences. My bedroom adjoined the sitting-room on one side, mamma's on the other; she was asleep. I don't know where Bianca was. Her room was in a different part of the hotel.
"I was in my room when Francisco and Abanez entered the sitting-room. Perhaps Francisco thought I was asleep too, or it may be that it never occurred to him that the doors are thinner in this country than at home. In the beginning they were cautious enough, but as they went on they forgot and raised their voices a little. As soon as I heard them come in, I softly drew the key out of my door and put my ear to the keyhole. I felt not the slightest compunctions in eavesdropping, for I was sure that I was helping the right.
"It was maddening at first, they talked so low. I could hear nothing. Then Francisco, it appeared, lost his temper. I heard him say: 'I'll tell you why I came up here. It looked to me as if this job was in a fair way of being bungled. I wanted to oversee things myself. Do you understand the importance of it? Do you understand that if the slightest thing goes wrong it will mean complete ruin for all of us? On the other hand if it's properly carried through, we can sit back, we'll have no more trouble.'
"Abanez' reply I could not hear. From his tone I guessed that he was trying to placate Francisco. The latter then said:
"'I didn't think much of the man you sent down, this de Silva.'
"Abanez said deprecatingly: 'He was the best I could lay hands on at such short notice. As I told you, I hoped you might be able to supplant him with somebody better from down there.'
"'In Managuay?' said Francisco scornfully. 'Where everybody and everything is known? What chance would we have of foisting any of our people off on Bareda? As for Bareda's own people, they are incorruptible. I've tried them and I know.'
"Abanez evidently asked him next what was his objection to de Silva. Francisco replied impatiently:
"'A conceited little bravo. No one but a fool like Bareda could possibly have been taken in by him.'
"Again Abanez said something I could not hear.
"Francisco said: 'It was all right up to the time I left, but they will be thrown together for five days on the ship. Bareda may well smell a rat before they reach New York.'
"I missed Abanez' reply.
"Francisco went on impatiently: 'I didn't think much of the scheme he outlined to me either. It sounded fantastic. The simplest measures are always the best. Why didn't you have him taken to the Ninth Street house? You can drive right in there out of sight of the street.'
"Abanez said: 'That would have necessitated taking the taxi-driver into our confidence. We had no one on whom we could rely.'
"'Good God! Why didn't you buy a taxi-cab, and put one of our men on it?'
"'It did not seem feasible.'
"Francisco was getting angrier and angrier. 'Do you mean to tell me that you are going to depend on any chance taxi-cab that you pick up on the pier?'
"As Francisco stormed the other man became more obsequious. 'It could not be avoided,' he explained. 'You see when the steamship docks the cabs are admitted in single file and engaged by the passengers in order as they come. There was no way in which we could ensure that de Silva would get a particular cab.'
"'There is always a way!' cried Francisco. 'If you use a little head-work! Well, it's too late now to change de Silva's instructions. I wish I had attended to these preliminaries myself. Anyhow, I shall be on the pier. Later I'll go to the ferry to see what has happened.'
"There was more, but Francisco seemed to have recollected caution, and I could not hear it. What I had heard caused me a terrible feeling of uneasiness, but I had nothing definite to go on. It is perfectly clear now, when we know what happened, but you must remember my situation. I never dreamed of anything so terrible as the truth. Think of my ignorance and inexperience. Why, I had lived in the same house with Francisco for nine years. I could not conceive of him as a murderer.
"But it was clear enough that mischief of some sort was afoot, with my Uncle Tony as the intended victim. I thought perhaps they intended to rob him of the little black book, on which he set such store. I determined to warn him if I could. I made up my mind that I would be on the pier myself when theAlliancacame in, and tell him exactly what I had overheard.
"From a newspaper I learned that she was due the next day, Monday. Several times on Monday I called up the steamship office, and finally learned that she had been sighted, and was expected to land her passengers at ten o'clock Monday night.
"This was a blow. I had anticipated difficulties in getting away by myself during the day—living in a strange hotel, mamma did not want to let me out of her sight for a moment; but to get away at night seemed quite out of the question. I almost gave up. I was terrified on my own account too. One hears such awful tales of New York after dark.
"Fortunately I had Nina to help me. At first I decided to take her, and go openly to the pier in a cab, but then I recollected that Francisco was going to be there, and would certainly see us. I did not yet dare to defy him openly. Finally I decided to disguise myself and go alone.
"I sent Nina out to buy me an outfit of boy's clothes which she succeeded in smuggling into my room. At dinner Francisco remarked that he had a business engagement, but offered to take us to the theater on his way, if we wouldn't mind coming home in a cab by ourselves. I pleaded a headache, and of course mamma would not go without me.
"The same headache provided me with an excuse to go to bed after dinner. Dear mamma insisted on fussing over me until I nearly went out of my mind! The precious minutes were slipping by so fast! I only got rid of her by insisting that sleep alone would cure me, and that I must not be disturbed. The instant she left me Nina, who was waiting, slipped in and helped me dress. I got out of the hotel as I have told you. Nina had fixed matters with the watchman.
"I got a cab to the pier, but alas! I was too late. TheAlliançawas already made fast to her pier, and the passengers even then were driving away. Only those were left who were having trouble with their baggage. There was no sign of my uncle. But I saw Francisco at the entrance to the pier lighting a cigar, and I determined to follow him to see what was to come later.
"On that water-front street, he took a car bound uptown and rode to a ferry slip some blocks above. I was on the back platform. I remembered the references to a ferry in his talk with Abanez. At the ferry-house he met two men, men I had seen before at the hotel; he seemed to be surprised to find them there, and at what they told him. I dared not approach close enough to overhear what was said, for I knew that my disguise would not stand a close inspection. The three of them waited there for some time, obviously growing all the time more anxious and impatient.
"Finally Francisco set off across the plaza to a little hotel there, and went in to telephone perhaps, or to get himself a drink. I could not follow him in of course. While he was inside you drove up in your cab and went into the bar. Presently Francisco came out by another door. Something in the look of the cab seemed to arrest his attention. He looked it over. He opened the door a crack and peeped in. I know now what he saw there, but of course I couldn't guess then. He turned around with an ugly smile. Then you came out, and he engaged you, and rode off on the front seat. There was no other cab handy. I ran across the plaza after you, and managed to get on the same boat. Well, you know all the rest. That's my story."
Bessie had listened to this tale with ever-deepening indignation. "A black villain!" she cried. "This Francisco fellow! Him with his castle and his yacht and his money and all! He ain't got no call to be crooked. It must be pure cussedness. And I hope you bring him to the rope, I do!"
Amy had ended her story on a note of dejection, and now to Greg's surprise her eyes were full of tears. "It's not so simple," she murmured. "I think of mamma. This would kill her if she knew!"
Bessie made a clucking sound of sympathy. "But she'll have to know sooner or later," she said.
"She'll have to suffer of course," said Amy, "but I must think how to save her from the worst."
Bessie got up. "I expect you and Mr. Parr have your plans to talk over. I'm going down-stairs to make you a cup of hot coffee before you start out in the cold."
Greg thought: "Good old Bessie! She's a lady!"
Nevertheless, left alone with Amy as he had so much desired, a sudden diffidence overcame him, and he could find nothing to say. Amy had fallen into a kind of study, and scarcely seemed to be aware of his presence.
Finally he said: "What do you want me to do?"
"Ah, if I knew!" she murmured.
To Greg's direct masculine mind there was but one course to be taken. "We have the body safe," he said, "and the conversation you overheard in the hotel supplies the necessary link of evidence. I could go to the police and ask for his arrest."
The surprising girl's eyes flashed at him. "I will not have it!" she cried. "That is stupid!"
"But—but you said you wanted him brought to justice," stammered Greg.
"Would you expect me to go on the witness stand and swear his life away—with mamma listening there? Here in a strange country!"
"But you said—you were an American."
"So I am—in spirit. But I have lived all my life in Managuay. Give me time."
"But we cannot let him go free. That would be making ourselves accessory to the crime."
She looked at him strangely. "I shall not let him go free. I am thinking how to punish him. I shall punish him in a way that even you will admit is sufficient."
A dreadful fear made Greg's eyes widen.
She apprehended it without his speaking. "Oh, I shall not kill him myself," she said. "I suspect I am too much American for that."
She went on presently: "I have a feeling that the murder of my uncle is only the first act in a whole drama of crime that Francisco is planning. We must prevent it! If I only knew what was in that little book! You have had no answer to your cable to Estuban?"
Greg shook his head.
"Even if he comes it would be a week before he could get here. Francisco will not wait a week."
Bessie interrupted them to say that the boy from the druggist's at the corner had come to say that Greg was wanted on the telephone.
"That will be Pa Simmons," said Greg. "Back in a jiffy."
This was what Greg heard over the wire in Pa Simmons' crinkly voice:
"This you, Greg? This is me. Do you get me? Well, I picked up that party all right at the address given, and I stuck to him closer than a brother all afternoon and evening. I'll give you a full report when I come in. I just called up now to say that at eleven-thirty I followed him to the Stickney Arms, and he's there yet. Looks to me like he was going to stay all night. If you want the place watched any longer you'll have to send up one of the boys to relieve me, because I'm all in. I gotta have my sleep."
"All right, Pa," said Greg. "Come on home."
When Greg got back to Bessie's, Bessie and Amy were drinking coffee together like sisters. A slight alteration in their demeanor as he came in, suggested that they were exchanging confidences that were denied him. Greg felt a little sore.
He reported what Pa Simmons had told him.
Amy sprang up. "Good!" she cried. "He'll stay all night of course. I'll go right home. If he still has the little black book upon him I promise you I'll get it before he leaves the apartment."
Hickey brought the flivver round to the front door again. As Amy got in and saw Greg preparing to follow, she said with a great air of surprise:
"Oh, you're not coming."
"Why, of course I am," said Greg with a surprised air as good as hers. "Why not?"
"But it isn't in the least necessary. I came alone."
"I know. But I want to come."
"Oh, thank you, but I don't think you'd better."
"I'm coming," said Greg doggedly, and got in and closed the door.
She drew stiffly into her own corner, and stared out of the window. Greg not at all sure of his ground was nevertheless doggedly determined to see the thing through. His peace of mind demanded that he come to some kind of an understanding with her.
They rode for five blocks in silence.
Finally Greg said: "Why do you treat me so?"
It then appeared that this young lady who claimed to be an American still retained a considerable share of the fiery Latin temperament. "Treat you so!" she burst out. "Treat you so! How about the way you treat me! I showed you as plainly as I could that I didn't want you to come. What do you wish me to suppose when you come anyway? Do you wish to remind me that it is your cab, and you have a right to come?"
"But why?" stammered poor Greg. "What have I done since earlier to-night. Why didn't you want me to come?"
"Need you ask that?"
"I must ask it. What have I done?"
"Nothing. Men can be very dense when they wish to be!"
"I don't understand. Unless I have offended you in some way——"
"Well, I can't be riding around in taxi-cabs at one o'clock in the morning with a strange man, can I?"
"Oho!" said Greg, a great light breaking upon him. "But that's ridiculous!" he added presently.
"Thank you," she said acidly.
"But you rode around with me the other night later than this and thought nothing of it."
"That was different."
"And if we are engaged together in a serious affair, itisridiculous to say that we may not be alone together."
"Oh, if you wish to be insulting now——"
The inconsistency of the reason she gave was such that Greg saw at once that she had some other reason. It turned a little knife in his breast. "I think I understand," he said bitterly.
"What do you think you understand?"
"You did not tell me your whole story to-night."
"I told you everything that bore upon the affair of my uncle and Francisco."
"You did not tell me you were engaged."
"What has that got to do with it?"
"You are engaged then?"
"Well—yes."
Greg groaned inwardly. Up to this moment he had been consoling himself with the assurance that the Castilian youth might have been lying.
It was she who broke the next long silence. "What difference does that make?"
"A great deal to me."
She perversely chose to misunderstand him. "Do you mean that you don't care to help an engaged girl?"
"I don't mean that at all," said Greg indignantly.
"What do you mean then?"
"Am I no more to you than a kind of detective to be dropped as soon as this case is done with?" he demanded bitterly. "Perhaps you expect to pay me for my services and let me go."
"If you're going to be hateful I don't know what to say."
"Neither do I," said Greg gloomily. "I guess there is nothing to be said."
Once more it was she who could not support the silence. "Who told you I was engaged?" she demanded.
"He did. The young man. I don't know his name."
"Where did you ever meet him?"
"In the Meriden. After he left you day before yesterday. I followed him into the bar and managed to get into conversation with him. I was trying then to find some way of getting into communication with you. He volunteered the information about being engaged to you. It came out of the clear sky to me."
She said, not with entire candor perhaps: "I am to understand, then, that you wish to have nothing more to do with me or my affairs."
"Nothing of the kind," he said, "I shall go through with it to the end."
"Why are you quarreling with me then?"—this with a plaintive note.
"I'm quarreling with you because yesterday in your letters you called me your friend; you led me to believe that I was something more to you than a useful person, yet you withheld this essential fact."
"But you knew it all the time."
"You didn't tell me. How did I know but what the man was lying?"
"He's incapable of lying!"
"Oh, now you're simply trying to change the issue."
He had her there. She fell silent.
Presently he went on with added bitterness. "What I can't understand is, when you said you were an American, when you said you loved America, how you could have chosen him."
"That's why," she said. "He's an American."
"What!"
"Half an American anyway. His father was an American like mine. His name is Henry Saunders."
"I fancy he must take after his mother," said Greg dryly.
Once more they rode for several blocks in a miserable silence, each looking out of his own window.
"I'm sorry I can't drop this painful subject," Greg said at last, "but I've got to know where Mr. Saunders comes in on our case."
"What do you mean? He doesn't come in at all."
"Is he on de Socotra's side?"
"He has nothing to do with politics."
"I see. What does he do?"
"Are you trying to insult him?"
"Not at all. Merely asking for a little information."
"He's very wealthy. He looks after his property and—er—he travels."
"I see. What would your uncle have said about him?"
"I don't know, I'm sure."
"But you said your uncle's ideas had very strongly affected you."
"That's true. But I wouldn't let him nor anybody else choose a man for me to marry."
"Of course not. But as the wife of Mr. Saunders do you expect to lead the kind of life your uncle recommended?"
"I don't admit your right to ask me any such question."
"Easy enough to say that when the question is hard to answer," said Greg bitterly.
"I wish I were home!" she said in a small voice.
But he would not spare her. "Why haven't you told Mr. Saunders everything that has happened?"
"Because—Oh, a thousand reasons! How many more questions do you expect me to answer?"
"Is it because you think he might not be willing to help you run down the murderers of Antonio Bareda?"
"You have no right to suggest such a thing!"
"But you said he was rich. Naturally he belongs to the rich man's party."
"He's honest and straightforward."
"Then why haven't you told him?"
"I wished to spare him."
"I'm sorry, but he must be told."
Her eyebrows went up. "Must? I don't like your tone. Why must he?"
"I should think you'd see yourself. You and I can't be engaged on these secret matters and go around together without his being told. I must insist on his being told for my own sake."
It need hardly be said that in taking this lofty moral position Greg was not wholly sincere. As a matter of fact he suspected that the Castilian youth would cut a very poor figure in a matter of this kind, and he had a not unnatural desire to show him up.
"Very well, I'll tell him," she said crossly.
"And I should be introduced to him."
"Anything else?" she queried sarcastically.
On the whole that drive home could not be considered a success. The very warmth of their feelings towards each other gave them a power to wound that they seemed to take a perverse pleasure in exercising to the full. But Greg thought of how it would be after she left him, and his heart sunk. As they drew near the Stickney Arms he made an effort to mend matters.
"We don't seem to be getting on very well to-night."
"I'm sure it's not my fault," she retorted with her chin in the air.
This was not promising, but he persisted. "I'm sorry if I have been rude or rough. Forgive me, and admit that you were just a little bit to blame too."
"I shall do nothing of the kind! I should never let any man take such a tone of command towards me, least of all a stranger. It's ridiculous!"
"I'm sorry. Forgive me," said Greg again.
"Oh, it's easy to ask forgiveness. You can't expect to make me as angry as you possibly can, and then have me turn around and forgive you for the asking."
As the cab slowed down Greg said: "At least say good-night to me nicely."
"I can't," she said. "You make me hate you."
She marched across the pavement without a backward look. Greg for obvious reasons did not get out of the cab. As they turned back home he sighed. If he had been a better psychologist, or rather if the keenness of his feelings had not blinded him to the psychology of the desired one, he would not have been so cast down.
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: Señor 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 "Señor 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 Señor Saunders elevating his eyebrows. "It is for Señor 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."
Señor 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 Señorita de Socotra," said Greg carelessly. "But she prefers to be known by the other name now."
"Is it so?" queried Señor 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?"
Señor 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 Señor Henry. "There is somewhere a mistake. Why, the de Socotras are the oldest family in Managuay. Señor 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 Señorita 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 Señor 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 theHotel 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 theHotel des Estados Unidoshad 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 "Señor 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 Señor 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. Señorita 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 Señorita Guiterrez with them," continued Greg.
"Oh, everybody knows her," was the indifferent comment.
"The father interested me," Greg persisted. "Señor 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."
Greg was delighted. It was true this might be good acting, but the young man's implied scorn of de Socotra had all the effect of a violent denunciation. Greg could conceive of no reason why a follower of de Socotra's should denounce him to a stranger.
Greg went further. "At the desk just now I heard you ask for Señor Antonio Bareda."
The young man's face seemed to open as with an inner light. He turned eagerly to Greg. "My master and my friend!" he cried impulsively. "The best of men! Do you know him too?"
Greg's heart bled for this generous youth. He shook his head.
"I thought if you are stopping here you might have met him," the other went on. "Perhaps you have seen him about the hotel, a little, plump, smooth-shaven old gentleman, with an old-fashioned courteous air, and a beaming glance that seems to shed kindness all around him. You wouldn't think to see him that he was a fighter, and one of the bravest!"
Greg could no longer doubt his man. "Look here," he said frankly. "I knew we should hit it off, when I first laid eyes on you. My name's Gregory Parr. What's yours?"
"Mario Estuban," was the surprising reply.
Greg's eyes goggled at him. "Good God!" he ejaculated.
"What's the matter?" demanded the other frowning. "What do you know about me?"
"Nothing," said Greg, "only I cabled you yesterday."
"Cabled me?" echoed the other round-eyed. "What about? Who gave you my name? I left Managuay five days ago."
Greg glanced at the hotel clock. It was a few minutes past twelve. If de Socotra stayed to lunch with his family he could scarcely get back to the hotel before two.
"We can't talk here," he said. "I have a room up-stairs. Come up with me."
Estuban followed him wonderingly.
In the hotel bedroom, Greg closed the door behind them and turned a compassionate face towards the other. "I've got bad news for you, old man," he said. His own voice shook.
Estuban guessed what was coming. He fell back with his hands clenched. "Quick! Out with it!" he said hoarsely. "Don't keep me in suspense!"
"Antonio Bareda is dead!"
A low despairing cry escaped from Estuban. "Too late!" He sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands. He did not weep; no further sound escaped him. His silence scared Greg more than any outburst could have done.
"God knows I feel for you," Greg said earnestly. "But just the same you must try to forget your grief for the present. You must get a grip on yourself. There is justice to be done!"
The appeal had the desired effect. Estuban's hands came down. His face was drawn and white, but composed. "How did it happen?" he asked quietly.
"He was murdered by de Socotra's orders."
"Of course! But have you the proof? Can we bring it home to that damned cold villain?"
"With your help I think we can."
"Ah, if that is so," cried Estuban, "if we can smash that devilish ring, my poor master has not died quite in vain! When did it happen?"
"The night he landed; in a cab on his way from the pier."
Estuban looked puzzled. "But if that is so, how is it he is registered here? The hotel clerk told me——"
"It is de Socotra who is registered here under his name."
"What is that for?" murmured Estuban blankly.
"I hoped you could explain," said Greg.
Estuban slowly shook his head. "Has the crime been reported to the police?" he asked.
"No. But we have recovered the body. There are certain difficulties in the way. I will explain as we go on. We are very anxious to learn what Señor Bareda's note-book contains that makes it of such overwhelming importance."
Estuban sprang up excitedly. "You have it? It is safe?"
Greg shook his head. "De Socotra has it. We are trying to recover it. But what is in it? You see we are still in the dark as to the motives for the crime."
"Oh, I can tell you that. But who are you, an officer? a detective?"
"No."
"Then how did you come to take an interest in this case?"
Greg told him the whole story as briefly as possible. Estuban's expressive Latin face was a study in intense concern, astonishment, even grim humor at certain aspects of the tale. He only interrupted Greg once.
"But that little girl, who was she?"
"Amèlie de Socotra!"
"Amèlie de Socotra! Impossible! Francisco's daughter!"
"His adopted daughter."
"Oh true, I had forgotten that."
"And Bareda's niece."
"But she foreswore my poor master when she went to live with the rich. He grieved over it. He had not spoken to her in ten years."
"You are mistaken there. He sought her out the day before he sailed for New York on theAllianca, and had a long talk with her, a talk that profoundly influenced the girl."
"I was in jail then," said Estuban coolly.
"In jail!" said the astonished Greg.
"Oh, that's nothing disgraceful in Managuay," said Estuban bitterly. "Go on."
When Greg came to the end Estuban said thoughtfully: "The man de Silva arrived in Managuay a few days before I was arrested. He claimed to be the representative of a New York trading house, and was provided with seemingly authentic credentials. He had lived long enough in the United States to imbibe liberal ideas it was thought, and we hoped to secure in him a recruit to our side. No connection between him and the de Socotra gang had appeared. When I was separated from Señor Bareda I suppose he naturally turned to this man; he had to have an interpreter. Even under the conditions that surrounded us my poor master was always too slow to suspect evil. It was I who was accustomed to protect him from his own innocence of heart."
"And now we know," added Greg, "that de Silva was sent down from New York especially for the purpose of worming himself into Señor Bareda's confidence."
"Now I'll tell you what was in the little black book," said Estuban.
Greg looked at his watch. "Hold on!" he said. "It's past one. De Socotra might possibly return here. His room is adjoining. We had better go down to my own room where there is no danger of being disturbed. In any case I have to be there at two to receive a report over the telephone."
In the little hall-room at Bessie Bickle's Estuban, white-faced and grim, told his tale. There was no sign of weakness in him now. He referred to his murdered friend calmly. He said:
"First I must try to make you understand the situation in Managuay that produced this crime. It may be difficult for a free American to credit, though it is simple enough. You must bear in mind that Managuay is a very small country, a sort of small-town republic, and quite outside the currents of the world's thought; indeed for Managuayans the outside world hardly exists. In other countries, even the most backward, of late years a social conscience has developed, but in Managuay no! Our overlords are still as rapacious as feudal barons. We have no prosperous middle class to act as a balance wheel. In Managuay there is nothing between the old Spanish aristocracy and the miserable peons.
"Up to a dozen years ago Managuay was a poor country; the old landholders were impoverished, and they had no business acumen; trade passed by our ports. Then American business men began to find us; they had the business ability and the Managuayans had the rich land. Gradually there grew up the infamous association that has almost ruined my country.
"The trouble was, the land was too rich. Under improved methods of cultivation and with the markets made accessible, great fortunes were reaped from rubber, coffee, fruit in a single season. Too easily made money atrophies men's moral sense; they become filled with a lust for more! more! more!
"Our landholders sold their lands to American corporations, taking shares in payment. After that the lazy Managuayans had nothing to do but spend their dividends. The American business men did all the work, and they became the real owners of my country. They never interfered openly in the government; they didn't have to, for their Managuayan stockholders were only too willing tools. The entire country is now run with a single eye to producing dividends for the American corporations. What is the consequence? Our people are wretched beyond description. They are set to work on the plantations and in the factories while they are scarcely out of infancy. This keeps down the price of labor and prevents them from ever learning enough to organize against their pitiless masters. It would wring your heart to see them. The generation now growing up are like little old men and women before they are mature!
"It is characteristic of such a gang that the principals never show themselves in the open. We have a succession of figure-heads as President of Managuay, but the real power never changes: it is lodged in the hands of Señor Francisco de Socotra. He is the instrument of Big Business. All the reins of power are gathered up into his hands. He directs our poor travesties of courts with a nod,—the judges are his appointees; he is the real commander of our army; he owns our newspapers. What chance has the truth of being spoken?
"I do not mean to blame the United States for the pass we have been brought to; the evil men are the Managuayans who have betrayed their country. The only criticism I would make of your government is that it thoughtlessly backs up its buccaneers of commerce without examining into their methods. And we little helpless people suffer. The ruling gang in Managuay derives its real power from the implied support of the United States which is behind it. I believe that Secretaries of State are honest men, but they may be swayed through devious courses that they know not of. And up to this time there never was anybody to speak for the wretched natives of Managuay.
"You can see how hopeless it was to think of successfully opposing so perfect an organization. I may mention as a significant fact that our army is largely recruited from neighboring states. It is plentifully supplied with machine guns. With the judges and the machine guns on the other side what could a poor man do? Our so-called popular elections were of the nature of a comic opera.
"As a matter of fact there has been little open discontent. The odds were too hopeless. The most dreadful feature of the situation was the people's apathy.
"The one champion who never lost faith in them was Antonio Bareda; patient, great-hearted, and of dauntless courage, he was well fitted to be the friend of the oppressed. For the last eight years or so, or ever since things began to go to the bad, he had been working for them. During that time his life has been a long record of petty persecutions on the part of the authorities. But his very simplicity and candor baffled his enemies. He gave them no handle to use against him. His clear gaze struck a secret terror to their souls. They dared not take extreme measures against him on account of his hold on the affections of the people. They feared that his death might provoke even that wretched race to rebel.
"He lately came to the conclusion that the people must have outside help in order to free themselves. He determined to appeal to the United States through your President. The late elections in Managuay provided his opportunity. As I have said, our elections are no more than a cynical joke. For some years now the gang's candidates have been returned unopposed. This year, however, with the help of a few of us working in absolute secrecy Bareda succeeded in forming at least the skeleton of a political organization and in putting up opposition candidates.
"Of course we did not expect to win. Our candidates (I was one of them) were either bribed, arrested or bludgeoned. Nevertheless we gained our point, which was to put the corruption of the government on record. Antonio Bareda prepared a report of that election, supported by a dozen affidavits attesting to examples of subornation, bribery, assault, intimidation, etc. That is the matter that is bound up in the little black book.
"Secret as we were, our purpose became known of course; they have their spies everywhere. It threw a panic into the enemies' camp. Bareda was on his way to carry it to the President when he was killed. It was Bareda's intention to appeal to your President to withdraw his recognition from the present illegal government of Managuay, and for him to insist on an honest election being held, if necessary under guard of United States marines. He was on his way to Washington when he was killed.
"I helped get the matter together, but I did not see the little book after it was finished. I was to have accompanied him as interpreter, but a few days before we were to sail I was again arrested on a trumped-up charge and thrown into jail. He dared not delay his departure, he had to have somebody to interpret for him, and so he fell into their trap.
"With the help of my friends I managed to break jail in Santiago—one devoted fellow is serving there now in my place. But I was too late to catch theAllianca. I learned that de Socotra had departed secretly in his yacht for an unknown destination, and I did not require to be told that extreme danger threatened my friend and my master. The captain of a small coasting steamer came to my assistance. He smuggled me aboard and carried me to New Orleans, whence I came here by train. But I was too late! They got him."
It was now two o'clock. Greg said to Estuban,
"Come to the corner drug-store with me. I am to receive a report there from the man who is watching de Socotra. He may give us something to go on."
This was the substance of Pa Simmons' communication:
"An hour ago I took up my place where I could watch the entrance to the Stickney Arms. His nobs, the Spanish gent, come out about one-thirty; there was a taxi waiting for him. He was carried down-town, me following, to a house on East Seventeenth Street near Stuyvesant Square, number 716 it was. He let his cab go and went in there. I drove around the corner, and letting my cab stand there come back and went into a lunch counter that was almost directly across the street, and where I could watch the house. I got my lunch while I waited. He was inside about half an hour. He come out with another fellow. His nobs had a little book in his hand."
"What kind of book?" asked Greg eagerly.
"A sort of fat note-book, sort of narrowish and thick, with a black cover. It had different colored papers bound up inside it. He was turning over the pages as he come down the steps as if it had just been handed to him inside. So I saw it plain."
"What kind of man was with him?"
"Another dago, fattish, clean-shaven, elegant dressed, a man with a sleepy kind of look."
"Abanez," thought Greg.
"Well, the two of them started west on Seventeenth, and I hustled back and got my cab and followed. 'Tain't no cinch, though, to follow two men on foot when you're in a cab. I ran circles round the block so's they wouldn't catch on that I was trailing them. At the Avenue they hailed a bus and rode up on top where I could watch them good. They went into a railway ticket office at Thirtieth Street. I followed them in. I saw Soak-oater buy a ticket to Washington and a parlor-car seat on the six o'clock train this evening. I heard him say to the guy with him: 'Yew-neth,' or some such name says he, 'Yew-neth will telegraph me during the afternoon what time the President will see me to-morrow.'
"Well, the two guys parted outside the ticket-office, and Soak-oater led me to a little hotel on Irving Place called—well, I can't say it because it's Spanish, but you know the place. He's in there now, and I'm phoning from across the street."
Greg's instructions to Pa Simmons were to stick to his man and report again in an hour, or as soon thereafter as he was able.
Greg repeated the matter of his report to Estuban.
"Going to Washington to see the President!" cried he, perplexed.
"Who is Yew-neth?" asked Greg.
"Evidently intended for Nunez, the Managuayan minister at Washington, and one of de Socotra's creatures of course." Estuban was in a study.
"What do you make of it?" asked Greg.
"I believe I'm beginning to see what he's up to," Estuban replied slowly. "It's a devilish scheme, worthy of de Socotra!"
"You mean he's going to impersonate Bareda when he sees the President?"
"Exactly! Not content with murdering my poor friend he intends to blacken his memory. Nunez will introduce him as Antonio Bareda. The visit will be reported in the newspapers—Bareda sees the President, and the news will be cabled to Managuay. What de Socotra will tell the President one can guess; it will certainly not be anything that will lead him to take action in Managuay. Perhaps that will be reported in the papers too: 'Bareda tells the President Managuay is happy and contented under the present regime!' In any case when Bareda fails to return to Managuay his poor followers, who are so anxiously hanging on the result of this visit, will believe that their champion has betrayed them. How simple!"
"How devilish!" added Greg.
Estuban said: "De Socotra must be arrested before he gets on the train."
Greg thought anxiously of Amy. "That won't do you any good," he said quickly. "You couldn't prove in advance that he intended to impersonate another."
"I could prove the murder."
"Not without Señorita de Socotra. And she won't testify against him."
"Then must he go free?" cried Estuban stormily.
"No. Let us get the little black book from him and he is helpless. You could carry that to the President yourself."
"How do you purpose getting hold of it?"
"I don't know yet. I have four hours before train time. I'll find a way. At least I know now that it is on his person."
"Go ahead and see what you can do. But if you fail I must hold myself free to act. I will be on the train on which he travels to Washington."
"But he must know you," said Greg.
"I shall be disguised."
This gave Greg an idea. "Do you know anything about disguises?" he asked eagerly.
"Oh, yes," said Estuban smiling grimly. "That's a very necessary part of a conspirator's work in Managuay."
"Could you disguise me?"
"What as?"
"A shabby old cabman."
"That oughtn't to be hard with the examples we have before us down here."
"Good! I have to meet a man up-town at two forty-five. You get together what materials you need, and I'll be back at the yard in an hour."
Hickey was taking the de Socotra ladies to a matinee this afternoon. After he had dropped the ladies at the theater Greg met him by appointment at the nearest corner. After his unhappy parting with Amy the night before Greg did not know what to expect. There was a note for him in the usual place. He devoured it. It was sufficiently baffling. The tone was friendly, but there was not the slightest reference to the ride home the night before. On the whole Greg was relieved.
"What did you do to poor Henry? He came back from his visit to you in a fit of the black sulks and has been lecturing me ever since. Men are so trying! I'm sorry I had no luck with the l.b.b. I anxiously await word from you. Francisco says he is going out of town this afternoon, but gives us no hint of his destination. He says he'll be back day after to-morrow, and then we'll all go home. I am distracted with anxiety and completely at sea.
"Have you any news?
"Amy W."