“He's pretty smart, Pete.”
“Don't worry about him, Silk. Just keep out of sight. He's watching Legira —that's all.”
“But listen, Pete,” said the first speaker, “he's liable to come back. If you're dropping in on Legira, he'll
see you.”
“What if he does?” questioned Pete. “He won't know who I am. You've got to lay low, of course. He
might recognize you as Silk Dowdy. You're playing under cover. But nobody in New York knows me.”
“I get you, Pete. Better wait, though. Let him go by again. It would be bad to slide across the street from
here.”
“Say, Silk, you've got a lot to learn, in spite of your rep. I've visited Legira before. You wait here. I'm
going to cut back down the alley. When I show up at Legira's, I'll come in a cab.”
The whispering ended. A few minutes after silence had resumed its sway, footsteps again clicked on the
sidewalk, and the muffled form of Martin Powell passed by the entrance to the alley.
THE darkened windows of the house across the street reflected the light of the street lamp. There were
no signs of activity.
Neither the patrolling man nor the watcher in the gloom of the alley could tell what was going on in that
house. To all appearances, the occupants might have retired. But such was not the case.
In an upstairs room at the side of the house, Alvarez Legira was seated at a table, upon which rested a
single lamp. The shade was drawn nearly to the sill. Only a slight space revealed the presence of a closed
shutter outside the single window.
Seated opposite the consul was a short, slender man whose sallow complexion and dark, flashing eyes
betokened a Spanish ancestry. At the doorway stood a tall, silent fellow, whose swarthy cheeks and
forehead were rough and pock-marked.
They formed a strange group, these three. Legira, suave and polished, was obviously the leader. The
slender man appeared crafty and dangerous. The big man, despite his servile attitude, was formidable
and villainous.
“Go, Francisco,” ordered Legira.
The big man turned without a reply and stalked from the room. His heavy tread sounded on the stairway.
“All right, Lopez,” said Legira.
“Ah, senor,” began the slender man. “Buena—”
“Speak in English,” commanded Legira quietly. “You need the practice. Forget the Spanish for a while.
Remember, as my secretary, the better your English, the more useful you will be.”
“Accept my pardon, sir,” replied Lopez, with a humble bow. “I have forgot as you have told me. I shall
try to speak in English—all the time, you know.”
Legira smiled wanly at his secretary's odd pronunciation. Lopez was speaking with apparent effort. He
seemed to gain encouragement from Legira's smile, and his teeth shone as he grinned broadly.
“What happened to-night?” questioned Legira.
“That man was on watch,” declared Lopez. “He kept on the look when you were gone out.”
“You mean Martin Powell?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That is all right,” announced Legira. “We know all about him, Lopez. What of the others?”
“I am not sure, senor. I have think I have seen—looking from the front of this house. They have watched,
too. That is what I think.”
Legira arose from his chair. He shoved a cigarette into his long holder and struck a match with vicious
action.
