know existed.
Yet the consul from Santander appeared unperturbed. Was his attitude due to confidence, or ignorance?
Even Lopez, his one confidant, was perplexed by the expression which appeared on Legira's face. The
secretary could not fathom the consul's thoughts.
Legira's eyes were half closed. His lips were smiling as his fingers twisted the ends of his pointed
mustache. He was picturing a face that he had seen that very morning—the countenance of the man
whom he had noticed standing in the line outside of the employment bureau.
“This is the seventh day, Lopez?” the consul inquired suddenly.
“The seventh, senor,” replied the secretary solemnly. “There are only three more, senor.”
“Three will be sufficient,” declared Legira.
The cryptic remark was accompanied by a smile as Legira reached to the desk and began to consult a
pile of papers that lay before him. Whatever eyes and ears might be watching and listening, the consul
from Santander was unconcerned.
CHAPTER VI. A THOUSAND A WEEK
THE line was moving in through the door of the employment agency. Men were filing by a desk where a
stenographer was noting questions regarding age, former occupation, and experience. The man whom
Alvarez Legira had noted on the curb had now reached the inner door.
“Your name, please?”
“Perry Wallace.”
The girl looked up at the sound of the man's quiet, well-modulated voice. Perry Wallace had the
appearance of a gentleman, despite the shabby appearance of his clothes. His tanned face was passive;
his dark eyes were dull as they stared toward the questioner. There was a certain sullenness about the
thin lips beneath the black, unkempt mustache—the expression of a man who has been beaten in his
battle with the world.
“What qualifications, Mr. Wallace?”
“Not many,” said the man frankly. “I worked as a bank teller for three years. I guess there's not much
call for any one in that line—”
“Just a moment, Mr. Wallace.”
The girl was noting the man's appearance. She rang a bell on the desk, and an office boy appeared.
“This is Mr. Wallace,” said the girl. “Take him into Mr. Desmond's office.”
The boy conducted the applicant to a door at the other end of the large room. Perry Wallace, hat in
hand, was perplexed as he strode along. He had expected further questioning before being admitted to a
special interview. He wondered why he had made so effective an impression.
The boy knocked at a glass-paneled door that bore the name:
FRANK DESMOND
A voice responded from within. The boy opened the door and pointed to the inner room.
“This is Mr. Wallace,” he announced.
“Shut the door,” said Desmond.
Perry Wallace complied; then turned to look at his interviewer.
Frank Desmond was a bland sort of a man; big, pudgy, and narrow-eyed. He was seated behind a desk
in the center of the room, and he stared steadily at his visitor.
“Sit down, Mr. Wallace,” he said, after a short inspection. “I want to talk with you.”
Wallace dropped his hat on a table and took a chair opposite the employment manager.
