this
hour. He was one of the celebrities that it was wise to cultivate.
The elevator on which Alvarez Legira rode upstairs was well filled with persons who were all bound for
one destination—the roof garden. Arriving there, the passengers stepped into a lobby that was already
overthronged. Bell boys pointed out the check rooms. Legira, with the others, moved in the direction
indicated.
While he was waiting at the end of a line, the suave South American fitted a cigarette into a long holder.
He struck a match and began to puff away, mildly surveying the persons who stood near by.
While thus engaged, he seemed to lose all interest in checking his hat and cane. By a mere chance, he lost
his place in the moving line, and eased away along the wall, hat and cane in one hand, cigarette holder in
the other.
THERE was nothing conspicuous about his action. There was no apparent haste. It seemed almost by
coincidence that Alvarez Legira happened to reach the top of an obscure stairway, some thirty feet from
the check room.
Here, Legira stood waiting languidly, watching the doors of the elevators as though expecting the arrival
of some companion. Then, of a sudden, his lethargy ended. Satisfied that not a single eye was upon him,
the suave-faced man swung quickly away, and in a fraction of a second his form had disappeared down
the stairway.
There was stealth in the man's action as he passed the turn in the stair. The loud buzz of conversation
from the upstairs lobby was muffled and indistinct. Legira stopped and listened intently. The only sign of
motion about him was a curling wreath of smoke that trickled up from the lighted end of his cigarette.
Satisfied at last that no one had observed his crafty departure, the consul from Santander continued his
downward course.
The stairway was little used. Legira was alone and unwatched as he descended flight after flight. Each
landing was set back from the hall; hence the suave-faced man could have been seen only from the
stairway.
He stopped when he reached the eighth floor. There, he peered into the hallway. Seeing no one, Legira
emerged from the stairway and betook himself toward the end of the corridor.
He seemed familiar with the route that he was following. As he neared the end of the corridor, he
stopped and turned to look back. His sharp gaze showed him that the corridor was deserted.
Sure of this, Legira, his eyes still watching, reached forward and softly opened a door that bore the
number 888. He stepped into a little entry. The door closed behind him.
Legira was at the entrance to a suite of rooms. There were two doors close beside him, and a blank wall
in the middle. The visitor knocked at the door on the right. It opened, and Legira stepped into a small
reception room.
The man who had admitted him was a solemn-faced individual who had the manner of a private
secretary. He bowed to Legira, who merely nodded and raised his cigarette holder to his lips. The man
who had opened the door closed it and turned the lock.
“They are waiting for me?” questioned Legira.
His words were spoken in perfect English, without the slightest trace of Spanish accent.
