“While you serve for me”—Legira's tone was impressive—“you also serve the great Republic of
Santander. We of Santander do not forget those who have done our bidding!”
“All right,” declared Perry. “I'll chance it!”
LEGIRA acted with precision. He pointed to the clothing rack at the far end of the room. Lopez
motioned to Perry Wallace, who arose and followed him.
Fifteen minutes later, two men, both with dark eyes and pointed mustaches, stood facing each other,
garbed in clothes that appeared identical. The transformation of Perry Wallace had worked almost to
perfection. Even to Lopez, both bore the features and manner of Alvarez Legira.
The genuine consul raised his cigarette holder to his lips and blew a puff of smoke. He twisted the end of
his mustache with the fingers of his left hand. Perry Wallace copied the motions to exactitude.
“Wonderful!” declared Legira admiringly. “It is indeed wonderful.”
“It is remarkable,” returned Perry, in the same tone.
“Excellent!” exclaimed Legira.
“Excellent!” echoed Perry.
“You see?” said Legira, turning to Desmond. “I said it would not be difficult. New York is a great
city—it has far more people than has all Santander. There are thousands who would come to a place that
offered employment. Thousands—where I required but one. There are many who might recognize
Alvarez Legira. There are none who know him well, here in New York.
“This man is younger than myself, but the difference in age is not great. He will pass to perfection. With
Lopez to coach him, there can be no danger. But remember, we must keep silent.”
With that, the true Alvarez Legira peeled off his suit and donned the garments which Perry Wallace had
worn. A few motions, ruffled his smooth hair, and demolished the points of the well-waxed mustache.
“When I am away from here,” declared Legira, “I shall become myself again. You see?”
He smiled as he packed a suitcase that lay in the corner of the room. This work ended, he bowed to
Perry Wallace and Lopez. Then, with Desmond carrying the suitcase, he marched solemnly toward the
passage that led to the inner office of the employment agency.
A SHORT while later, two men left the office of the consul of Santander. One was Lopez; the other, to
all appearances, was Alvarez Legira. The secretary was talking to his chief. The consul was nodding as
he carried his smoking cigarette holder between the fingers of his right hand.
The pair lunched at a downtown restaurant. They returned to the office in the afternoon. Later, they dined
at another cafe. It was early evening when they alighted from a taxicab in front of the consular residence.
Any passer-by could have seen Alvarez Legira paying the cab driver, with Lopez standing beside him.
Hours later, a quiet voice spoke from a room in the house which adjoined the residence of Alvarez
Legira. It was Burbank, sending his report to The Shadow.
“Legira returned with Lopez at eight twenty-one,” were the words. “They have been in and out of the
room where the dictograph is located. No important conversation registered.”
Even Burbank, experienced agent of The Shadow, had been deceived by the substitution arranged by
Alvarez Legira through his unknown henchman, Frank Desmond. Seated at his window, Burbank could
see Martin Powell patrolling along the street. Beyond, a stealthy figure seemed to lurk at the entrance of
the alley, indicating the presence of Silk Dowdy.
The watchers of the night were still covering Alvarez Legira. To a man they had been completely baffled.
While they fancied that they held their quarry helpless, the true Alvarez Legira was at large.
