Legira's companion responded with a solemn nod. With the air of a funeral director, he walked across
the room and rapped at a door on the other side. The door opened, and he went through, leaving the
South American alone.
Alvarez Legira laughed. He put out the stump of his cigarette, inserted a new one in the holder, and
resumed his smoking. His white teeth gleamed in the dim light of the room as he strolled backward and
forward. He seemed to possess a natural love of intrigue, and this secret visit suited his fancy to
perfection.
Yet with it all, the man was nervous. His slow, restless stride, his incessant puffing of tobacco smoke, the
occasional frown that replaced his gleaming smile; all betokened that he had only reached the threshold of
tonight's mission. Alone, he had been announced. Now, he was waiting the bidding of some other
persons.
Legira stood by the window. It was high above the low-lying buildings that surrounded the hotel. Across
flat-topped roofs, the observant South American saw the distant lights of brilliant Broadway. Half an hour
ago he had been among those lights, just one of thousands leaving the gay rialto.
Leisurely, with calmly feigned indifference, he had come to keep a mysterious appointment. Here in New
York, he had adopted the method of Santander, where secret cabals were held by stealth. A strange
contrast—the intrigue of South America mingled with the practical ways of the United States.
Finishing another cigarette, Legira glanced at his watch. It showed exactly twelve o'clock, the time of his
appointment. He had arrived early. It would not be long before he would be admitted to the other room.
STEALTHILY, Legira listened at that closed door. He heard nothing. He strode noiselessly across the
room, and listened at the other door. He opened it softly, and peered into the entry. It was empty.
Satisfied, the crafty man returned and locked the door. Back at the window, he lighted another cigarette.
He was staring idly at the myriad lights when he heard the door of the inner room open.
Without haste, Legira turned to look at the man who had ushered him here. The solemn-faced individual
bowed and pointed to the inner door. Legira, more leisurely than ever, went to the door and opened it.
He stepped into a larger room.
There, standing just within the doorway, he surveyed a group of nine men who were seated about a long
table. It was a staid gathering of prosperous businessmen—an anticlimax to the odd procedure that had
brought Alvarez Legira to this place.
The consul from Santander bowed to the men before him. His suavity was turned to courtesy. He had the
air of a man who is seeking a favor, endeavoring to place himself in the most favorable light.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, in his perfectly intonated English.
Responses came from the men at the table. One, a portly individual, who sat at the end, arose and
stepped toward the visitor.
“Hello, Legira,” he said, extending his hand. “Sorry we had to keep you waiting. You arrived a little
earlier than we expected.”
“To be early is to assure punctuality, Mr. Hendrix,” returned Legira, with a gleaming, affable smile.
He shook hands with the heavy-set gentleman, who then ushered him to a chair at the far end of the
table. With Legira seated, Hendrix took his place at the head.
The members of the group shifted their chairs. While they puffed their cigars, Alvarez Legira calmly
dangled his cigarette holder from his fingers, and watched them with a beaming smile that betokened
