Desmond's interest in the heavy luggage ended when he saw Legira glance in his direction. The pudgy
man led the way into a front room. There he lighted another electric lamp.
Legira dropped into a chair and breathed a long sigh of relief. Desmond sat down and lighted a cigar.
“Well, here we are,” he announced, in a matter-of-fact tone.
“What time is it?” asked Legira.
“Quarter of eleven,” remarked Desmond, glancing at his watch.
“Excellent work,” said Legira, approvingly. “We came out here very rapidly.”
The consul from Santander seemed to have regained much of his natural poise. He twisted the ends of his
mustache and rubbed his chin reflectively. Then he had a sudden thought.
“The telephone!” he exclaimed. “It is connected here?”
Desmond nodded.
“I must call Lopez”—Legira hesitated—“I must be careful, though, telephoning from here. Yes, it will be
all right—”
Desmond pointed to the hall to indicate the location of the telephone. Legira arose and went there. He
found Francisco seated on a chair in the corner. He smiled as he noted the box, a few feet away.
“Keep on guard, Francisco,” said Legira, in Spanish. “It will not be for long, faithful one.”
Back in the front room, Desmond, listening carefully, could hear Legira calling the operator. The pudgy
man was intent. Nevertheless, he did not hear the sound of something at the window behind him. Less
than five feet away, a thin, dark blade had been thrust between the sections of the sash. The latch was
moving, noiselessly.
The sash opened. Desmond did not hear it. He was watching toward the hall. A shadow fell across the
floor beside him. It was a long, thin shadow, with silhouetted profile.
Desmond, bent upon hearing Legira speak, was utterly oblivious as a tall black figure entered by the
window. The sash descended. The figure merged with the dark end of a huge bookcase at a corner of
the room.
Legira was speaking now. Desmond tried to make out the conversation by overhearing the consul's
words.
“To-night?” Legira's voice was questioning. “Ballou? What? A wire?”
He grunted impatiently; then spoke rapidly in a flow of Spanish. An expression of keen disappointment
came over Desmond's face. He could not understand this jargon.
He realized that it was natural for Legira to converse with Lopez in their native tongue. Although the
consul occasionally interspersed a few words of English, they had no meaning for Desmond.
The pudgy man shrugged his shoulders and settled back in his chair. He was in that attitude when Legira
returned.
THERE was a serious look on the consul's face. It puzzled Desmond for a moment; then, as Legira
thoughtfully lighted a cigarette, Desmond divined that he was about to be taken into the South American's
confidence.
“Desmond,” said Legira, seriously, “I am in serious difficulty. Matters have changed—very badly. I am
worried. I shall depend upon you to aid me.”
“Glad to do it,” declared Desmond.
“I have paid you money in the past,” continued Legira. “Your services have been excellent. I promised
you the final half of your money when your work was completed. That, I expected, would be to-night.”
“So you told me.”
