Zelva
stood out.
Desmond smiled. Alone, he could not hope to cope with Alvarez Legira. Backed by others, who knew
the man's deceptive ways, the situation would be different.
Frank Desmond was prompt to act. He picked up the telephone directory and looked for the name of
Zelva. He found it promptly. The man had a private telephone at the Goliath Hotel.
Desmond called the number. A deep, accented voice answered. Desmond thought quickly as he phrased
his conversation.
“Mr. Zelva?” he questioned.
“Yes,” came the reply.
“I have business that I should like to discuss with you,” said Desmond, calmly. “This business concerns
South American affairs. I need information.”
“Can you state its nature?”
“Not over the telephone.”
“Your name, please?”
“Desmond.”
There was a pause. The name meant nothing to Zelva. Desmond realized that. He added other words of
explanation.
“My business, Mr. Zelva,” he declared in a cautious tone, “concerns an important matter in the country of
Santander. Not knowing much about that country, I felt that I would do well to talk with some one who
knew South American affairs. It is very urgent, Mr. Zelva.”
A short wait. Then Zelva replied in smooth, friendly tones.
“No one knows a great deal about Santander,” were his words. “I am afraid I cannot give you much
information. However, Mr. Desmond, I should be glad to grant you an interview. It happens that I am not
busy at present. If you wish, you may come here now.”
“Fifteen minutes,” rejoined Desmond promptly.
“Very good,” said Zelva.
Desmond hung up the phone and indulged in a satisfied grin. He fancied that this meeting with Rodriguez
Zelva would bring unusual results.
Picking his hat from the rack, Desmond left the office. Visions of wealth danced before his eyes as he
strode along. Desmond felt that he had done the unexpected.
The fact that he was willing to play the traitor meant nothing to Frank Desmond.
CHAPTER XXI. ZELVA DECIDES
“WHAT can you tell me about Alvarez Legira?”
It was Frank Desmond who asked the question. Seated by the window of Rodriguez Zelva's apartment,
Desmond faced the stocky South American as he spoke.
Zelva's black eyes shone as he studied Desmond's countenance. Zelva had shrewdly placed Desmond
where he could note the expressions on the man's face.
“Alvarez Legira?” Zelva shrugged his shoulders. “I know very little about the man. He calls himself the
consul from Santander. That is all I know.”
“To-day's newspapers,” remarked Desmond, calmly, “speaks of a monetary transaction between New
York financiers and South American interests. Could that concern Legira?”
“I know nothing about such transactions,” said Zelva, coldly. “You say that you have seen the
newspaper. I gave an interview to the press this morning. I told them what I have told you—that I know
nothing.”
“Suppose,” said Desmond, speculatively, “that I told you such a transaction did exist and that it
