hat stuff I
get and where it goes."

"That is satisfactory. Look at this list and tell me where the cement
you're short of has gone."

"Into the mixing shed, I guess," said the other with a half-defiant
frown.

"Then it didn't come out. We haven't got the concrete at the dam. Are
there any full bags not accounted for in the shed?"

"No, sir. You ought to know the bags are skipped right into the tank as
the mill grinds up the mush."

"Very well. Perhaps you'd better consult your private tally and see if it
throws any light upon the matter."

The man took out a note-book and while he studied it Bethune asked, "Will
you let me have the book?"

"I guess not," said the other, who shut the book with a snap, and then
turned and confronted Dick.

"I want to know why you're getting after me!"

"It's fairly plain. You're responsible for the stores and can't tell us
what has become of a quantity of the goods."

"Suppose I own up that my tally's got mixed?"

"Then you'd show yourself unfit for your job; but that is not the worst.
If you had made a mistake the bags wouldn't vanish. You had the cement,
it isn't in the store and hasn't reached us in the form of concrete. It
must have gone somewhere."

"Where do you reckon it went, if it wasn't into the mixing shed?"

"To the Santa Brigida mole," Dick answered quietly, and noting the man's
abrupt movement, went on: "What were you talking to Ramon Oliva about at
the Hotel Magellan?"

The storekeeper did not reply, but the anger and confusion in his face
were plain, and Dick turned to the others.

"I think we'll send for Oliva," said Stuyvesant. "Keep this fellow here
until he comes."

Oliva entered tranquilly, though his black eyes got very keen when he
glanced at his sullen accomplice. He was picturesquely dressed, with a
black silk sash round his waist and a big Mexican sombrero. Taking out a
cigarette, he remarked that it was unusually hot.

"You are doing some work on the town mole," Dick said to him. "Where did
you get the cement?"

"I bought it," Oliva answered, with a surprised look.

"From whom?"

"A merchant at Anagas, down the coast. But, senores, my contract on the
mole is a matter for the port officials. I do not see the object of these
questions."

"You had better answer them," Stuyvesant remarked, and signed Dick to go
on.

Dick paused for a moment or two, remembering how he had confronted his
judges in a tent in an English valley. The scene