ind. Where is he staying?"

"Alvarez, has a house near the river. He is there. I know that the two are
plotting all the while, but I cannot get the proof."

"Do Wyatt and Alvarez know that I'm out?"

"No, neither of them."

"That's good. I think I can surprise Braxton Wyatt. If I can get my hands
on him I'm sure that we'll find those maps. What kind of a house has
Alvarez?"

"You can see it from that window. A pretty place, standing among the
trees."

Henry looked, and the longer he looked the more pleased he felt. The trees
were thick around the house of Alvarez and the fact gave him an idea.

"I think I know how to do it," he said.

Oliver Pollock leaned forward, his shrewd face eager, and for a few
minutes the two talked low and earnestly.

CHAPTER XVII

THE FLAW IN THE ARMOR

Don Francisco Alvarez was in a fairly happy frame of mind. It is true that
he could have been happier, but a revulsion from a great state of suspense
had come to him. When he had been so boldly accused in the presence of the
Governor General, cold fear had struck at his heart, despite his courage
and cunning. He knew that the seeds of suspicion had been sowed deep in
the heart of Bernardo Galvez and that the plant would grow fast in the
warm, moist air of intrigue that overhung New Orleans.

But days had passed and nothing had happened. Moreover, the five whom he
feared so much were hard and fast in the military prison within the walls,
and no proof of their charges had been brought forth. Time, too, worked
steadily for him. It not only weakened the accusation against him, but it
also gave his powerful friends at the court of Madrid time to help him and
his ambition. That little strain of royal blood in his veins was well
worth having. He would certainly succeed to Bernardo Galvez, whether the
wait he long or short.

He kept Braxton Wyatt with him all the time. He had learned to appreciate
the value of the renegade's unscrupulous cunning, and he was necessary,
too, in order to carry out the great alliance with the tribes which
Alvarez meant should become an accomplished fact.

It was a pleasant house that Alvarez had within the walls, one story of
brick covered with red tiles, surrounded by piazzas, and standing in
grounds thick with magnolias, cypresses, and orange trees. In truth, the
foliage was so dense that by daylight the house was almost entirely hidden
from the city, and by night it was quite invisible unless li