orreon knows where your father is and will let you know any moment
now. It is to his interest to clear himself before this scandal about
the money becomes generally known. Would you allow me to search through
your father's desk?"

For some moments Kennedy rummaged through the drawers and pigeonholes,
silently.

"Where does the junta keep its arms stored--not in the meeting-place on
South Street does it?" asked Kennedy at length.

"Not exactly; that would be a little too risky," she replied. "I believe
they have a loft above the office, hired in someone else's name and not
connected with the place down-stairs at all. My father and Senor Torreon
are the only ones who have the keys. Why do you ask?"

"I ask," replied Craig, "because I was wondering whether there might not
be something that would take him down to South Street last night. It is
the only place I can think of his going to at such a late hour, unless
he has gone out of town. If we do not hear from Torreon soon I think I
will try what. I can find down there. Ah, what is this?"

Kennedy drew forth a little silver box and opened it. Inside reposed a
dozen mescal buttons.

We both looked quickly at Miss Guerrero, but it was quite evident that
she was unacquainted with them.

She was about to ask what Kennedy had found when the telephone rang and
the maid announced that Miss Guerrero was wanted by Senor Torreon.

A smile of gratification flitted over Kennedy's face as he leaned over
to me and whispered: "It is evident that Torreon is anxious to clear
himself. I'll wager he has done some rapid hustling since we left him."

"Perhaps this is some word about my father at last," murmured Miss
Guerrero as she nervously hurried to the telephone, and answered, "Yes,
this is Senorita Guerrero, Senor Torreon. You are at the office of
the junta? Yes, yes, you have word from my father--you went down
there to-night expecting some guns to be delivered?--and you found him
there--up-stairs in the loft--ill, did you say?--unconscious?"

In an instant her face was drawn and pale, and the receiver fell
clattering to the hard-wood floor from her nerveless fingers.

"He is dead!" she gasped as she swayed backward and I caught her. With
Kennedy's help I carried her, limp and unconscious, across the room, and
placed her in a deep armchair. I stood at her side, but for the moment
could only look on helplessly, blankly at the now stony beauty of her
face.

"Some water, Juanita