s only one case I know of on record
which compares with this--a case of a girl resuscitated in Paris. The
girl was a chronic morphine-eater and was 'dead' forty minutes."

I stood like one frozen, the thing was so incomprehensible, after the
many surprises of the evening that had preceded. Torreon, in fact, did
not comprehend for the moment.

As Kennedy and I bent over, Guerrero's eyes opened, but he apparently
saw nothing. His hand moved a little, and his lips parted. Kennedy
quickly reached into the pockets of the man gasping for breath,
one after another. From a vest pocket he drew a little silver case,
identical with that he had found in the desk up-town. He opened it, and
one mescal button rolled out into the palm of his hand. Kennedy regarded
it thoughtfully.

"I suspect there is at least one devotee of the vision-breeding drug
who will no longer cultivate its use, as a result of this," he added,
looking significantly at the man before us.

"Guerrero," shouted Kennedy, placing his mouth close to the man's ear,
but muting his voice so that only I could distinguish what he said,
"Guerrero, where is the money?"

His lips moved trembling again, but I could not make out that he said
anything.

Kennedy rose and quietly went over to detach his apparatus from the
electric light socket behind Torreon.

"Car-ramba!" I heard as I turned suddenly.

Craig had Torreon firmly pinioned from behind by both arms. The
policeman quickly interposed.

"It's all right,--officer," exclaimed Craig. "Walter, reach into his
inside pocket."

I pulled out a bunch of papers and turned them over.

"What's that?" asked Kennedy as I came to something neatly enclosed in
an envelope.

I opened it. It was a power of attorney from Guerrero to Torreon.

"Perhaps it is no crime to give a man mescal if he wants it--I doubt if
the penal code covers that," ejaculated Kennedy. "But it is conspiracy
to give it to him and extract a power of attorney by which you can get
control of trust funds consigned to him. Manuel Torreon, the game is up.
You and Senora Mendez have played your parts well. But you have
lost. You waited until you thought Guerrero was dead, then you took a
policeman along as a witness to clear yourself. But the secret is not
dead, after all. Is there nothing else in those papers, Walter? Yes? Ah,
a bill of lading dated to-day? Ten cases of 'scrap iron' from New York
to Boston--a long chance for such valuable 'scrap,' senor,