but I suppose
you had to get the money away from New York, at any risk."

"And Senora Mendez?" I asked as my mind involuntarily reverted to the
brilliantly lighted room up-town. "What part did she have in the plot
against Guerrero?"

Torreon stood sullenly silent. Kennedy reached in another of Torreon's
pockets and drew out a third little silver box of mescal buttons.
Holding all three of the boxes, identically the same, before us he
remarked: "Evidently Torreon was not averse to having his victim under
the influence of mescal as much as possible. He must have forced it on
him--all's fair in love and revolution, I suppose. I believe he brought
him down here under the influence of mescal last night, obtained the
power of attorney, and left him here to die of the mescal intoxication.
It was just a case of too strong a hold of the mescal--the artificial
paradise was too alluring to Guerrero, and Torreon knew it and tried to
profit by it to the extent of half a million dollars."

It was more than I could grasp at the instant. The impossible had
happened. I had seen the dead--literally--brought back to life and the
secret which the criminal believed buried wrung from the grave.

Kennedy must have noted the puzzled look on my face. "Walter," he said,
casually, as he wrapped up his instruments, "don't stand there gaping
like Billikin. Our part in this case is finished--at least mine is.
But I suspect from some of the glances I have seen you steal at various
times that--well, perhaps you would like a few moments in a real
paradise. I saw a telephone down-stairs. Go call up Miss Guerrero and
tell her her father is alive--and innocent."

XII. The Steel Door

It was what, in college, we used to call "good football weather"--a
crisp, autumn afternoon that sent the blood tingling through brain and
muscle. Kennedy and I were enjoying a stroll on the drive, dividing
our attention between the glowing red sunset across the Hudson and the
string of homeward-bound automobiles on the broad parkway. Suddenly a
huge black touring car marked with big letters, "P.D.N.Y.," shot past.

"Joy-riding again in one of the city's cars," I remarked. "I thought the
last Police Department shake-up had put a stop to that."

"Perhaps it has," returned Kennedy. "Did you see who was in the car?"

"No, but I see it has turned and is coming back."

"It was Inspector--I mean, First Deputy O'Connor. I thought he
recognised us as he whizzed along