the elbow. Instead
of doing this, he seemed to change his mind; but his hand swept over the
small cup of black coffee that stood in front of the other man, and
something fell into that cup.

"That is Henry Babcock, of the Cuban Plantation Supply Company,"
explained Scott, turning back.

"Then I was mistaken," said the Mexican. "I have never met the
gentleman."

They sipped their coffee, Lazaro continuing talking.

Scott emptied his cup.

"I've had a hard day, but that will keep me awake for the next four
hours," he remarked. "I'm going to the theatre with a party of friends
to-night, and I don't want to nod over the old play."

After a brief time a vexed look came to his rugged face, and he swept
his hand across his eyes.

"Is anything wrong, senor?" questioned Lazaro.

"I'm afraid my eyes are going back on me. They're blurry now. I swear I
hate to take up wearing spectacles!"

Directly he leaned his head on his hand, with his elbow on the table.

"I fear you are not feeling well, Senor Scott," said the man of the
snowy hair and coal-black eyes.

"I'm not," confessed Old Gripper thickly. "Can't understand it. Never
felt this way before. I'm afraid I'm going to be ill. Let's get out of
here."

Already Lazaro had paid the check and tipped the waiter. They arose and
started to leave the dining room. With his second step Watson Scott
staggered.

In a moment his companion had him by the arm, expressing in a low tone
the greatest regret and anxiety.

"I want air!" muttered Scott. "I--I'm going home. Please get my topcoat
and hat for me. My check is somewhere in my pocket. Get a hansom, for
that will give me a chance to breathe."

Lazaro felt in Scott's pocket and found the check, for which he obtained
the man's overcoat and hat. He expressed his sorrow that this thing
should happen, and, with the aid of an attendant, assisted the tottering
man outside and lifted him into a hansom. Scott's wits seemed wholly
muddled, for he could not give his home address; but this was not
necessary, for the driver happened to know it.

The hansom turned away, and Alvarez Lazaro wheeled to reenter the hotel.

He found himself face to face with Frank Merriwell.

Lazaro halted.

Frank had stopped in his tracks, his eyes fastened on the man.

A moment they stood thus, and then the Mexican bowed, saying with cold
politeness:

"Your pardon, senor. You are in my way."

That voice gave Merry a greater thrill than had th