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“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, 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.”