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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, quick!” I cried as soon as I had recovered from the shock. “Have you any smelling-salts or anything of that sort? Perhaps you can find a little brandy. Hurry.”

While we were making her comfortable the telephone continued to tinkle.

“This is Kennedy,” I heard Craig say, as Juanita came hurrying in with water, smelling-salts, and brandy. “You fool. She fainted. Why couldn’t you break it to her gently? What’s that address on South Street? You found him over the junta meeting-place in a loft? Yes, I understand. What were you doing down there? You went down expecting a shipment of arms and saw a light overhead I see–and suspecting something you entered with a policeman. You heard him move across the floor above and fall heavily? All right. Someone will be down directly. Ambulance surgeon has tried everything, you say? No heart action, no breathing? Sure. Very well. Let the body remain just where it is until I get down. Oh, wait. How long ago did it happen? Fifteen minutes? All right. Good-bye.”

Such restoratives as we had found we applied faithfully. At last we were rewarded by the first flutter of an eyelid. Then Miss Guerrero gazed wildly about.

“He is dead,” she moaned. “They have killed him. I know it. My father is dead.” Over and over she repeated: “He is dead. I shall never see him again.”

Vainly I tried to soothe her. What was there to say? There could be no doubt about it. Torreon must have gone down directly after we left Senora Mendez. He had seen a light in the loft, had entered with a policeman–as a witness, he had told Craig over the telephone–had heard Guerrero fall, and had sent for the ambulance. How long Guerrero had been there he did not know, for while members of the junta had been coming and going all day in the office below none had gone up into the locked loft.

Kennedy with rare skill calmed Miss Guerrero’s dry-eyed hysteria into a gentle rain of tears, which relieved her overwrought feelings. We silently withdrew, leaving the two women, mistress and servant, weeping.

“Craig,” I asked when we had gained the street, “what do you make of it? We must lose no time. Arrest this Mendez woman before she has a chance to escape.”

“Not so fast, Walter,” he cautioned as we spun along in a taxicab. “Our case isn’t very complete against anybody yet.”

“But it looks black for Guerrero,” I admitted. “Dead men tell no tales even to clear themselves.”

“It all depends on speed now,” he answered laconically.

We had reached the university, which was only a few blocks away, and Craig dashed into his laboratory while I settled with the driver. He reappeared almost instantly with some bulky apparatus under his arm, and we more than ran from the building to the near-by subway station. Fortunately there was an express just pulling in, as we tumbled down the steps.