And yet, as she placed
her small hand tremblingly in mine to say good-bye, she won
another knight to go forth and fight her battle for her, nor do I
think that I am more than ordinarily susceptible, either.
When she had gone, I looked hopelessly at Kennedy. How could we
find a missing man in a city of four million people, find him
without the aid of the police--perhaps before the police could
themselves find him?
Kennedy seemed to appreciate my perplexity as though he read my
thoughts. "The first thing to do is to locate this Senor Torreon
from whom the first information came," he remarked as we left the
apartment. "Miss Guerrero told me that he might possibly be found
in an obscure boarding-house in the Bronx where several members
of the junta live. Let us try, anyway."
Fortune favoured us to the extent that we did find Torreon at the
address given. He made no effort to evade us, though I noted that
he was an unprepossessing looking man--undersized and a trifle
over-stout, with an eye that never met yours as you talked with
him. Whether it was that he was concealing something, or whether
he was merely fearful that we might after all be United States
Secret Service men, or whether it was simply a lack of command of
English, he was uncommonly uncommunicative at first.
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