"
"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.
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