He and the
policeman had discovered Senor Guerrero only a short time before,
up-stairs. For all he knew, Guerrero had been there some time,
perhaps all day, while the others were meeting down-stairs.
Except for the light he might have been there undiscovered still.
Torreon swore he had heard Guerrero fall; the policeman was not
quite so positive.
Kennedy listened impatiently, then sprang up the stairs, only to
call back to the policeman: "Go call me a taxicab at the ferry,
an electric cab. Mind, now, not a gasoline-cab--electric."
We found the victim lying on a sort of bed of sailcloth in a loft
apparently devoted to the peaceful purposes of the junk trade,
but really a perfect arsenal and magazine. It was dusty and
cobwebbed, crammed with stands of arms, tents, uniforms in bales,
batteries of Maxims and mountain-guns, and all the paraphernalia
for carrying on a real twentieth-century revolution.
The young ambulance surgeon was still there, so quickly had we
been able to get down-town. He had his stomach-pump, hypodermic
syringe, emetics, and various tubes spread out on a piece of
linen on a packing-case. Kennedy at once inquired just what he
had done.
"Thought at first it was only a bad case of syncope," he replied,
"but I guess he was dead some minutes before I got here.
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