The girl was a
chronic morphine-eater and was 'dead' forty minutes."
I stood like one frozen, the thing was so incomprehensible, after
the many surprises of the evening that had preceded. Torreon, in
fact, did not comprehend for the moment.
As Kennedy and I bent over, Guerrero's eyes opened, but he
apparently saw nothing. His hand moved a little, and his lips
parted. Kennedy quickly reached into the pockets of the man
gasping for breath, one after another. From a vest pocket he drew
a little silver case, identical with that he had found in the
desk up-town. He opened it, and one mescal button rolled out into
the palm of his hand. Kennedy regarded it thoughtfully.
"I suspect there is at least one devotee of the vision-breeding
drug who will no longer cultivate its use, as a result of this,"
he added, looking significantly at the man before us.
"Guerrero," shouted Kennedy, placing his mouth close to the man's
ear, but muting his voice so that only I could distinguish what
he said, "Guerrero, where is the money?"
His lips moved trembling again, but I could not make out that he
said anything.
Kennedy rose and quietly went over to detach his apparatus from
the electric light socket behind Torreon.
"Car-ramba!" I heard as I turned suddenly.
Craig had Torreon firmly pinioned from behind by both arms.
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