Kennedy reached in another of
Torreon's pockets and drew out a third little silver box of
mescal buttons. Holding all three of the boxes, identically the
same, before us he remarked: "Evidently Torreon was not averse to
having his victim under the influence of mescal as much as
possible. He must have forced it on him--all's fair in love and
revolution, I suppose. I believe he brought him down here under
the influence of mescal last night, obtained the power of
attorney, and left him here to die of the mescal intoxication. It
was just a case of too strong a hold of the mescal--the
artificial paradise was too alluring to Guerrero, and Torreon
knew it and tried to profit by it to the extent of half a million
dollars."
It was more than I could grasp at the instant. The impossible had
happened. I had seen the dead--literally--brought back to life
and the secret which the criminal believed buried wrung from the
grave.
Kennedy must have noted the puzzled look on my face. "Walter," he
said, casually, as he wrapped up his instruments, "don't stand
there gaping like Billikin. Our part in this case is finished--at
least mine is. But I suspect from some of the glances I have seen
you steal at various times that--well, perhaps you would like a
few moments in a real paradise.
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