crowd in the hall," he added, motioning toward the reporters on
the other side of the door. "You can trust them absolutely. I'm
sure that if there is anything any of us can do to aid you in--in
your trouble, you may be sure that we are at your service."

She looked about a moment in the presence of three strangers who
had invaded the quietness of what had been, at least temporarily,
home. She seemed to be seeking some one on whom to lean, as though
some support had suddenly been knocked from under her, leaving her
dazed at the change.

"Oh, madre de Dios!" she cried. "What shall I do? Oh, my father--
my poor father!"

Inez Mendoza was really a pathetic and appealing figure as she
stood there in the room, alone.

Quickly she looked us over, as if, by same sort of occult
intuition of woman, she were reading our souls. Then,
instinctively almost, she turned to Kennedy. Kennedy seemed to
recognize her need. Norton and I retired, somewhat more than
figuratively.

"You--you are a detective?" she queried. "You can read mystery--
like a book?"

Kennedy smiled encouragingly. "Hardly as my friend Walter here
often paints me," he returned. "Still, now and then, we are able
to use the vast knowledge of wise men the world over to help those
in trouble. Tell me--everything," he soothed, as though knowing