don't mind, I'd like to go over with you. I know the Mendozas."

Kennedy was watching Norton's face keenly. "I think I'll go, too,
Walter," he decided. "You won't lack assistants on this story,
apparently."

"Perhaps you can be of some assistance to them, also," put in
Norton to Kennedy, as we left.

It was only a short ride downtown, and our cab soon pulled up
before a rather ornate entrance of a large apartment in one of the
most exclusive sections of the city. We jumped out and entered,
succeeding in making our way to the sixth floor, where Mendoza
lived, without interference from the hallboy, who had been
completely swamped by the rush that followed the excitement of
finding one of the tenants murdered.

There was no missing the place. The hall had been taken over by
the reporters, who had established themselves there, terrible as
an army with concealed pads and pencils. From one of the morning
men already there I learned that our old friend Dr. Leslie, the
coroner, was already in charge.

Somehow, whether it was through Kennedy's acquaintance with Dr.
Leslie or Norton's acquaintance with the Mendozas and the Spanish
tongue, we found ourselves beyond the barrier of the door which
shut out my rivals.

As we stood for a moment in a handsome and tastefully furnished
living room a young lady passed through hurriedly. She paused in