“And Nunez was killed at the taking of the town by the forces of the dictator.” “He was.” “And Balmacenso? What sort of a fellow was he?” “Not a bad sort of a chap. I think he was a Spaniard. He saved my life after the fight, packed me on a mule, I being unable to walk because of a wrenched leg. If you fancy he had anything to do with this thing you are on the wrong scent. These people expected me on the _Blenheim_. Balmacenso died weeks before the _Blenheim_ entered port and at a time when I had no notion of coming North in her. I’ve gone over all that, but there is no explanation of the mystery in it.” Webster looked baffled. “Now, look here,” complained he, “don’t throw cold water upon my investigation like this. It’s discouraging. Here I’m sweating like a sheep, trying to get to the bottom of this thing, and you take a sort of delight in stumping me. It’s not friendly and it’s not right.” “I beg your pardon,” laughed Kenyon. “I’m only tickled to see how similar your own point of view is to my own, that’s all.” “They don’t seem as widely separated as I expected them to be, that’s a fact,” admitted Garry. “It proves to me that it is possible for a man, newly impressed by a most beautiful woman, to see as clearly as the most cold-blooded of his friends. And that is a thing worth knowing.” He smiled genially across the table at Kenyon and smoked his cigarette contentedly. “There remains only one other thing which I can think of,” said he. “And that is the possibility of there being persons who knew you in New York.” “There is no one,” said Kenyon, positively. “I never knew but a few people here, and them only slightly--so slightly as not even to recall their names. And no one in the North knew of my movements in recent years--not even you. And that I was coming to New York was not known to myself more than two hours before I started.” “It is deeply and blackly mysterious,” conceded Webster. “It would require an acute intellect of the highest type to do anything with it. One thing I can see very plainly, and that is that hardware is my line, and not conundrums.” “I fancied that you would give it up,” said Kenyon, smilingly. “Only temporarily. I’ll grapple with it again.” “Apart from the oddness of the matter where I am personally concerned,” said Kenyon, seriously, “is the matter where it concerns others. What are these people, and what object have they in view?” “Hong Yo, now, did not impress you?” “He was like a bloodless snake. I chilled at the very sight of him.” “But the other--the hammer-throwing chap--sort of puzzled you?” “Candidly, yes. He was boyish frankness personified, but still--” “You have your doubts. Exactly. We are all more or less strong believers in the adage that birds of a feather flock together. But the old man? What of him?”