The white-uniformed counterman seemed delighted to be serving one of the South Americans. He bustled out officiously from behind the counter and put the cup before Kesley. He tasted the coffee. The synthetic beverage was tepid, slightly oily. Nevertheless, he forced himself to finish it, then sat broodingly in the booth staring at the gray film of dinginess that overlay the empty cup. "Something else maybe, _señor_?" "No--nothing," Kesley said. "I'm not very hungry." "Too bad, _señor_. Has the trip north disturbed your appetite? The food you're accustomed to--" _Damned chatterbox_, Kesley thought, irritated. "My appetite is fine." He dropped a coin ringingly on the counter and walked out, into the warm, stale morning air. Glancing around tensely, he let his hand slip to the hilt of his dagger. He caressed it absently for a moment, scowling. The minutes were crawling by like snails; the audience with Winslow would _never_ come. Dispiritedly, he turned his steps back toward the hotel. The desk-clerk looked up idly as he entered. "_Señor?_" "What is it?" Kesley snapped. "The man from Duke Miguel--have you seen him?" "What man?" Kesley asked, puzzled. "He arrived while you were out--a small man with a heavy mustache. His horse was nearly dead; he must have come in a great hurry." Kesley frowned. He was expecting no one from Miguel. Hope flashed brightly: perhaps it was a last-minute reprieve for Winslow, and thus for Kesley. Perhaps, he thought, it was a cancellation of the assassination order! "Where is he?" Kesley asked hurriedly. The desk-clerk jerked his head upward. "He went upstairs. Oh, about ten minutes ago. I guess he's still there." "_Gracias_," Kesley said. With sudden excitement he dashed up the stairs, threw open the door, and looked around. No one was in the outer room of the suite. From within came no sound--not even the usual boisterous horseplay of his men. Cautiously, Kesley opened the inner door. Within, he saw Santana huddling over his breviary in his usual chair. "Santana?" There was no reply. "Padre?" The priest appeared to be totally absorbed in his reading. Annoyed, Kesley crossed the room and grabbed Santana roughly by the shoulder. The plump Archbishop spun limply, sagging backward as Kesley touched him, and dropped heavily from the chair. Kesley paled. The red velvet of the Archbishop's robes was stained with a deeper red, already turning a crumbling brown. A knife had been thrust through the folds of fat that covered the priest's heart, and had found its mark. Santana had attained the martyrdom he coveted. "Feliz! Domingo!" Kesley shouted. His voice sounded harsh, dry. "Luis! Where are you?" He strode to the adjoining door and threw it open--and his men, as if they had been held back by a spillway, came pouring forth.