While he was looking about, a man came from the next room. Doubtless it was Arima; at least Orme recognized the Japanese who had overcome him in the porter's office at the Père Marquette the night before. He stepped into the room with a little smile on his brown face. Seating himself in a chair, he fixed his heels in the rungs and clasped his hands about his knees. He was waiting. The black eyes rested on the table. To Orme they seemed to be boring through the cover that concealed him, and he hardly dared to breathe, but the Asiatic appeared to observe nothing unusual. Orme wondered at the unfathomable intelligence of those eyes. He had often said of the Chinese and Japanese that he did not trust them for the reason that a Caucasian could never tell what they were thinking about. The racial difference in thought processes he found disconcerting. A bell rang. Arima went to the door, out of view, and opened it. Orme could hear persons mounting the stairs, and presently the voice of Arima said, "Come in," and the visitors entered the room. Pausing near the door for a moment, they exchanged a few whispered sentences. Then one of them walked over toward the window. Orme repressed an exclamation, for the figure that came into view was the figure of Poritol--dapper, assertive. He was dressed as on the night before, and his precious high hat was hugged close to his shoulder. His eyes roved with an exaggerated assumption of important cunning. Presently he threw over his shoulder a rapid sentence in a foreign tongue. It sounded like Spanish, and Orme inferred that it was a dialect of Portuguese. The answer came from an oily tongue; the voice was Alcatrante's. What were the South Americans doing here? It was only a few hours since the Japanese had set on Alcatrante, yet here he was in a stronghold of the enemy--and expected! Had the astute diplomat fallen into a trap? Arima was standing, not far from Poritol. His face was expressionless. Looking from Alcatrante to Poritol and back again, he said in English: "The mos' honorable gentleman will soon be here." "That is right," said Alcatrante suavely. "Mention no names." Arima nodded slightly. The silence grew intense. Orme was relieved when it was broken by another ring of the bell, and Arima slipped to the door. Alcatrante moved over beside Poritol and whispered a few words, scarcely moving his lips. His face looked yellow by daylight, and the eyes behind the gold spectacles were heavy-lidded and almost closed. Orme inferred that the night had been sleepless for Alcatrante.