The clerk replied in the affirmative, and an extraordinary look of relief passed over the young man's face. For a moment he seemed overcome; he lowered his eyes until he could command himself, and passed his handkerchief over his face. The clerk noticed nothing. Finding his voice the young man asked another question. Not hard to guess what this was, because the clerk glanced in the box marked 318, and seeing the key there, shook his head. The young man spoke again--was it to ask when Señor Bareda would return? The clerk shrugged and spread out his hands. Greg was on fire with curiosity. He lit a cigar, and affected to look idly around like a man with time on his hands. Meanwhile he missed no move of the young man's. The grand question was, was he looking for the real or the false Bareda? Greg wished to believe that he was a friend of the real Bareda's. Certainly he bore no resemblance to others of de Socotra's gang who had all somehow a fishy look. This young fellow's glance was as open as the day. But if it were true that he were on the side of the real Bareda, a dreadful shock awaited him. After a moment's hesitation the young Spanish-American crossed the lobby and dropped into one of the chairs by the window. He still felt the effects of his late anxiety. He looked exhausted. But a great content had ironed out the harassed lines in his face. Greg's heart was sharp with compassion for him. "Have I got to deal him a knockout blow?" he thought. He took a turn up and down the lobby, and finally dropped carelessly into a seat beside the other. "Do you speak English?" he asked with a friendly grin. "Why, yes," said the other smiling back. "Well, I'm glad of that!" said Greg. "I feel like a fish out of water in this joint." "An American?" said the other. "How did you happen to come here?" "The hotels are full at this season. I put up at the first where I could get a room." Greg offered him a cigar. "But maybe you won't care for it," he added diffidently. "I expect you Spanish fellows know cigars." "We know them," the other said accepting it smilingly, "but that's about all. All the best tobacco is shipped to the United States." "Been in this town long?" asked Greg. "Just got in from New Orleans." Greg turned grave. De Socotra had just come from New Orleans. Could he after all be deceived in his man? "Live there?" he asked. "No, I live in Managuay." "Ah," said Greg. "Perhaps you never heard of Managuay?" "Oh, yes," said Greg feeling his way, as he had once done with another young man from Managuay. "I once met some charming ladies from Managuay. Perhaps you know them. Señorita de Socotra and her mother." The young man received the information with polite unconcern. "I know of them of course. They are grand people at home. But I don't move in such circles." "And there was a Señorita Guiterrez with them," continued Greg. "Oh, everybody knows her," was the indifferent comment.