"The father interested me," Greg persisted. "Señor Francisco de Socotra----" here the young man's eyes gleamed, but Greg could not be sure with what kind of feeling. "Very handsome man," Greg went on, "do you know him?" "I know him," the young man said curtly. Greg was still baffled. "What do you think of him?" he asked direct. The young man's eyes positively blazed. "I prefer not to say," he replied setting his jaw. "It wouldn't be polite." Greg was delighted. It was true this might be good acting, but the young man's implied scorn of de Socotra had all the effect of a violent denunciation. Greg could conceive of no reason why a follower of de Socotra's should denounce him to a stranger. Greg went further. "At the desk just now I heard you ask for Señor Antonio Bareda." The young man's face seemed to open as with an inner light. He turned eagerly to Greg. "My master and my friend!" he cried impulsively. "The best of men! Do you know him too?" Greg's heart bled for this generous youth. He shook his head. "I thought if you are stopping here you might have met him," the other went on. "Perhaps you have seen him about the hotel, a little, plump, smooth-shaven old gentleman, with an old-fashioned courteous air, and a beaming glance that seems to shed kindness all around him. You wouldn't think to see him that he was a fighter, and one of the bravest!" Greg could no longer doubt his man. "Look here," he said frankly. "I knew we should hit it off, when I first laid eyes on you. My name's Gregory Parr. What's yours?" "Mario Estuban," was the surprising reply. Greg's eyes goggled at him. "Good God!" he ejaculated. "What's the matter?" demanded the other frowning. "What do you know about me?" "Nothing," said Greg, "only I cabled you yesterday." "Cabled me?" echoed the other round-eyed. "What about? Who gave you my name? I left Managuay five days ago." Greg glanced at the hotel clock. It was a few minutes past twelve. If de Socotra stayed to lunch with his family he could scarcely get back to the hotel before two. "We can't talk here," he said. "I have a room up-stairs. Come up with me." Estuban followed him wonderingly. In the hotel bedroom, Greg closed the door behind them and turned a compassionate face towards the other. "I've got bad news for you, old man," he said. His own voice shook. Estuban guessed what was coming. He fell back with his hands clenched. "Quick! Out with it!" he said hoarsely. "Don't keep me in suspense!" "Antonio Bareda is dead!" A low despairing cry escaped from Estuban. "Too late!" He sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands. He did not weep; no further sound escaped him. His silence scared Greg more than any outburst could have done. "God knows I feel for you," Greg said earnestly. "But just the same you must try to forget your grief for the present. You must get a grip on yourself. There is justice to be done!"