Torreon let the receiver fall back in its socket, and I caught just a glimpse of the look of hate and suspicion which crossed his face as he turned toward Kennedy.  When he spoke it was as suavely as if he himself were the one who had planned this little excursion.

“It shall be as you wish,” he said, leading the way out to the cross-town surface cars.

Senora Mendez received us politely, and we were ushered into a large music-room in her apartment.  There were several people there already.  They were seated in easy chairs about the room.

One of the ladies was playing on the piano as we entered.  It was a curious composition—­very rhythmic, with a peculiar thread of monotonous melody running through it.

The playing ceased, and all eyes were fixed on us.  Kennedy kept very close to Torreon, apparently for the purpose of frustrating any attempt at a whispered conversation with the senora.

The guests rose and with courtly politeness bowed as Senora Mendez presented two friends of Senor Torreon, Senor Kennedy and Senor Jameson.  We were introduced in turn to Senor and Senora Alvardo, Senor Gonzales, Senorita Reyes, and the player, Senora Barrios.

It was a peculiar situation, and for want of something better to say I commented on the curious character of the music we had overheard as we entered.

The senora smiled, and was about to speak when a servant entered, bearing a tray full of little cups with a steaming liquid, and in a silver dish some curious, round, brown, disc-like buttons, about an inch in diameter and perhaps a quarter of an inch thick.  Torreon motioned frantically to the servant to withdraw, but Kennedy was too quick for him.  Interposing himself between Torreon and the servant, he made way for her to enter.

“You were speaking of the music,” replied Senora Mendez to me in rich, full tones.  “Yes, it is very curious.  It is a song of the Kiowa Indians of New Mexico which Senora Barrios has endeavoured to set to music so that it can be rendered on the piano.  Senora Barrios and myself fled from Vespuccia to Mexico at the start of our revolution, and when the Mexican government ordered us to leave on account of our political activity we merely crossed the line to the United States, in New Mexico.  It was there that we ran across this very curious discovery.  The monotonous beat of that melody you heard is supposed to represent the beating of the tom-toms of the Indians during their mescal rites.  We are having a mescal evening here, whiling away the hours of exile from our native Vespuccia.”

“Mescal?” I repeated blankly at first, then feeling a nudge from Kennedy, I added hastily:  “Oh, yes, to be sure.  I think I have heard of it.  It’s a Mexican drink, is it not?  I have never had the pleasure of tasting it or of tasting that other drink, pulque—­ poolkay—­did I get the accent right?”

I felt another, sharper nudge from Kennedy, and knew that I had only made matters worse.