There swam into my line of vision another such hand.  It laid itself on my arm.  A voice sang in my ear softly: 

“No, Walter, we have had enough.  Come, let us go.  This is not like any other known drug—­not even the famous Cannabis indica, hasheesh.  Let us go as soon as we politely can.  I have found out what I wanted to know.  Guerrero is not here.”

We rose shortly and excused ourselves and, with general regrets in which all but Torreon joined, were bowed out with the same courtly politeness with which we had been received.

As we left the house, the return to the world was quick.  It was like coming out from the matinee and seeing the crowds on the street.  They, not the matinee, were unreal for the moment.  But, strange to say, I found one felt no depression as a result of the mescal intoxication.

“What is it about mescal that produces such results?” I asked.

“The alkaloids,” replied Kennedy as we walked slowly along.  “Mescal was first brought to the attention of scientists by explorers employed by our bureau of ethnology.  Dr. Weir Mitchell and Dr. Harvey Wiley and several German scientists have investigated it since then.  It is well known that it contains half a dozen alkaloids and resins of curious and little-investigated nature.  I can’t recall even the names of them offhand, but I have them in my laboratory.”

As the effect of the mescal began to wear off in the fresh air, I found myself in a peculiar questioning state.  What had we gained by our visit?  Looking calmly at it, I could not help but ask myself why both Torreon and Senora Mendez had acted as if they were concealing something about the whereabouts of Guerrero.  Was she a spy?  Did she know anything about the loss of the half-million dollars?

Of one thing I was certain.  Torreon was an ardent admirer of the beautiful senora, equally ardent with Guerrero.  Was he simply a jealous suitor, angry at his rival, and now glad that he was out of the way?  Where had Guerrero gone The question was still unanswered.

Absorbed in these reveries, I did not notice particularly where Kennedy was hurrying me.  In fact, finding no plausible answer to my speculations and knowing that it was useless to question Kennedy at this stage of his inquiry, I did not for the moment care where we went but allowed him to take the lead.

We entered one of the fine apartments on the drive and rode up in the elevator.  A door opened and, with a start, I found myself in the presence of Miss Guerrero again.  The questioning look on her face recalled the object of our search, and its ill success so far.  Why had Kennedy come back with so little to report?

“Have you heard anything?” she asked eagerly.

“Not directly,” replied Kennedy.  “But I have a clue, at least.  I believe that Torreon knows where your father is and will let you know any moment now.  It is to his interest to clear himself before this scandal about the money becomes generally known.  Would you allow me to search through your father’s desk?”