“And Senora Mendez?” I asked as my mind involuntarily reverted to the brilliantly lighted room up-town.  “What part did she have in the plot against Guerrero?”

Torreon stood sullenly silent.  Kennedy reached in another of Torreon’s pockets and drew out a third little silver box of mescal buttons.  Holding all three of the boxes, identically the same, before us he remarked:  “Evidently Torreon was not averse to having his victim under the influence of mescal as much as possible.  He must have forced it on him—­all’s fair in love and revolution, I suppose.  I believe he brought him down here under the influence of mescal last night, obtained the power of attorney, and left him here to die of the mescal intoxication.  It was just a case of too strong a hold of the mescal—­the artificial paradise was too alluring to Guerrero, and Torreon knew it and tried to profit by it to the extent of half a million dollars.”

It was more than I could grasp at the instant.  The impossible had happened.  I had seen the dead—­literally—­brought back to life and the secret which the criminal believed buried wrung from the grave.

Kennedy must have noted the puzzled look on my face.  “Walter,” he said, casually, as he wrapped up his instruments, “don’t stand there gaping like Billikin.  Our part in this case is finished—­at least mine is.  But I suspect from some of the glances I have seen you steal at various times that—­well, perhaps you would like a few moments in a real paradise.  I saw a telephone down-stairs.  Go call up Miss Guerrero and tell her her father is alive—­and innocent.”

 XII.  The Steel Door

It was what, in college, we used to call “good football weather”—­ a crisp, autumn afternoon that sent the blood tingling through brain and muscle.  Kennedy and I were enjoying a stroll on the drive, dividing our attention between the glowing red sunset across the Hudson and the string of homeward-bound automobiles on the broad parkway.  Suddenly a huge black touring car marked with big letters, “P.D.N.Y.,” shot past.

“Joy-riding again in one of the city’s cars,” I remarked.  “I thought the last Police Department shake-up had put a stop to that.”

“Perhaps it has,” returned Kennedy.  “Did you see who was in the car?”

“No, but I see it has turned and is coming back.”

“It was Inspector—­I mean, First Deputy O’Connor.  I thought he recognised us as he whizzed along, and I guess he did, too.  Ah, congratulations, O’Connor!  I haven’t had a chance to tell you before how pleased I was to learn you had been appointed first deputy.  It ought to have been commissioner, though,” added Kennedy.