Kennedy reached for the University catalogue and found the name, “Alfonso de Moche.”  He was, as he had told us, a post-graduate student in the engineering school and, therefore, not in any of Kennedy’s own classes.

“You say your father knew the Senora?” asked Kennedy.

“Yes,” she replied, in a low voice, “he had had some dealings with her.  I cannot say just what they were; I do not know.  Socially, of course, it was different.  They did not belong to the same circle as ours in Lima.”

From her tone I gathered that there existed a race prejudice between those of old Spanish descent and the descendants of the Indians.  That, however, could not account for her attitude.  At least with her the prejudice did not extend to Alfonso.

“Senora de Moche is a friend of Mr. Whitney?” queried Kennedy.

“Yes, I believe she has placed some of her affairs in his hands.  The de Moches live at the Prince Edward Albert Hotel, and Mr. Whitney lives there, too.  I suppose they see more or less of each other.”

“H-m,” mused Kennedy.  “You know Mr. Whitney, I suppose?”

“Not very well,” she answered.  “Of course, I have met him.  He has been to visit my father, and my father has been down at his office, with Mr. Lockwood.  But I do not know much about him, except that he is what you Americans call a promoter.”

Apparently, Inez was endeavouring to be frank in telling her suspicions, much more so even than Norton had been.  But I could not help feeling that she was trying to shield some one, though not to the extent of consciously putting us on a wrong scent.

“I shall try to see Mr. Whitney as soon as possible,” said Kennedy, as she rose to go.  “And Senora de Moche, too.”

I fancied that Senorita Inez, although she had not told us much, felt relieved.

Again she murmured her thanks as she left and again Kennedy repeated his injunction to tell everything that happened that could possibly have any bearing on the case.

“That’s a rather peculiar phase,” he considered, when we were alone, “this de Moche affair.”

“Yes,” I agreed.  “Do you suppose that woman could be using Whitney for some purpose?”

“Or Whitney using her,” suggested Kennedy.  “There’s so much to be done at once that I hardly know where to begin.  We must see both of them as soon as possible.  Meanwhile, that message from Dr. Leslie about the poison interests me.  I must at least start my tests of the blood samples that I extracted.  Walter, may I ask you to leave me here in the laboratory undisturbed?”

I had some writing on my news story to do, and went into the room next to the laboratory, where I was soon busily engaged tapping my typewriter.  Suddenly I became conscious of that feeling, which Kennedy had hinted at, of being watched.  Perhaps I had heard a footstep outside and was not consciously aware of it.  But, at any rate, I had the feeling.