“The junta had been notified a few days ago, they say, that a large sum—­five hundred thousand silver dollars—­had been captured from the government and was on its way to New York to be melted up as bullion at the sub-treasury,” she answered, repeating what she had heard over the telephone as if in a dream.  “Mr. Jameson referred to the rumour when he came in.  I was interested, for I did not know the public had heard of it yet.  The junta has just announced that the money is missing.  As soon as the ship docked in Brooklyn this morning an agent appeared with the proper credentials from my father and a guard, and they took the money away.  It has not been heard of since—­and they have no word from my father.”

Her face was blanched as she realised what the situation was.  Here she was, setting people to run down her own father, if the suspicions of the other members of the junta were to be credited.

“You—­you do not think my father—­stole the money?” she faltered pitifully.  “Say you do not think so.”

“I think nothing yet,” replied Kennedy in an even voice.  “The first thing to do is to find him—­before the detectives of the junta do so.”

I felt a tinge—­I must confess it—­of jealousy as Kennedy stood beside her, clasping her hand in both of his and gazing earnestly down into the rich flush that now spread over her olive cheeks.

“Miss Guerrero,” he said, “you may trust me implicitly.  If your father is alive I will do all that a man can do to find him.  Let me act—­for the best.  And,” he added, wheeling quickly toward me, “I know Mr. Jameson will do likewise.”

I was pulled two ways at once.  I believed in Miss Guerrero, and yet the flight of her father and the removal of the bullion swallowed up, as it were, instantly, without so much as a trace in New York—­looked very black for him.  And yet, as she placed her small hand tremblingly in mine to say good-bye, she won another knight to go forth and fight her battle for her, nor do I think that I am more than ordinarily susceptible, either.

When she had gone, I looked hopelessly at Kennedy.  How could we find a missing man in a city of four million people, find him without the aid of the police—­perhaps before the police could themselves find him?

Kennedy seemed to appreciate my perplexity as though he read my thoughts.  “The first thing to do is to locate this Senor Torreon from whom the first information came,” he remarked as we left the apartment.  “Miss Guerrero told me that he might possibly be found in an obscure boarding-house in the Bronx where several members of the junta live.  Let us try, anyway.”

Fortune favoured us to the extent that we did find Torreon at the address given.  He made no effort to evade us, though I noted that he was an unprepossessing looking man—­undersized and a trifle over-stout, with an eye that never met yours as you talked with him.  Whether it was that he was concealing something, or whether he was merely fearful that we might after all be United States Secret Service men, or whether it was simply a lack of command of English, he was uncommonly uncommunicative at first.  He repeated sullenly the details of the disappearance of Guerrero, just as we had already heard them.