There was something evasive about her answers.  She was trying to say neither too much nor too little.  She left one in doubt whether she was trying to shield herself or to involve another.  Though we chatted several minutes, I could gain nothing that would lead me to judge how intimately she knew Barrios.  Except that she knew Sandoval and Page, her conversation might have been a replica of the letters we had discovered.  Even when she hinted politely, but finally, that the talk was over she left me in doubt even whether she was an adventuress.  The woman was an enigma.  Had revenge or jealousy brought her to New York, or was she merely a tool in the hands of another?

I was not ready to return to Kennedy merely with another unanswered question, and I determined to stop again at the hotel where Barrios and his sister lived, in the hope of picking up something there.

The clerk at the desk told me that no one had called since we had been there, adding:  “Except the tall gentleman, who came back.  I think Senorita Barrios came down and met him in the tea-room.”

Wondering whether it was Page or Sandoval the clerk meant, I sauntered down the corridor past the door of the tea-room.  It was Page with whom Anitra was talking.  There was no way in which I could hear what was said, although Page was very earnest and Anitra showed plainly that she was anxious to return to the sick-room up-stairs.

As I watched, I took good care that I should not be seen.  It was well that I did, for once when I looked about I saw that some one else in another doorway was watching them, too, so intently that he did not see me.  It was Sandoval.  Jealousy of Page was written in every line of his face.

Studying the three, while I could not escape the rivalry of the two men, I was unable to see now or recollect anything that had happened which would convey even an inkling of her feelings toward them.  Yet I was convinced that that way lay a problem quite as important as relations between the other triangle of Eulalie, Teresa, and Barrios.  I was not psychologist enough to deal with either triangle.  There was something that distinctly called for the higher mathematics of Kennedy.

Determined not to return to him entirely empty-mouthed, I thought it would be a good opportunity to see Eulalie alone, and hurried to the elevator, which whisked me up to the Barrios apartment.

Doctor Scott had not left his patient, though he seemed to realize that Eulalie was a most efficient nurse.

“No change,” whispered the doctor, “except that he is reaching a crisis.”

Interested as I was in the patient, it had been for the purpose of seeing Eulalie that I had come, and I was glad when Doctor Scott left us a moment.

“Has Mr. Kennedy found out anything yet?” she asked, in a tremulous whisper.

“I think he is on the right track now,” I encouraged.  “Has anything happened here?  Remember—­it is quite as important that you should tell him all as it is for him to tell you.”