Our questions were as yet unanswered.  Not only had we no inkling as to the whereabouts of the dagger, but the source of the four warnings that had been sent us was still as much shrouded in mystery.

Kennedy beckoned to a passing taxicab.

“The Prince Edward Albert,” he directed briefly.

VI

THE CURSE OF MANSICHE

We entered the Prince Edward Albert a few minutes later, one of the new and beautiful family hotels uptown.

Before making any inquiries, Craig gave a hasty look about the lobby.  Suddenly I felt him take my arm and draw me over to a little alcove on one side.  I followed the direction of his eyes.  There I could see young Alfonso de Moche talking to a woman much older than himself.

“That must be his mother,” whispered Craig.  “You can see the resemblance.  Let’s sit here awhile behind these palms and watch.”

They seemed to be engaged in an earnest conversation about something.  Even as they talked, though we could not guess what it was about, it was evident that Alfonso was dearer than life to the woman and that the young man was a model son.  Though I felt that I must admire them each for it, still, I reflected, that was no reason why we should not suspect them—­perhaps rather a reason for suspecting.

Senora de Moche was a woman of well-preserved middle age, a large woman, with dark hair and contrasting full, red lips.  Her face, in marked contradiction to her Parisian costume and refined manners, had a slight copper swarthiness about it which spoke eloquently of her ancestry.

But it was her eyes that arrested and held one’s attention most.  Whether it was in the eyes themselves or in the way that she used them, there could be no mistake about the almost hypnotic power that their owner possessed.  I could not help wondering whether she might not have exercised it on Don Luis, perhaps was using it in some way to influence Whitney.  Was that the reason why the Senorita so evidently feared her?

Fortunately, from our vantage point, we could see without being in any danger of being seen.

“There’s Whitney,” I heard Craig mutter under his breath.

I looked up and saw the promoter enter from his car.  At almost the same instant the roving eyes of the Senora seemed to catch sight of him.  He came over and spoke to the de Moches, standing with them several minutes.  I fancied that not for an instant did she allow the gaze of any one else to distract her in the projection of whatever weird ocular power nature had endowed her with.  If it were a battle of eyes, I recollected the strange look that I had noted about those of both Whitney and Lockwood.  That, however, was different from the impression one got of the Senora’s.  I felt that she would have to be pretty clever to match the subtlety of Whitney.

Whatever it was they were talking about, one could see that Whitney and Senora de Moche were on very familiar terms.  At the same time, young de Moche appeared to be ill at ease.  Perhaps he did not approve of the intimacy with Whitney.  At any rate, he seemed visibly relieved when the promoter excused himself and walked over to the desk to get his mail and then out into the cafe.