“I’d like to get a better view of her,” remarked Kennedy, rising.  “Let us take a turn or two along the corridor and pass them.”

We sauntered forth from our alcove and strolled down among the various knots of people chatting and laughing.  As we passed the woman and her son, I was conscious again of that strange feeling, which psychologists tell us, however, has no real foundation, of being stared at from behind.

At the lower end of the lobby Kennedy turned suddenly and we started to retrace our steps.  Alfonso’s back was toward us now.  Again we passed them, just in time to catch the words, in a low tone, from the young man, “Yes, I have seen him at the University.  Every one there knows that he is—­”

The rest of the sentence was lost.  But it was not difficult to reconstruct.  It referred undoubtedly to the activities of Kennedy in unravelling mysteries.

“It’s quite evident,” I suggested, “that they know that we are interested in them now.”

“Yes,” he agreed.  “There wasn’t any use of watching them further from under cover.  I wanted them to see me, just to find out what they would do.”

Kennedy was right.  Indeed, even before we turned again, we found that the Senora and Alfonso had risen and were making their way slowly to the elevators, still talking earnestly.  The lifts were around an angle, and before we could place ourselves so that we could observe them again they were gone.

“I wish there was some way of adding Alfonso’s shoe-prints to my collection,” observed Craig.  “The marks that I found in the dust of the sarcophagus in the Museum were those of a man’s shoes.  However, I suppose I must wait to get them.”

He walked over to the desk and made inquiries about the de Moches and Whitney.  Each had a suite on the eighth floor, though on opposite sides and at opposite ends of the hall.

“There’s no use wasting time trying to conceal our identity now,” remarked Kennedy finally, drawing a card from his case.  “Besides, we came here to see them, anyhow.”  He handed the card to the clerk.  “Senora de Moche, please,” he said.

The clerk took the card and telephoned up to the de Moche suite.  I must say that it was somewhat to my surprise that the Senora telephoned down to say that she would receive us in her own sitting room.

“That’s very kind,” commented Craig, as I followed him into the elevator.  “It saves planning some roundabout way of meeting her and comes directly to the point.”

The elevator whisked us up directly to the eighth floor and we stepped out into the heavily carpeted hallway, passing down to Room 810, which was the number of her suite.  Further on, in 825, was Whitney’s.

Alfonso was not there.  Evidently he had not ridden up with his mother, after all, but had gone out through another entrance on the ground floor.  The Senora was alone.