As for me, I was inclined to agree with Dr. Leslie, and, long after he had left, there kept recurring to my mind those words: 

Beware the curse of Mansiche on the gold of the gods.

VIII

THE ANONYMOUS LETTER

“I think I will drop in to see Senorita Mendoza,” considered Kennedy, as he cleared up the materials which he had been using in his investigation of the arrow poison.  “She is a study to me—­in fact, the reticence of all these people is hard to combat.”

As we entered the apartment where the Mendozas lived, it was difficult to realize that only a few hours had elapsed since we had first been introduced to this strange affair.  In the hall, however, were still some reporters waiting in the vain hope that some fragment of a story might turn up.

“Let’s have a talk with the boys,” suggested Craig, before we entered the Mendoza suite.  “After all, the newspaper men are the best detectives I know.  If it wasn’t for them, half our murder cases wouldn’t ever be solved.  As a matter of fact, ’yellow journals’ are more useful to a city than half the detective force.”

Most of the newspaper men knew Craig intimately, and liked him, possibly because he was one of the few people to-day who realized the very important part these young men played in modern life.  They crowded about, eager to interview him.  But Craig was clever.  In the rapid fire of conversation it was really he who interviewed them.

“Lockwood has been here a long time,” volunteered one of the men.  “He seems to have constituted himself the guardian of Inez.  No one gets a look at her while he’s around.”

“Well, you can hardly blame him for that,” smiled Craig.  “Jealousy isn’t a crime in that case.”

“Say,” put in another, “there’d be an interesting quarter of an hour if he were here now.  That other fellow—­de Mooch—­whatever his name is, is here.”

“De Moche—­with her, now?” queried Kennedy, wheeling suddenly.

The reporter smiled.  “He’s a queer duck.  I was coming up to relieve our other man, when I saw him down on the street, hanging about the corner, his eyes riveted on the entrance to the apartment.  I suppose that was his way of making love.  He’s daffy over her, all right.  I stopped to watch him.  Of course, he didn’t know me.  Just then Lockwood left.  The Spaniard dived into the drug store on the corner as though the devil was after him.  You should have seen his eyes.  If looks were bullets, I wouldn’t give much for Lockwood’s life.  With two such fellows about, you wouldn’t catch me making goo-goo eyes at that chicken—­not on your life.”

Kennedy passed over the flippant manner in view of the importance of the observation.

“What do you think of Lockwood?” he asked.

“Pretty slick,” replied another of the men.  “He’s the goods, all right.”