There was an appealing look now in her soft deep-brown eyes, and her thin, delicate lips trembled as she hurried on with her strange story.

“I never saw my father in such a state before,” she murmured.  “For days all he had talked about was the ‘big fish,’ the peje grande, whatever that might mean—­and the curse of Mansiche.”

The recollection of the past few days seemed to be too much for her.  Almost before we knew it, before Norton, who had started to ask her a question, could speak, she excused herself and fled from the room, leaving only the indelible impression of loveliness and the appeal for help that was irresistible.

Kennedy turned to Norton.  But just then the door to the den opened and we saw our friend Dr. Leslie.  He saw us, too, and took a few steps in our direction.

“What—­you here, Kennedy?” he greeted in surprise as Craig shook hands and introduced Norton.  “And Jameson, too?  Well, I think you’ve found a case at last that will baffle you.”

As we talked he led the way across the living room and into the den from which he had just come.

“It is very strange,” he said, telling at once all that he had been able to discover.  “Senor Mendoza was discovered here about midnight last night by his partner, Mr. Lockwood.  There seem to be no clues to how or by whom he was murdered.  No locks had been broken.  I have examined the hall-boy who was here last night.  He seems to be off his post a good deal when it is late.  He saw Mr. Lockwood come in, and took him in the elevator up to the sixth floor.  After that we can find nothing but the open door into the apartment.  It is not at all impossible that some one might have come in when the boy was off his post, have walked up, even have walked down, the stairs again.  In fact, it must have been that way.  No windows, not even on the fire-escape, have been tampered with.  In fact, the murder must have been done by some one admitted to the apartment late by Mendoza himself.”

We walked over to the couch on which lay the body covered by a sheet.  Dr. Leslie drew down the sheet.

On the face was a most awful look, a terrible stare and contortion of the features, and a deep, almost purple, discoloration.  The muscles were all tense and rigid.  I shall never forget that face and its look, half of pain, half of fear, as if of something nameless.

Mendoza had been a heavy-set man, whose piercing black eyes beetled forth, in life, from under bushy brows.  Even in death, barring that horrible look, he was rather distinguished-looking, and his close-cropped hair and moustache set him off as a man of affairs and consequence in his own country.