Alfonso and his mother had chosen a far corner, deeper than the rest in the shadows, where two wicker settees were drawn up about a table, effectually cutting off inquisitive eyes and ears.

Alfonso rose as we approached and bowed deeply.  I could not help watching the two women as they greeted each other.

“Won’t you be seated?” he asked, pulling around one of the wicker chairs.

It was then that I saw how he had contrived to sit next to Inez, while Kennedy manoeuvred to sit on the end, where he could observe them all best.

It was a rather delicate situation, and I wondered how Kennedy would handle it, for, although Alfonso had done the inviting, it was really Craig who was responsible for allowing Inez to accept.  The Senora seemed to recognize it, also, for, although she talked to Inez, it was plain she had him in mind.

“I have heard from Alfonso about the cruel death of your father,” she began, in a softened tone, “and I haven’t had a chance to tell you how deeply I sympathize with you.  Of course, I am a much older woman than you, have seen much more trouble.  But I know that never in life do troubles seem keener than when life is young.  And yours has been so harsh.  I could not let it pass without an opportunity to tell you how deeply I feel.”

She said it with an air of sincerity that was very convincing, so convincing, in fact, that it shook for the moment the long chain of suspicion that I had been forging both of her and her son.  Could she be such a heartless woman as to play on the very heartstrings of one whom she had wronged?  I was shaken, moreover, by the late discovery by Kennedy of the foot-prints.

The Senorita murmured her thanks for the condolences in a broken voice.  It was evident that whatever enmity she bore against the Senora it was not that of suspicion that she was the cause of her father’s death.

“I can sympathize with you the more deeply,” she went on, “because only lately I have lost a very dear brother myself.  Already I have told Professor Kennedy something about it.  It was a matter of which I felt I must speak to you, for it may concern you, in the venture in which Mr. Lockwood and your father were associated, and into which now Mr. Whitney has entered.”

Inez said nothing, and Craig bowed, as though he, too, wished her to go on.

“It is about the ‘big fish’ and the concession which your father has obtained from the government to search for it.”

The Senorita started and grew a bit pale at the reference, but she seemed to realize that it was something she ought to hear, and steeled herself to it.

“Yes,” she murmured, “I understand.”

“As you no doubt know,” resumed the Senora, “no one has had the secret of the hiding-place.  It has been by mere tradition that they were going to dig.  That secret, you may know or may not know now, was in reality contained in the inscriptions on an old Inca dagger.”