“I’ll have detectives put on his trail,” he blustered.  “I’ll talk it over with Lockwood.  He never liked the man.”

“What did Lockwood say about Norton?” asked Kennedy casually.

Whitney eyed us a moment.

“Say,” he ejaculated, “it was Norton brought you into this case, wasn’t it?”

“I cannot deny that,” returned Kennedy quietly, meeting his eyes.  “But it is Inez Mendoza now that keeps me in it.”

“So—­you’re another rival, are you?” purred Whitney sarcastically.  “Lockwood and de Moche aren’t enough.  I have a sneaking suspicion that Norton himself is one of them.  Now it’s you, too.  I suppose Mr. Jameson is another.  Well, if I was ten years younger, I’d cut you all out, or know the reason why.  Oh, yes, I think I will not tell you what Mr. Lockwood suspects.”

With every sentence the veins of Whitney’s forehead stood out further, until now they were like whipcords.  His eyes and face were fairly apoplectic.  Slowly the conviction was forced on me.  The man acted for all the world like one affected by a drug.

“Well,” he went on, “you may tell Norton for me that I am going to have him watched.  That will throw a scare into him.”

At least it showed that the breach between Whitney and Norton was deep.  Kennedy listened without saying much, but I knew that he was gratified.  He was playing Lockwood against de Moche, the Senora against Inez.  Now if Whitney would play himself against Norton, out of the tangle might emerge just the clues he needed.  For when people get fighting among themselves the truth comes out.

“Very well,” remarked Craig, rising, with a hurried glance at Whitney’s apoplectic face, “go as far as you like.  I think we understand each other better, now.”

Whitney said nothing, but, rising also, turned on his heel and walked deliberately out of the cafe into the corridor of the Prince Edward Albert, leaving us standing there.

Kennedy leaned over and swept up the ashes of Whitney’s cigarettes which lay in the ash-tray, placing them, stubs and all, in an envelope, as he had done before.

“We have one sample, already,” he said.  “Another won’t hurt.  You can never have too much material to work with.  Let us see where he is going.”

Slowly we followed in the direction which Whitney had taken from the cafe.  There was Whitney standing by the cigar-stand, gazing intently down the corridor.

Kennedy and I moved over so that we could see what he was gazing at.  Just then he started to walk hurriedly in the direction in which he was looking.

“Senora de Moche!” exclaimed Craig, drawing me toward a palm.

It was indeed she.  She had left the tea room and gone to her own room.  Now she was alighting from the elevator, and had started toward the main dining-room, when her eyes had rested on Whitney.  In spite of all that he had said to us about her, he had received the glance as a signal and was fluttering over to her like a moth to a flame.