“What do you attribute it to?” asked Kennedy, without admitting that it had attracted his attention, too.

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” confessed Norton.

“Inez is as afraid of her as any of the rest,” remarked Kennedy thoughtfully.  “She says it is the evil eye.”

“Not an uncommon belief among Latin-Americans,” commented Norton.  “In fact, I suppose there are people among us who believe in the evil eye yet.  Still, you can hardly blame that little girl for believing it is almost anything.  Well, I won’t keep you any longer.  I shall let you know of anything I find out from the de Moches.  I think you are getting on remarkably.”

Norton left us, his face much brighter than it had been when we met him at the door.

Kennedy, alone at last in the laboratory, went over to a cabinet and took out a peculiar-looking apparatus, which seemed, as nearly as I can describe it, to consist of a sort of triangular prism, set with its edge vertically on a rigid platform attached to a massive stand of brass.

“Norton seems to have suddenly become quite solicitous of the welfare of Senorita Mendoza,” I hazarded, as he worked over the adjustment of the thing.

Kennedy smiled.  “Every one seems to be—­even Whitney,” he returned, twisting a set-screw until he had the alignment of the various parts as he wanted it.

The telephone bell rang.

“Do you want to answer it?” I asked Craig.

“No,” he replied, not even looking up from his work.  “Find out who it is.  Unless it is something very important say I am out on an investigation and that you have heard from me; that I shall not be either at the laboratory or the apartment until tomorrow morning.  I must get this done to-night.”

I took down the receiver.

“Hello, is this Professor Kennedy?” I recognized a voice.

“No,” I replied.  “Is there any message I can take?”

“This is Mr. Lockwood,” came back the information I had already guessed.  “When do you expect him?”

“It’s Lockwood,” I whispered to Craig, my hand over the transmitter.

“See what he wants,” returned Craig.  “Tell him what I told you.”

I repeated Kennedy’s message.

“Well, that’s too bad,” replied Lockwood.  “I’ve just seen Mr. Whitney, and he tells me that Kennedy and you are pretty friendly with Norton, Of course, I knew that.  I saw you at the Mendozas’ together the first time.  I’d like to have a talk with him about that man.  I suppose he has told you all his side of the story of his relations with Whitney.”

I am, if anything, a good listener, and so I said nothing, not even that he had better tell it to Kennedy in the morning, for it was such a novelty to have any of these people talk voluntarily that I really didn’t much care whether I believed what they said or not.

“I used to know him down in Lima, you know,” went on Lockwood.  “What I want to say has to do with that dagger he says was stolen.  I want to tell what I know of how he got it.  There was an Indian mixed up in it who committed suicide—­well, you tell Kennedy I’ll see him in the morning.”