His face flushed hot as he read; angrily his big hand crumpled message
and bank notes together.   He glanced down the empty street; then
forgetful of bed and rest, his anger rising, he strode swiftly off
toward the hotel, muttering under his breath.  The hotel-keeper he
found alone in the little room which served him as office and bed
chamber.

"I want to see Mrs. Rios," said Kendric curtly.

"You'd be meaning the Mexican lady?  Name of Castelmar." He drew his
soiled, inky guest book toward him.  "Zoraida Castelmar."

"I suppose so," answered Kendric.  "Where is she?"

"Your name would be Kendric?" persisted the hotel-keeper.  And at
Kendric's short "Yes," he pointed down the hall.  "Third door, left
side.  She's expecting you."

Had Kendric paused to speculate over the implication of the man's words
he would inevitably have understood the trick Ruiz Rios's companion had
played on him.  But he was never given to stopping for reflection when
he had started for a definite goal and furthermore just now his wrath
was consuming him.  He went furiously down the hall and struck at the
door as though it were a man who had stirred his anger by standing in
his path.  "Come in," invited a woman's voice in Spanish, the
inflection distinctly that of old Mexico.  In he went.

Before him stood an old woman, her face a tangle of deep wrinkles, her
hair spotted with white, her eyes small and black and keen.  He looked
at her in surprise.  Somehow he had counted on finding Zoraida
Castelmar young; just why he was not certain.  But the surprise was an
emotion of no duration, since a hotter emotion overrode it and crowded
it out.

"Look here," he began angrily, his hand lifted, the bills tight
clenched.

But she interrupted.

"You are Señor Kendric, _no_?  She awaits you.  There."

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