A sudden flash of fire seemed to light up her dark eyes. "There is a woman at the hotel, too," she went on, "a woman from Truxillo, Señora de Moche. Ever since she has been there my father has been growing worse and worse."
"Who is this Señora de Moche?" asked Kennedy, studying the Señorita as if she were under a lens.
"A Peruvian of an old Indian family," she replied. "She has come to New York with her son, Alfonso, who is studying at the University here. I knew him in Peru," she added, as if by way of confession, "when he was a student at the University of Lima."
There was something in both her tone and her manner that would lead one to believe that she bore no enmity toward the son—indeed quite the contrary—whatever might be her feelings toward the mother of de Moche.
Kennedy reached for our university catalogue and found the name, Alfonso de Moche, a post-graduate student in the School of Engineering, and therefore not in any of Kennedy's own courses. I could see that Craig was growing more and more interested.
"And you think," he queried, "that in some way this woman is connected with the strange change that has taken place in your father?"
"I don't know," she temporized, but the tone of her answer was sufficient to convey the impression that in her heart she did suspect something, she knew not what.
"It's not a long run to Atlantic Beach," considered Kennedy. "I have one or two things that I must finish up first, however."
"Then you will come down tonight?" she asked, as Kennedy rose and took the little white silk gloved hand which she extended.
"Tonight surely," answered Craig, holding the door for her to pass out.