A tall, slim, alert-looking young man rose from his desk and genially inquired of what service he could be.
Hammond passed him his card. “Might I see Mr. Daly?”
“Mr. Daly?” repeated the other with a puzzled air.
“Yes—Mr. Eulas Daly, American consul.”
“A mere error in names, Mr. Hammond. I am the American consul in charge here, but my name is Frank W. Freeman.”
“Oh, I see,” surmised Hammond. “There has been a change—Mr. Daly has been recently transferred to another post?”
“Quite a year ago, my friend,” replied Mr. Freeman definitely. “Mr. Daly was transferred to the Buenos Aires office in October of last year and I have been in charge here since then. Perhaps there’s something I could do for you?”
“At that rate, no. Thank you,” acknowledged Hammond concealing as best he could his amazement and chagrin. “It was a personal matter between myself and Mr. Daly. I have been misinformed as to his location.”
Hoaxed!
Inured as Hammond was becoming to trickery and mystification, this latest revelation brought about a poignant disappointment. It seemed the more he probed the incidents following his contract with Norman T. Gildersleeve to go to the Nannabijou Limits the more complicated things became. Every attempt he had made to get at the bottom of things had resulted in fresh bewilderment until everything appeared like a bedevilled dream. But it was no dream. Cold conviction was upon him that it was quite the contrary—that it was a series of baffling incidents promoted for a dark purpose by a sinister agency behind the scenes somewhere.