"Peru?" said Greg, dryly. "Peru in Irving Place," he thought.
"And the ladies decided to go up to the Marsden Farms Hotel in Westchester County to await his return."
"The Marsden Farms Hotel; thank you very much."
As Greg turned away from the desk he perceived the Castilian youth reëntering the hotel. So he had just been putting the ladies in the cab. Greg kept the tail of an eye on him, and when he presently strolled into the bar in his languid high-born manner, Greg followed.
The young man with a condescending air ordered a Bronx cocktail.
"Our drinks are scarcely good enough for him," thought Greg bitterly. Greg himself, a few feet distant from the other, ordered a drink he did not want, and continued to nourish his hatred with watching the other.
The young man sipped his drink quite unconscious of the violent distaste he had engendered in the one near. He asked the bar-tender a question. His English was poor and he had difficulty in making himself understood. It appeared that he wanted to know how long it would take him to drive to Thirty-Sixth Street, as he had an engagement there, and did not wish to start too soon.
Greg intervened and gave him the information he wanted. The young man recognizing a gentleman in Greg, unbent a little, and they fell into chat. He mentioned that the address he had spoken of was the office of the Managuayan consul. Greg pricked up his ears.
"You are from Managuay?" he asked.
The young man nodded.