"What man?" Kesley asked, puzzled.
"He arrived while you were out—a small man with a heavy mustache. His horse was nearly dead; he must have come in a great hurry."
Kesley frowned. He was expecting no one from Miguel. Hope flashed brightly: perhaps it was a last-minute reprieve for Winslow, and thus for Kesley. Perhaps, he thought, it was a cancellation of the assassination order!
"Where is he?" Kesley asked hurriedly.
The desk-clerk jerked his head upward. "He went upstairs. Oh, about ten minutes ago. I guess he's still there."
"Gracias," Kesley said. With sudden excitement he dashed up the stairs, threw open the door, and looked around.
No one was in the outer room of the suite. From within came no sound—not even the usual boisterous horseplay of his men. Cautiously, Kesley opened the inner door. Within, he saw Santana huddling over his breviary in his usual chair.
"Santana?"
There was no reply.
"Padre?"