Luna's Mexican restaurant has no address. It is on no particular street, at no particular corner; even its habitues, its most enthusiastic devotees, are unable to locate it upon demand. It is "over there in the quarter," "not far from the cathedral there."One could find it if one started out with that intent; but to direct another there--no, that is out of the question. It CAN be reached by following the alleys of Chinatown. You will come out of the last alley--the one where the slave girls are--upon the edge of the Mexican quarter, and by going straight forward a block or two and by keeping a sharp lookout to right and left you will hit upon it. It is always to be searched for. Always to be discovered.
On that particular Monday evening Blix and Condy arrived at Luna's some fifteen minutes before seven. Condy had lost himself and all sense of direction in the strange streets of the quarter, and they were on the very brink of despair when Blix discovered the sign upon an opposite corner.
As Condy had foretold, they had the place to themselves. They went into the back room with its one mirror, six tables, and astonishing curtains of Nottingham lace; and the waiter, whose name was Richard or Riccardo, according to taste, began to officiate at the solemn rites of the "supper Mexican." Condy and Blix ate with their eyes continually wandering to the door; and as the FRIJOLES were being served, started simultaneously and exchanged glances.
A man wearing two marguerites in the lapel of his coat had entered abruptly, and sat down to a table close at hand.
Condy drew a breath of suppressed excitement.
"There he is," he whispered--"Captain Jack!"
They looked at the newcomer with furtive anxiety, and told themselves that they were disappointed. For a retired sea captain he was desperately commonplace. His hair was red, he was younger than they had expected, and, worst of all, he did look tough.
"Oh, poor K. D. B.!" sighed Blix, shaking her head. "He'll never do, I'm afraid. Perhaps he has a good heart, though; red-headed people are SOMETIMES affectionate.""They are impulsive," hazarded Condy.
As he spoke the words, a second man entered the little room. He, too, sat down at a nearby table. He, too, ordered the "supper Mexican." He, too, wore marguerites in his buttonhole.
"Death and destruction!" gasped Condy, turning pale.
Blix collapsed helplessly in her chair, her hands dropping in her lap. They stared at each other in utter confusion.
"Here's a how-do-you-do," murmured Condy, pretending to strip a TAMALE that Richard had just set before him. But Blix had pushed hers aside.
"What does it mean?" whispered Condy across the table. "In Heaven's name, what does it mean?""It can only mean one thing," Blix declared; "one of them is the captain, and one is a coincidence. Anybody might wear a marguerite; we ought to have thought of that.""But which is which?"
"If K. D. B. should come now!"
"But the last man looks more like the captain."The last man was a sturdy, broad-shouldered fellow, who might have been forty. His heavy mustache was just touched with gray, and he did have a certain vaguely "sober and industrious" appearance.
But the difference between the two men was slight, after all; the red-headed man could easily have been a sea captain, and he certainly was over thirty-five.
"Which? which? which?--how can we tell? We might think of some way to get rid of the coincidence, if we could only tell which the coincidence was. We owe it to K. D. B. In a way, Condy, it's our duty. We brought her here, or we are going to, and we ought to help her all we can; and she may be here at any moment. What time is it now?""Five minutes after seven. But, Blix, I should think the right one--the captain--would be all put out himself by seeing another chap here wearing marguerites. Does either one of 'em seem put out to you? Look. I should think the captain, whichever one he is, would kind of GLARE at the coincidence."Stealthily they studied the two men for a moment.
"No, no," murmured Blix, "you can't tell. Neither of them seems to glare much. Oh, Condy"--her voice dropped to a faint whisper.
"The red-headed one has put his hat on a chair, just behind him, notice? Do you suppose if you stood up you could see inside?""What good would that do?"
"He might have his initials inside the crown, or his whole name even; and you could see if he had a 'captain' before it."Condy made a pretence of rising to get a match in a ribbed, truncated cone of china that stood upon an adjacent table, and Blix held her breath as he glanced down into the depths of the hat. He resumed his seat.
"Only initials," he breathed--"W. J. A. It might be Jack, that J., and it might be Joe, or Jeremiah, or Joshua; and even if he was a captain he might not use the title. We're no better off than we were before.""And K. D. B. may come at any moment. Maybe she has come already and looked through the windows, and saw TWO men with marguerites and went away. She'd be just that timid. What can we do?""Wait a minute, look here," murmured Condy. "I've an idea. I'LLfind out which the captain is. You see that picture, that chromo, on the wall opposite?"Blix looked as he indicated. The picture was a gorgeously colored lithograph of a pilot-boat, schooner-rigged, all sails set, dashing bravely through seas of emerald green color.
"You mean that schooner?" asked Blix.
"That schooner, exactly. Now, listen. You ask me in a loud voice what kind of a boat that is; and when I answer, you keep your eye on the two men.""Why, what are you going to do?"
"You'll see. Try it now; we've no time to lose."Blix shifted in her seat and cleared her throat. Then:
"What a pretty boat that is up there, that picture on the wall.
See over there, on the wall opposite? Do you notice it? Isn't she pretty? Condy, tell me what kind of a boat is that?"Condy turned about in his place with great deliberation, fixed the picture with a judicial eye, and announced decisively:
"That?--why, that's a BARKENTINE."
