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the doorbell rang.
    Fitz instantly closed the kitchenette door, crouched beside a chair in the square living room to put on his too-tight shoes. Then, after a quick and critical glance at the tanned handsome man with grayish waved hair who stared back at him from his pocket mirror, he answered the door.
    It was only a messenger boy, after all. He took the telegram, automatically reached into his trouser pocket, and found there a solitary tostón. On second thought Mike Fitz left it there. It was no time for expensive habits.
    The boy lingered hopefully for a moment, then started down the apartment stairs. He was almost to the bottom when a voice hailed him from above, in a jubilant summons. “Hey, muchacho !” And a silver tostón came flying down to tinkle on the bottom step.
    Mike Fitz read the telegram again, read the official form which the company had added at the bottom. Merrily whistling the lilting notes of “ Adelante, Maria Theresa,” he waltzed into the kitchenette, turned off the electric stove, and threw the egg and bacon into the garbage pail.
    He looked at his watch—or, rather, at the white place on his tanned wrist where his watch had been until last week. Then he shrugged. It was still early, plenty of time to get to the telegraph office, grab some chicken with rice at Prendes, and then …
    “Even in Mexico City luck has to turn sometime!” he told himself gaily, as he put on his raincoat and fared forth onto the Paseo.
    The train swung and swayed as it raced southward toward the ancient mountains of the Aztecs and the Mayas at the dizzy speed of thirty-some miles per hour. In the club/dining car a few passengers were already eating. Inspector Oscar Piper turned down a pressing invitation to join Mr. and Mrs. Ippwing in a slice of their pineapple. “Like nothing you ever tasted in your life, honestly!”
    But he had other fish to fry. “Thanks just the same,” he said and pushed on. A moment later he stood in the door of the first-class day coach, his mind made up as to what had to come next.
    Here was another world, a scene of life and color entirely foreign to anything within his ken. At the farther end of the car three boys were softly harmonizing with violin, mouth organ and guitar. It was some wailing, melancholy song that must have come straight down from Granada and the Moors. Whole families shared basket dinners or supplies purchased from the train windows at Villaldama. Many already slept, curled two-deep in a section, wrapped in gay blankets. Some of the luggage in this car was of fine leather, some consisted of blanket rolls, bags tied with rope, paper sacks and wicker baskets. There were boxes and baskets of food and fruit scattered everywhere, here and there a white jar of pulque. A train butcher squatted in the aisle arranging his basket of cigars and candies, adding his voice to the music. There were smells of food and humanity accented by the terrific heat which poured through the open windows, and two or three babies were crying—quietly and apologetically, as Mexican babies cry.
    Then, up toward the front of the car, Piper caught sight of the girl whom he had decided to confront, the fresh, impulsive girl in the yellow dress. She happened to be in close conversation with the blond youth in the beret, the boy whom Piper had seen enter the Pullman at Villaldama. “That girl surely gets around,” the inspector said to himself.
    He saw the young man rise, smiling broadly, and come swaying down the aisle. As they came face to face the youth stared at him appraisingly, then grinned. “Hello, Meester New York!” Then, as Piper grunted something, he passed on toward the diner.
    The inspector leaped to some very interesting conclusions. If these two were mixed up together …
    When in doubt, Oscar Piper had always said, plunge forward. He stepped around the train butcher, climbed over baggage and outstretched shoes, and finally planted himself firmly on the arm of the seat beside Miss