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 icy; and a president chooses him with a dozen times the care with which he selects a matrimonial mate.

Colonel Falcon, a handsome and urbane gentleman of Castilian courtesy and debonnaire manners, came to Coralio with the task before him of striking upon the cold trail of the lost money. There he conferred with the military authorities, who had received instructions to co-operate with him in the search.

Colonel Falcon established his headquarters in one of the rooms of the Casa Morena. Here for a week he held informal sittings—much as if he were a kind of unified grand jury—and summoned before him all those whose testimony might illumine the financial tragedy that had accompanied the less momentous one of the late president’s death.

Two or three who were thus examined, among whom was the barber Estebán, declared that they had identified the body of the president before its burial.

“Of a truth,” testified Estebán before the mighty secretary, “it was he, the president. Consider!—how could I shave a man and not see his face? He sent for me to shave him in a small house. He had a