Chapter 21

THE FIRST STROKE.

The main dining room of the Waldorf-Astoria was well filled, almost every table being taken. The place was brilliantly lighted, the guests fashionably dressed, and the scene one to impress the unaccustomed visitor. The hidden orchestra was discoursing music to suit the taste of the most critical.

Seated at a table on the Fifth Avenue side were two men who attracted more or less attention. Old Gripper Scott was known by sight to many of those present, and, being one of the great American money kings, naturally received more than cursory notice.

But it seemed that the remarkable-appearing white-haired man, who sat opposite Old Gripper, was surveyed with even more interest than that accorded the great financier. His deeply furrowed face, his snowy hair, and his black, piercing eyes gave him a remarkable look that was certain to attract the second glance of any one who chanced to observe him.

"Who is he?" was the question asked by scores of diners.

"He's a fabulously wealthy Mexican who has come on to take a hand in some of Old Gripper's deals," explained one man, who seemed to know something about it.

Watson Scott found Alvarez Lazaro the soul of polished politeness. The musical talk of the Mexican was very entertaining, yet strangely soothing.

"After we have our coffee," said Lazaro, "I will convince you beyond doubt, señor, that my pledge to take one thousand shares of Central Sonora at par may be considered by you the same as the actual deposit of the money for the stock. I never like to talk business while dining. I know you Americans have your downtown luncheon clubs, where you go to discuss business affairs while you eat; but I do not think I could ever bring myself to adopt the habit."

"It has been found necessary in order to save time," said Scott. "With the New Yorker of affairs time is money."

"I understand that, señor; but still my prejudice against it persists. It will not take me long after dinner. You can spare a little more time. I shall regret to part from you even then."

"Are all your countrymen so free with complimentary speeches?"

"Unlike you men of the North," retorted Lazaro, "we do not hide our feelings, but speak them freely. Perhaps it is a failing, for I find that Americans often become suspicious when praised or complimented; but still, what my heart feels my tongue persists in revealing before I can check it."

"All right," nodded Scott, with something like a touch of gruffness; "but don't lay it on too thick."

"One question perhaps I may ask while we are waiting for the dessert, even if it seems too much of business."

"Fire away."

"I would like to know that this scheme is assured."

"The construction of the railroad?"

"Yes, señor."

"Of course it----"

"If anything serious were to happen to important members of your company--to you, Señor Scott, we will say?"

"Why, I suppose the others would push her through."

"But if something happened to Señor Hatch and Señor Bragg?"

"Well, now you're supposing a wholesale calamity! I don't know what would happen if we were all knocked out before construction began--before the stock was placed on the market."

"It might put an end to the project?"

"It might," admitted Old Gripper.

"That would be most unfortunate for Señor Merriwell," said the Mexican, as if he almost feared something of the sort was going to take place.

Coffee was finally brought.

"Señor," said Lazaro, "I know it is impolite to turn to look behind one, but sitting at the third table back of you is a tall, thin man with a prominent nose, and I am certain I have met him somewhere, but I cannot recall his name. If you could get a look at him without too much trouble----"

Watson Scott was not given to great stiffness anywhere. He drew his feet from beneath the table, placed them at one side of his chair and half turned on the seat, looking round at the man indicated by Lazaro.

As Old Gripper did this the Mexican leaned far over the table and reached out his hand as if to touch his companion on the elbow. Instead of doing this, he seemed to change his mind; but his hand swept over the small cup of black coffee that stood in front of the other man, and something fell into that cup.

"That is Henry Babcock, of the Cuban Plantation Supply Company," explained Scott, turning back.

"Then I was mistaken," said the Mexican. "I have never met the gentleman."

They sipped their coffee, Lazaro continuing talking.

Scott emptied his cup.

"I've had a hard day, but that will keep me awake for the next four hours," he remarked. "I'm going to the theatre with a party of friends to-night, and I don't want to nod over the old play."

After a brief time a vexed look came to his rugged face, and he swept his hand across his eyes.

"Is anything wrong, señor?" questioned Lazaro.

"I'm afraid my eyes are going back on me. They're blurry now. I swear I hate to take up wearing spectacles!"

Directly he leaned his head on his hand, with his elbow on the table.

"I fear you are not feeling well, Señor Scott," said the man of the snowy hair and coal-black eyes.

"I'm not," confessed Old Gripper thickly. "Can't understand it. Never felt this way before. I'm afraid I'm going to be ill. Let's get out of here."

Already Lazaro had paid the check and tipped the waiter. They arose and started to leave the dining room. With his second step Watson Scott staggered.

In a moment his companion had him by the arm, expressing in a low tone the greatest regret and anxiety.

"I want air!" muttered Scott. "I--I'm going home. Please get my topcoat and hat for me. My check is somewhere in my pocket. Get a hansom, for that will give me a chance to breathe."

Lazaro felt in Scott's pocket and found the check, for which he obtained the man's overcoat and hat. He expressed his sorrow that this thing should happen, and, with the aid of an attendant, assisted the tottering man outside and lifted him into a hansom. Scott's wits seemed wholly muddled, for he could not give his home address; but this was not necessary, for the driver happened to know it.

The hansom turned away, and Alvarez Lazaro wheeled to reënter the hotel.

He found himself face to face with Frank Merriwell.

Lazaro halted.

Frank had stopped in his tracks, his eyes fastened on the man.

A moment they stood thus, and then the Mexican bowed, saying with cold politeness:

"Your pardon, señor. You are in my way."

That voice gave Merry a greater thrill than had the sight of the man's face. It was like one speaking from the grave, for the low, gentle voice had all the soft music of one Frank believed forever stilled by death.

And those eyes--they were the same. But that snow-white hair and the deeply furrowed face--how different!

Yet about the man's face there was something that strongly reminded the youth of Porfias del Norte.

"I beg your pardon," said Merry, in turn. "But the sight of you gave me a start. For a moment I fancied I knew you--that we had met before."

"But now you realize your mistake, señor; now you know we have never met until this moment."

"It is not likely that we have; but still you remind me powerfully of a man by the name of Porfias del Norte."

"I knew him."

"You knew him?"

"I did, señor. He was my bosom friend. Who are you that knew my friend?"

"My name is Merriwell."

Alvarez Lazaro seemed to straighten and become rigid, while into his dark eyes crept an expression of hatred which he no longer tried to hide.

"At last, Señor Merriwell," he said, the music having left his voice; "at last we meet! On the morrow I should have sought you."

"For what purpose?"

"To let you know that I have come."

"How could that interest me?"

"You will be interested before you see the last of me."

Frank recognized the threat in the voice of the man.

"What are you driving at? I don't understand you."

"Possibly not. I have said that Porfias del Norte was my bosom friend."

"Yes."

"He is dead."

"Yes."

"It was through you that he came to his death."

"He brought it on himself, and richly he merited it!" declared Merriwell hotly. "If ever a wretch got just what was coming to him it was Del Norte!"

The eyes of Lazaro were gleaming with a smoldering fire.

"Why did he deserve it? Was it because he found you usurping his privileges, enriching yourself from his property, while you refused to acknowledge his rights?"

"He had no legal rights. He was a villain, every inch of him. He proved it by his dastardly conduct. Yes, he richly merited all that came to him."

"Have you thought what a terrible death he died? Have you thought of him entombed alive, beating with his bare hands the stone walls within which he knew he must die, suffering the most frightful tortures that a human being may know? Have you thought of him smothering for want of air, his throat parched, his head bursting, his mind deranged? Have you thought of him praying to the saints, shrieking, moaning, sobbing, and dying at last in that horrible darkness? And yet you say he received no more than he merited!"

"Poor devil!" muttered Merry. "It was a fearful thing. Even though he once tried to cut my tongue out, even though he meant to torture me and then kill me, I would not have had him endure such suffering."

"You are so kind--so tender of heart!" sneered Lazaro. "Paugh!"

He made a gesture of anger that was precisely the same as Del Norte might have done. Strange there was something about this old man that so powerfully resembled the youthful Del Norte!

"You have his manner, his voice, his eyes! You might be his father."

"I am simply his friend, Alvarez Lazaro--his friend and his avenger!"

"Then you----"

"I have sworn to avenge him!"

The Mexican leaned toward Frank, swiftly hissing:

"I have sworn to ruin you, to wreck your ambitions and your life, to make you suffer even as Porfias suffered in his last moments! Now you understand me! Now you know what to expect from me!"

"You're insane! I see madness in your eyes! Be careful that you do not bring on yourself the fate that befell Del Norte."

"No danger of that. I know how to accomplish what I have set myself to do. All your great plans shall go amiss. When you see things going wrong, when you find your fortune melting away, when the very earth seems crumbling beneath your feet, think of me and know my hand is behind it all. This night I have struck the first blow!"

Then Lazaro stepped swiftly to one side, passed Merry, and entered the splendid hotel.