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
"Death and destruction!" gasped Condy, turning pale.