nglish like an
Englishman."

"I must go and see him at once," declared Don Esteban, rising.

"I don't think you can, sir, to-night. I don't think the
physician would permit it."

"Well, then, the first thing in the morning. I thank you, young
sir. Won't you have a glass of wine before you go?"

"No, I think not," replied Donald. "I've never acquired that
Mexican habit yet. Good night, sir."

He left the house feeling greatly relieved that he had reported
the finding of the box and walked slowly along whistling merrily.
As he turned off the street upon which Don Esteban lived he heard
soft footsteps behind him and turned hastily.

But he was too late.

Before he could see who it was, or ere he could cry out, a cloak
was thrown over his head and he was picked up and carried away
bodily.

Donald was not the boy to give in without a struggle, but kick
and squirm as he might, he could not free himself. Presently
those who were carrying him stopped and laid him on the sidewalk.
Then he heard a knock and a gate opened. Then he was lifted up
again and, almost before he knew it, he was thrust into a little
room--a closet it seemed--and the door closed upon him.

It was a hot night and the little place was stifling.

"I'll smother if I don't get out of this," he muttered.

Slowly he unwrapped the cloak from about his head and at last
freed himself completely from its folds; but he secured little
relief from the heat.

The room could not have been more than six feet square and it did
not take Donald long to run his hand clear around the wall.

There was only one door, that through which he had been thrust,
and it was locked. He pounded upon it, but to no avail. Then he
sat down to think.

"There is certainly no use to sweat myself to death," he told
himself. "I'd better be as quiet as I can. There is air enough
coming under the door so I won't suffocate, so I might just as
well wait and see what will turn up."

He ran his hand all over his automatic and found it in good
shape. Then he leaned back against the wall opposite the door and
waited. Ten minutes later the door was suddenly yanked open,
another figure was bundled into the closet and the door slammed
shut, almost before Donald could think.

CHAPTER XXVI.

A PLOT AGAINST FUNSTON.

A muttered imprecation was the only intimation that the figure
which had been so unceremoniously bundled into the closet was
alive.

"Who are you?" asked Donald