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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/18671-8.txt b/18671-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..564812e --- /dev/null +++ b/18671-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,6159 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Never-Fail Blake, by Arthur Stringer + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Never-Fail Blake + + +Author: Arthur Stringer + + + +Release Date: June 23, 2006 [eBook #18671] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEVER-FAIL BLAKE*** + + +E-text pepared by Al Haines + + + +Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this + file which includes the original illustration. + See 18671-h.htm or 18671-h.zip: + (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/6/7/18671/18671-h/18671-h.htm) + or + (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/6/7/18671/18671-h.zip) + + +Transcriber's note: + + The printed version of this book had two Chapter V's. + Rather than renumber all the subsequent chapters in the + book, I numbered the first "V" to "V (a)" and the second + one to "V (b)". + + + + + +Supertales of Modern Mystery + +NEVER-FAIL BLAKE + +by + +ARTHUR STRINGER + + + + + + + +[Frontispiece: "Then why can't you marry me?"] + + + +Mckinlay, Stone & Mackenzie +New York +Copyright, 1913, by +The Bobbs-Merrill Company + + + + + +NEVER-FAIL BLAKE + + +I + +Blake, the Second Deputy, raised his gloomy hound's eyes as the door +opened and a woman stepped in. Then he dropped them again. + +"Hello, Elsie!" he said, without looking at her. + +The woman stood a moment staring at him. Then she advanced +thoughtfully toward his table desk. + +"Hello, Jim!" she answered, as she sank into the empty chair at the +desk end. The rustling of silk suddenly ceased. An aphrodisiac odor +of ambergris crept through the Deputy-Commissioner's office. + +The woman looped up her veil, festooning it about the undulatory roll +of her hat brim. Blake continued his solemnly preoccupied study of the +desk top. + +"You sent for me," the woman finally said. It was more a reminder than +a question. And the voice, for all its quietness, carried no sense of +timidity. The woman's pale face, where the undulating hat brim left +the shadowy eyes still more shadowy, seemed fortified with a calm sense +of power. It was something more than a dormant consciousness of +beauty, though the knowledge that men would turn back to a face so +wistful as hers, and their judgment could be dulled by a smile so +narcotizing, had not a little to do with the woman's achieved serenity. +There was nothing outwardly sinister about her. This fact had always +left her doubly dangerous as a law-breaker. + +Blake himself, for all his dewlap and his two hundred pounds of +lethargic beefiness, felt a vague and inward stirring as he finally +lifted his head and looked at her. He looked into the shadowy eyes +under the level brows. He could see, as he had seen before, that they +were exceptional eyes, with iris rings of deep gray about the +ever-widening and ever-narrowing pupils which varied with varying +thought, as though set too close to the brain that controlled them. So +dominating was this pupil that sometimes the whole eye looked violet, +and sometimes green, according to the light. + +Then his glance strayed to the woman's mouth, where the upper lip +curved outward, from the base of the straight nose, giving her at first +glance the appearance of pouting. Yet the heavier underlip, soft and +wilful, contradicted this impression of peevishness, deepened it into +one of Ishmael-like rebellion. + +Then Blake looked at the woman's hair. It was abundant and nut-brown, +and artfully and scrupulously interwoven and twisted together. It +seemed to stand the solitary pride of a life claiming few things of +which to be proud. Blake remembered how that wealth of nut-brown hair +was daily plaited and treasured and coiled and cared for, the +meticulous attentiveness with which morning by morning its hip-reaching +abundance was braided and twisted and built up about the small head, an +intricate structure of soft wonder which midnight must ever see again +in ruins, just as the next morning would find idly laborious fingers +rebuilding its ephemeral glories. This rebuilding was done +thoughtfully and calmly, as though it were a religious rite, as though +it were a sacrificial devotion to an ideal in a life tragically forlorn +of beauty. + +He remembered, too, the day when he had first seen her. That was at +the time of "The Sick Millionaire" case, when he had first learned of +her association with Binhart. She had posed at the Waldorf as a +trained nurse, in that case, and had met him and held him off and +outwitted him at every turn. Then he had decided on his "plant." To +effect this he had whisked a young Italian with a lacerated thumb up +from the City Hospital and sent him in to her as an injured +elevator-boy looking for first-aid treatment. One glimpse of her work +on that thumb showed her to be betrayingly ignorant of both +figure-of-eight and spica bandaging, and Blake, finally satisfied as to +the imposture, carried on his investigation, showed "Doctor Callahan" +to be Connie Binhart, the con-man and bank thief, and sent the two +adventurers scurrying away to shelter. + +He remembered, too, how seven months after that first meeting Stimson +of the Central Office had brought her to Headquarters, fresh from +Paris, involved in some undecipherable way in an Aix-les-Bains diamond +robbery. The despatches had given his office very little to work on, +and she had smiled at his thunderous grillings and defied his noisy +threats. But as she sat there before him, chic and guarded, with her +girlishly frail body so arrogantly well gowned, she had in some way +touched his lethargic imagination. She showed herself to be of finer +and keener fiber than the sordid demireps with whom he had to do. +Shimmering and saucy and debonair as a polo pony, she had seemed a +departure from type, something above the meretricious termagants round +whom he so often had to weave his accusatory webs of evidence. + +Then, the following autumn, she was still again mysteriously involved +in the Sheldon wire-tapping coup. This Montreal banker named Sheldon, +from whom nearly two hundred thousand dollars had been wrested, put a +bullet through his head rather than go home disgraced, and she had +straightway been brought down to Blake, for, until the autopsy and the +production of her dupe's letters, Sheldon's death had been looked upon +as a murder. + +Blake had locked himself in with the white-faced Miss Elsie Verriner, +alias Chaddy Cravath, alias Charlotte Carruthers, and for three long +hours he had pitted his dynamic brute force against her flashing and +snake-like evasiveness. He had pounded her with the artillery of his +inhumanities. He had beleaguered her with explosive brutishness. He +had bulldozed and harried her into frantic weariness. He had +third-degreed her into cowering and trembling indignation, into hectic +mental uncertainties. Then, with the fatigue point well passed, he had +marshaled the last of his own animal strength and essayed the final +blasphemous Vesuvian onslaught that brought about the nervous +breakdown, the ultimate collapse. She had wept, then, the blubbering, +loose-lipped, abandoned weeping of hysteria. She had stumbled forward +and caught at his arm and clung to it, as though it were her last +earthly pillar of support. Her huge plaited ropes of hair had fallen +down, thick brown ropes longer than his own arms, and he, breathing +hard, had sat back and watched them as she wept. + +But Blake was neither analytical nor introspective. How it came about +he never quite knew. He felt, after his blind and inarticulate +fashion, that this scene of theirs, that this official assault and +surrender, was in some way associated with the climacteric transports +of camp-meeting evangelism, that it involved strange nerve-centers +touched on in rhapsodic religions, that it might even resemble the +final emotional surrender of reluctant love itself to the first +aggressive tides of passion. What it was based on, what it arose from, +he could not say. But in the flood-tide of his own tumultuous conquest +he had watched her abandoned weeping and her tumbled brown hair. And +as he watched, a vague and troubling tingle sped like a fuse-sputter +along his limbs, and fired something dormant and dangerous in the great +hulk of a body which had never before been stirred by its explosion of +emotion. It was not pity, he knew; for pity was something quite +foreign to his nature. Yet as she lay back, limp and forlorn against +his shoulder, sobbing weakly out that she wanted to be a good woman, +that she could be honest if they would only give her a chance, he felt +that thus to hold her, to shield her, was something desirable. + +She had stared, weary and wide-eyed, as his head had bent closer down +over hers. She had drooped back, bewildered and unresponsive, as his +heavy lips had closed on hers that were still wet and salty with tears. +When she had left the office, at the end of that strange hour, she had +gone with the promise of his protection. + +The sobering light of day, with its cynic relapse to actualities, might +have left that promise a worthless one, had not the prompt evidence of +Sheldon's suicide come to hand. This made Blake's task easier than he +had expected. The movement against Elsie Verriner was "smothered" at +Headquarters. Two days later she met Blake by appointment. That day, +for the first time in his life, he gave flowers to a woman. + +Two weeks later he startled her with the declaration that he wanted to +marry her. He did n't care about her past. She 'd been dragged into +the things she 'd done without understanding them, at first, and she 'd +kept on because there 'd been no one to help her away from them. He +knew he could do it. She had a fine streak in her, and he wanted to +bring it out! + +A little frightened, she tried to explain that she was not the marrying +kind. Then, brick-red and bull-necked, he tried to tell her in his +groping Celtic way that he wanted children, that she meant a lot to +him, that he was going to try to make her the happiest woman south of +Harlem. + +This had brought into her face a quick and dangerous light which he +found hard to explain. He could see that she was flattered by what he +had said, that his words had made her waywardly happy, that for a +moment, in fact, she had been swept off her feet. + +Then dark afterthought interposed. It crept like a cloud across her +abandoned face. It brought about a change so prompt that it disturbed +the Second Deputy. + +"You 're--you 're not tied up already, are you?" he had hesitatingly +demanded. "You 're not married?" + +"No, I 'm not tied up!" she had promptly and fiercely responded. "My +life 's my own--my own!" + +"Then why can't you marry me?" the practical-minded man had asked. + +"I could!" she had retorted, with the same fierceness as before. Then +she had stood looking at him out of wistful and unhappy eyes. "I +could--if you only understood, if you could only help me the way I want +to be helped!" + +She had clung to his arm with a tragic forlornness that seemed to leave +her very wan and helpless. And he had found it ineffably sweet to +enfold that warm mass of wan helplessness in his own virile strength. + +She asked for time, and he was glad to consent to the delay, so long as +it did not keep him from seeing her. In matters of the emotions he was +still as uninitiated as a child. He found himself a little dazed by +the seemingly accidental tenderness, by the promises of devotion, in +which she proved so lavish. Morning by jocund morning he built up his +airy dreams, as carefully as she built up her nut-brown plaits. He +grew heavily light-headed with his plans for the future. When she +pleaded with him never to leave her, never to trust her too much, he +patted her thin cheek and asked when she was going to name the day. +From that finality she still edged away, as though her happiness itself +were only experimental, as though she expected the blue sky above them +to deliver itself of a bolt. + +But by this time she had become a habit with him. He liked her even in +her moodiest moments. When, one day, she suggested that they go away +together, anywhere so long as it was away, he merely laughed at her +childishness. + +It was, in fact, Blake himself who went away. After nine weeks of +alternating suspense and happiness that seemed nine weeks of +inebriation to him, he was called out of the city to complete the +investigation on a series of iron-workers' dynamite outrages. Daily he +wrote or wired back to her. But he was kept away longer than he had +expected. When he returned to New York she was no longer there. She +had disappeared as completely as though an asphalted avenue had opened +and swallowed her up. It was not until the following winter that he +learned she was again with Connie Binhart, in southern Europe. + +He had known his one belated love affair. It had left no scar, he +claimed, because it had made no wound. Binhart, he consoled himself, +had held the woman in his power: there had been no defeat because there +had been no actual conquest. And now he could face her without an +eye-blink of conscious embarrassment. Yet it was good to remember that +Connie Binhart was going to be ground in the wheels of the law, and +ground fine, and ground to a finish. + +"What did you want me for, Jim?" the woman was again asking him. She +spoke with an intimate directness, and yet in her attitude were subtle +reservations, a consciousness of the thin ice on which they both stood. +Each saw, only too plainly, the need for great care, in every step. In +each lay the power to uncover, at a hand's turn, old mistakes that were +best unremembered. Yet there was a certain suave audacity about the +woman. She was not really afraid of Blake, and the Second Deputy had +to recognize that fact. This self-assurance of hers he attributed to +the recollection that she had once brought about his personal +subjugation, "got his goat," as he had phrased it. She, woman-like, +would never forget it. + +"There 's a man I want. And Schmittenberg tells me you know where he +is." Blake, as he spoke, continued to look heavily down at his desk +top. + +"Yes?" she answered cautiously, watching herself as carefully as an +actress with a rôle to sustain, a rôle in which she could never quite +letter-perfect. + +"It's Connie Binhart," cut out the Second Deputy. + +He could see discretion drop like a curtain across her watching face. + +"Connie Binhart!" she temporized. Blake, as his heavy side glance +slewed about to her, prided himself on the fact that he could see +through her pretenses. At any other time he would have thrown open the +flood-gates of that ever-inundating anger of his and swept away all +such obliquities. + +"I guess," he went on with slow patience "we know him best round here +as Charles Blanchard." + +"Blanchard?" she echoed. + +"Yes, Blanchard, the Blanchard we 've been looking for, for seven +months now, the Blanchard who chloroformed Ezra Newcomb and carried off +a hundred and eighteen thousand dollars." + +"Newcomb?" again meditated the woman. + +"The Blanchard who shot down the bank detective in Newcomb's room when +the rest of the bank was listening to a German band playing in the side +street, a band hired for the occasion." + +"When was that?" demanded the woman. + +"That was last October," he answered with a sing-song weariness +suggestive of impatience at such supererogative explanations. + +"I was at Monte Carlo all last autumn," was the woman's quick retort. + +Blake moved his heavy body, as though to shoulder away any claim as to +her complicity. + +"I know that," he acknowledged. "And you went north to Paris on the +twenty-ninth of November. And on the third of December you went to +Cherbourg; and on the ninth you landed in New York. I know all that. +That's not what I 'm after. I want to know where Connie Binhart is, +now, to-day." + +Their glances at last came together. No move was made; no word was +spoken. But a contest took place. + +"Why ask _me_?" repeated the woman for the second time. It was only +too plain that she was fencing. + +"Because you _know_," was Blake's curt retort. He let the gray-irised +eyes drink in the full cup of his determination. Some slowly +accumulating consciousness of his power seemed to intimidate her. He +could detect a change in her hearing, in her speech itself. + +"Jim, I can't tell you," she slowly asserted. "I can't do it!" + +"But I 've got 'o know," he stubbornly maintained. "And I 'm going to." + +She sat studying him for a minute or two. Her face had lost its +earlier arrogance. It seemed troubled; almost touched with fear. She +was not altogether ignorant, he reminded himself, of the resources +which he could command. + +"I can't tell you," she repeated. "I'd rather you let me go." + +The Second Deputy's smile, scoffing and melancholy, showed how utterly +he ignored her answer. He looked at his watch. Then he looked back at +the woman. A nervous tug-of-war was taking place between her right and +left hand, with a twisted-up pair of ecru gloves for the cable. + +"You know me," he began again in his deliberate and abdominal bass. +"And I know you. I 've got 'o get this man Binhart. I 've got 'o! He +'s been out for seven months, now, and they 're going to put it up to +me, to _me_, personally. Copeland tried to get him without me. He +fell down on it. They all fell down on it. And now they're going to +throw the case back on me. They think it 'll be my Waterloo." + +He laughed. His laugh was as mirthless as the cackle of a guinea hen. +"But I 'm going to die hard, believe me! And if I go down, if they +think they can throw me on that, I 'm going to take a few of my friends +along with me." + +"Is that a threat?" was the woman's quick inquiry. Her eyes narrowed +again, for she had long since learned, and learned it to her sorrow, +that every breath he drew was a breath of self-interest. + +"No; it's just a plain statement." He slewed about in his swivel +chair, throwing one thick leg over the other as he did so. "I hate to +holler Auburn at a girl like you, Elsie; but I 'm going--" + +"Auburn?" she repeated very quietly. Then she raised her eyes to his. +"Can you say a thing like that to me, Jim?" + +He shifted a little in his chair. But he met her gaze without a wince. + +"This is business, Elsie, and you can't mix business and--and other +things," he tailed off at last, dropping his eyes. + +"I 'm sorry you put it that way," she said. "I hoped we 'd be better +friends than that!" + +"I'm not counting on friendship in this!" he retorted. + +"But it might have been better, even in this!" she said. And the +artful look of pity on her face angered him. + +"Well, we 'll begin on something nearer home!" he cried. + +He reached down into his pocket and produced a small tinted oblong of +paper. He held it, face out, between his thumb and forefinger, so that +she could read it. + +"This Steinert check 'll do the trick. Take a closer look at the +signature. Do you get it?" + +"What about it?" she asked, without a tremor. + +He restored the check to his wallet and the wallet to his pocket. She +would find it impossible to outdo him in the matter of impassivity. + +"I may or I may not know who forged that check. I don't _want_ to +know. And when you tell me where Binhart is, I _won't_ know." + +"That check was n't forged," contended the quiet-eyed woman. + +"Steinert will swear it was," declared the Second Deputy. + +She sat without speaking, apparently in deep study. Her intent face +showed no fear, no bewilderment, no actual emotion of any kind. + +"You 've got 'o face it," said Blake, sitting back and waiting for her +to speak. His attitude was that of a physician at a bedside, awaiting +the prescribed opiate to produce its prescribed effect. + +"Will I be dragged into this case, in any way, if Binhart is rounded +up?" the woman finally asked. + +"Not once," he asserted. + +"You promise me that?" + +"Of course," answered the Second Deputy. + +"And you 'll let me alone on--on the other things?" she calmly exacted. + +"Yes," he promptly acknowledged. "I 'll see that you 're let alone." + +Again she looked at him with her veiled and judicial eyes. Then she +dropped her hands into her lap. The gesture seemed one of resignation. + +"Binhart's in Montreal," she said. + +Blake, keeping his face well under control, waited for her to go on. + +"He 's been in Montreal for weeks now. You 'll find him at 381 King +Edward Avenue, in Westmount. He 's there, posing as an expert +accountant." + +She saw the quick shadow of doubt, the eye-flash of indecision. So she +reached quietly down and opened her pocket-book, rummaging through its +contents for a moment or two. Then she handed Blake a folded envelope. + +"You know his writing?" she asked. + +"I 've seen enough of it," he retorted, as he examined the typewritten +envelope post-marked "Montreal, Que." Then he drew out the inner +sheet. On it, written by pen, he read the message: "Come to 381 King +Edward when the coast is clear," and below this the initials "C. B." + +Blake, with the writing still before his eyes, opened a desk drawer and +took out a large reading-glass. Through the lens of this he again +studied the inscription, word by word. Then he turned to the office +'phone on his desk. + +"Nolan," he said into the receiver, "I want to know if there 's a King +Edward Avenue in Montreal." + +He sat there waiting, still regarding the handwriting with stolidly +reproving eyes. There was no doubt of its authenticity. He would have +known it at a glance. + +"Yes, sir," came the answer over the wire. "It's one of the newer +avenues in Westmount." + +Blake, still wrapped in thought, hung up the receiver. The woman +facing him did not seem to resent his possible imputation of +dishonesty. To be suspicious of all with whom he came in contact was +imposed on him by his profession. He was compelled to watch even his +associates, his operatives and underlings, his friends as well as his +enemies. Life, with him, was a concerto of skepticisms. + +She was able to watch him, without emotion, as he again bent forward, +took up the 'phone receiver, and this time spoke apparently to another +office. + +"I want you to wire Teal to get a man out to cover 381 King Edward +Avenue, in Montreal. Yes, Montreal. Tell him to get a man out there +inside of an hour, and put a night watch on until I relieve 'em." + +Then, breathing heavily, he bent over his desk, wrote a short message +on a form pad and pushed the buzzer-button with his thick finger. He +carefully folded up the piece of paper as he waited. + +"Get that off to Carpenter in Montreal right away," he said to the +attendant who answered his call. Then he swung about in his chair, +with a throaty grunt of content. He sat for a moment, staring at the +woman with unseeing eyes. Then he stood up. With his hands thrust +deep in his pockets he slowly moved his head back and forth, as though +assenting to some unuttered question. + +"Elsie, you 're all right," he acknowledged with his solemn and +unimaginative impassivity. "You 're all right." + +Her quiet gaze, with all its reservations, was a tacit question. He +was still a little puzzled by her surrender. He knew she did not +regard him as the great man that he was, that his public career had +made of him. + +"You've helped me out of a hole," he acknowledged as he faced her +interrogating eyes with his one-sided smile. "I 'm mighty glad you 've +done it, Elsie--for your sake as well as mine." + +"What hole?" asked the woman, wearily drawing on her gloves. There was +neither open contempt nor indifference on her face. Yet something in +her bearing nettled him. The quietness of her question contrasted +strangely with the gruffness of the Second Deputy's voice as he +answered her. + +"Oh, they think I 'm a has-been round here," he snorted. "They 've got +the idea I 'm out o' date. And I 'm going to show 'em a thing or two +to wake 'em up." + +"How?" asked the woman. + +"By doing what their whole kid-glove gang have n't been able to do," he +avowed. And having delivered himself of that ultimatum, he promptly +relaxed into his old-time impassiveness, like a dog snapping from his +kennel and shrinking back into its shadows. At the same moment that +Blake's thick forefinger again prodded the buzzer-button at his desk +end the watching woman could see the relapse into official wariness. +It was as though he had put the shutters up in front of his soul. She +accepted the movement as a signal of dismissal. She rose from her +chair and quietly lowered and adjusted her veil. Yet through that +lowered veil she stood looking down at Never-Fail Blake for a moment or +two. She looked at him with grave yet casual curiosity, as tourists +look at a ruin that has been pointed out to them as historic. + +"You did n't give me back Connie Binhart's note," she reminded him as +she paused with her gloved finger-tips resting on the desk edge. + +"D' you want it?" he queried with simulated indifference, as he made a +final and lingering study of it. + +"I 'd like to keep it," she acknowledged. When, without meeting her +eyes, he handed it over to her, she folded it and restored it to her +pocket-book, carefully, as though vast things depended on that small +scrap of paper. + +Never-Fail Blake, alone in his office and still assailed by the vaguely +disturbing perfumes which she had left behind her, pondered her reasons +for taking back Binhart's scrap of paper. He wondered if she had at +any time actually cared for Binhart. He wondered if she was capable of +caring for anybody. And this problem took his thoughts back to the +time when so much might have depended on its answer. + +The Second Deputy dropped his reading-glass in its drawer and slammed +it shut. It made no difference, he assured himself, one way or the +other. And in the consolatory moments of a sudden new triumph +Never-Fail Blake let his thoughts wander pleasantly back over that long +life which (and of this he was now comfortably conscious) his next +official move was about to redeem. + + + + +II + +It was as a Milwaukee newsboy, at the age of twelve, that "Jimmie" +Blake first found himself in any way associated with that arm of +constituted authority known as the police force. A plain-clothes man, +on that occasion, had given him a two-dollar bill to carry about an +armful of evening papers and at the same time "tail" an itinerant +pickpocket. The fortifying knowledge, two years later, that the Law +was behind him when he was pushed happy and tingling through a transom +to release the door-lock for a house-detective, was perhaps a +foreshadowing of that pride which later welled up in his bosom at the +phrase that he would always "have United Decency behind him," as the +social purifiers fell into the habit of putting it. + +At nineteen, as a "checker" at the Upper Kalumet Collieries, Blake had +learned to remember faces. Slavic or Magyar, Swedish or Calabrian, +from that daily line of over two hundred he could always pick his face +and correctly call the name. His post meant a life of indolence and +petty authority. His earlier work as a steamfitter had been more +profitable. Yet at that work he had been a menial; it involved no +transom-born thrills, no street-corner tailer's suspense. As a checker +he was at least the master of other men. + +His public career had actually begun as a strike breaker. The monotony +of night-watchman service, followed by a year as a drummer for an +Eastern firearm firm, and another year as an inspector for a +Pennsylvania powder factory, had infected him with the _wanderlust_ of +his kind. It was in Chicago, on a raw day of late November, with a +lake wind whipping the street dust into his eyes, that he had seen the +huge canvas sign of a hiring agency's office, slapping in the storm. +This sign had said: + +"MEN WANTED." + +Being twenty-six and adventurous and out of a job, he had drifted in +with the rest of earth's undesirables and asked for work. + +After twenty minutes of private coaching in the mysteries of railway +signals, he had been "passed" by the desk examiner and sent out as one +of the "scab" train crew to move perishable freight, for the Wisconsin +Central was then in the throes of its first great strike. And he had +gone out as a green brakeman, but he had come back as a hero, with a +_Tribune_ reporter posing him against a furniture car for a two-column +photo. For the strikers had stoned his train, half killed the "scab" +fireman, stalled him in the yards and cut off two thirds of his cars +and shot out the cab-windows for full measure. But in the cab with an +Irish engine-driver named O'Hagan, Blake had backed down through the +yards again, picked up his train, crept up over the tender and along +the car tops, recoupled his cars, fought his way back to the engine, +and there, with the ecstatic O'Hagan at his side, had hurled back the +last of the strikers trying to storm his engine steps. He even fell to +"firing" as the yodeling O'Hagan got his train moving again, and then, +perched on the tender coal, took pot-shots with his brand-new revolver +at a last pair of strikers who were attempting to manipulate the +hand-brakes. + +That had been the first train to get out of the yards in seven days. +Through a godlike disregard of signals, it is true, they had run into +an open switch, some twenty-eight miles up the line, but they had moved +their freight and won their point. + +Blake, two weeks later, had made himself further valuable to that +hiring agency, not above subornation of perjury, by testifying in a +court of law to the sobriety of a passenger crew who had been carried +drunk from their scab-manned train. So naïvely dogged was he in his +stand, so quick was he in his retorts, that the agency, when the strike +ended by a compromise ten days later, took him on as one of their own +operatives. + +Thus James Blake became a private detective. He was at first +disappointed in the work. It seemed, at first, little better than his +old job as watchman and checker. But the agency, after giving him a +three-week try out at picket work, submitted him to the further test of +a "shadowing" case. That first assignment of "tailing" kept him +thirty-six hours without sleep, but he stuck to his trail, stuck to it +with the blind pertinacity of a bloodhound, and at the end transcended +mere animalism by buying a tip from a friendly bartender. Then, when +the moment was ripe, he walked into the designated hop-joint and picked +his man out of an underground bunk as impassively as a grocer takes an +egg crate from a cellar shelf. + +After his initial baptism of fire in the Wisconsin Central railway +yards, however, Blake yearned for something more exciting, for +something more sensational. His hopes rose, when, a month later, he +was put on "track" work. He was at heart fond of both a good horse and +a good heat. He liked the open air and the stir and movement and color +of the grand-stand crowds. He liked the "ponies" with the sunlight on +their satin flanks, the music of the band, the gaily appareled women. +He liked, too, the off-hand deference of the men about him, from +turnstile to betting shed, once his calling was known. They were all +ready to curry favor with him, touts and rail-birds, dockers and +owners, jockeys and gamblers and bookmakers, placating him with an +occasional "sure-thing" tip from the stables, plying him with cigars +and advice as to how he should place his money. There was a tacit +understanding, of course, that in return for these courtesies his +vision was not to be too keen nor his manner too aggressive. When he +was approached by an expert "dip" with the offer of a fat reward for +immunity in working the track crowds, Blake carefully weighed the +matter, pro and con, equivocated, and decided he would gain most by a +"fall." So he planted a barber's assistant with whom he was friendly, +descended on the pickpocket in the very act of going through that +bay-rum scented youth's pocket, and secured a conviction that brought a +letter of thanks from the club stewards and a word or two of approval +from his head office. + +That head office, seeing that they had a man to be reckoned with, +transferred Blake to their Eastern division, with headquarters at New +York, where new men and new faces were at the moment badly needed. + +They worked him hard, in that new division, but he never objected. He +was sober; he was dependable; and he was dogged with the doggedness of +the unimaginative. He wanted to get on, to make good, to be more than +a mere "operative." And if his initial assignments gave him little but +"rough-neck" work to do, he did it without audible complaint. He did +bodyguard service, he handled strike breakers, he rounded up +freight-car thieves, he was given occasionally "spot" and "tailing" +work to do. Once, after a week of upholstered hotel lounging on a +divorce case he was sent out on night detail to fight river pirates +stealing from the coal-road barges. + +In the meantime, being eager and unsatisfied, he studied his city. +Laboriously and patiently he made himself acquainted with the ways of +the underworld. He saw that all his future depended upon +acquaintanceship with criminals, not only with their faces, but with +their ways and their women and their weaknesses. So he started a +gallery, a gallery of his own, a large and crowded gallery between +walls no wider than the bones of his own skull. To this jealously +guarded and ponderously sorted gallery he day by day added some new +face, some new scene, some new name. Crook by crook he stored them +away there, for future reference. He got to know the "habituals" and +the "timers," the "gangs" and their "hang outs" and "fences." He +acquired an array of confidence men and hotel beats and queer shovers +and bank sneaks and wire tappers and drum snuffers. He made a mental +record of dips and yeggs and till-tappers and keister-crackers, of +panhandlers and dummy chuckers, of sun gazers and schlaum workers. He +slowly became acquainted with their routes and their rendezvous, their +tricks and ways and records. But, what was more important, he also +grew into an acquaintanceship with ward politics, with the nameless +Power above him and its enigmatic traditions. He got to know the +Tammany heelers, the men with "pull," the lads who were to be "pounded" +and the lads who were to be let alone, the men in touch with the +"Senator," and the gangs with the fall money always at hand. + +Blake, in those days, was a good "mixer." He was not an "office" man, +and was never dubbed high-brow. He was not above his work; no one +accused him of being too refined for his calling. Through a mind such +as his the Law could best view the criminal, just as a solar eclipse is +best viewed through smoked glass. + +He could hobnob with bartenders and red-lighters, pass unnoticed +through a slum, join casually in a stuss game, or loaf unmarked about a +street corner. He was fond of pool and billiards, and many were the +unconsidered trifles he picked up with a cue in his hand. His face, +even in those early days, was heavy and inoffensive. Commonplace +seemed to be the word that fitted him. He could always mix with and +become one of the crowd. He would have laughed at any such foolish +phrase as "protective coloration." Yet seldom, he knew, men turned +back to look at him a second time. Small-eyed, beefy and well-fed, he +could have passed, under his slightly tilted black boulder, as a truck +driver with a day off. + +What others might have denominated as "dirty work" he accepted with +heavy impassivity, consoling himself with the contention that its final +end was cleanness. And one of his most valuable assets, outside his +stolid heartlessness, was his speaking acquaintanceship with the women +of the underworld. He remained aloof from them even while he mixed +with them. He never grew into a "moll-buzzer." But in his rough way +he cultivated them. He even helped some of them out of their +troubles--in consideration for "tips" which were to be delivered when +the emergency arose. They accepted his gruffness as simple-mindedness, +as blunt honesty. One or two, with their morbid imaginations touched +by his seeming generosities, made wistful amatory advances which he +promptly repelled. He could afford to have none of them with anything +"on" him. He saw the need of keeping cool headed and clean handed, +with an eye always to the main issue. + +And Blake really regarded himself as clean handed. Yet deep in his +nature was that obliquity, that adeptness at trickery, that facility in +deceit, which made him the success he was. He could always meet a +crook on his own ground. He had no extraneous sensibilities to +eliminate. He mastered a secret process of opening and reading letters +without detection. He became an adept at picking a lock. One of his +earlier successes had depended on the cool dexterity with which he had +exchanged trunk checks in a Wabash baggage car at Black Rock, allowing +the "loft" thief under suspicion to carry off a dummy trunk, while he +came into possession of another's belongings and enough evidence to +secure his victim's conviction. + +At another time, when "tailing" on a badger-game case, he equipped +himself as a theatrical "bill-sniper," followed his man about without +arousing suspicion, and made liberal use of his magnetized tack-hammer +in the final mix up when he made his haul. He did not shirk these mix +ups, for he was endowed with the bravery of the unimaginative. This +very mental heaviness, holding him down to materialities, kept his +contemplation of contingencies from becoming bewildering. He enjoyed +the limitations of the men against whom he was pitted. Yet at times he +had what he called a "coppered hunch." When, in later years, an +occasional criminal of imagination became his enemy, he was often at a +loss as to how to proceed. But imaginative criminals, he knew, were +rare, and dilemmas such as these proved infrequent. Whatever his +shift, or however unsavory his resource, he never regarded himself as +on the same basis as his opponents. He had Law on his side; he was the +instrument of that great power known as Justice. + +As Blake's knowledge of New York and his work increased he was given +less and less of the "rough-neck" work to do. He proved himself, in +fact, a stolid and painstaking "investigator." As a divorce-suit +shadower he was equally resourceful and equally successful. When his +agency took over the bankers' protective work he was advanced to this +new department, where he found himself compelled to a new term of study +and a new circle of alliances. He went laboriously through records of +forgers and check raisers and counterfeiters. He took up the study of +all such gentry, sullenly yet methodically, like a backward scholar +mastering a newly imposed branch of knowledge, thumbing frowningly +through official reports, breathing heavily over portrait files and +police records, plodding determinedly through counterfeit-detector +manuals. For this book work, as he called it, he retained a +deep-seated disgust. + +The outcome of his first case, later known as the "Todaro National Ten +Case," confirmed him in this attitude. Going doggedly over the +counterfeit ten-dollar national bank note that had been given him after +two older operatives had failed in the case, he discovered the word +"Dollars" in small lettering spelt "Ddllers." Concluding that only a +foreigner would make a mistake of that nature, and knowing the activity +of certain bands of Italians in such counterfeiting efforts, he began +his slow and scrupulous search through the purlieus of the East Side. +About that search was neither movement nor romance. It was humdrum, +dogged, disheartening labor, with the gradual elimination of +possibilities and the gradual narrowing down of his field. But across +that ever-narrowing trail the accidental little clue finally fell, and +on the night of the final raid the desired plates were captured and the +notorious and long-sought Todaro rounded up. + +So successful was Blake during the following two years that the +Washington authorities, coming in touch with him through the operations +of the Secret Service, were moved to make him an offer. This offer he +stolidly considered and at last stolidly accepted. He became an +official with the weight of the Federal authority behind him. He +became an investigator with the secrets of the Bureau of Printing and +Engraving at his beck. He found himself a cog in a machinery that +seemed limitless in its ramifications. He was the agent of a vast and +centralized authority, an authority against which there could be no +opposition. But he had to school himself to the knowledge that he was +a cog, and nothing more. And two things were expected of him, +efficiency and silence. + +He found a secret pleasure, at first, in the thought of working from +under cover, in the sense of operating always in the dark, unknown and +unseen. It gave a touch of something Olympian and godlike to his +movements. But as time went by the small cloud of discontent on his +horizon grew darker, and widened as it blackened. He was avid of +something more than power. He thirsted not only for its operation, but +also for its display. He rebelled against the idea of a continually +submerged personality. He nursed a keen hunger to leave some record of +what he did or had done. He objected to it all as a conspiracy of +obliteration, objected to it as an actor would object to playing to an +empty theater. There was no one to appreciate and applaud. And an +audience was necessary. He enjoyed the unctuous salute of the +patrolman on his beat, the deferential door-holding of "office boys," +the quick attentiveness of minor operatives. But this was not enough. +He felt the normal demand to assert himself, to be known at his true +worth by both his fellow workers and the world in general. + +It was not until the occasion when he had run down a gang of +Williamsburg counterfeiters, however, that his name was conspicuously +in print. So interesting were the details of this gang's operations, +so typical were their methods, that Wilkie or some official under +Wilkie had handed over to a monthly known as _The Counterfeit Detector_ +a full account of the case. A New York paper has printed a somewhat +distorted and romanticized copy of this, having sent a woman reporter +to interview Blake--while a staff artist made a pencil drawing of the +Secret Service man during the very moments the latter was smilingly +denying them either a statement or a photograph. Blake knew that +publicity would impair his effectiveness. Some inner small voice +forewarned him that all outside recognition of his calling would take +away from his value as an agent of the Secret Service. But his hunger +for his rights as a man was stronger than his discretion as an +official. He said nothing openly; but he allowed inferences to be +drawn and the artist's pencil to put the finishing touches to the +sketch. + +It was here, too, that his slyness, his natural circuitiveness, +operated to save him. When the inevitable protest came he was able to +prove that he had said nothing and had indignantly refused a +photograph. He completely cleared himself. But the hint of an +interesting personality had been betrayed to the public, the name of a +new sleuth had gone on record, and the infection of curiosity spread +like a mulberry rash from newspaper office to newspaper office. A +representative of the press, every now and then, would drop in on +Blake, or chance to occupy the same smoking compartment with him on a +run between Washington and New York, to ply his suavest and subtlest +arts for the extraction of some final fact with which to cap an +unfinished "story." Blake, in turn, became equally subtle and suave. +His lips were sealed, but even silence, he found, could be made +illuminative. Even reticence, on occasion, could be made to serve his +personal ends. He acquired the trick of surrendering data without any +shadow of actual statement. + +These chickens, however, all came home to roost. Official recognition +was taken of Blake's tendencies, and he was assigned to those cases +where a "leak" would prove least embarrassing to the Department. He +saw this and resented it. But in the meantime he had been keeping his +eyes open and storing up in his cabinet of silence every unsavory rumor +and fact that might prove of use in the future. He found himself, in +due time, the master of an arsenal of political secrets. And when it +came to a display of power he could merit the attention if not the +respect of a startlingly wide circle of city officials. When a New +York municipal election brought a party turn over, he chose the moment +as the psychological one for a display of his power, cruising up and +down the coasts of officialdom with his grim facts in tow, for all the +world like a flagship followed by its fleet. + +It was deemed expedient for the New York authorities to "take care" of +him. A berth was made for him in the Central Office, and after a year +of laborious manipulation he found himself Third Deputy Commissioner +and a power in the land. + +If he became a figure of note, and fattened on power, he found it no +longer possible to keep as free as he wished from entangling alliances. +He had by this time learned to give and take, to choose the lesser of +two evils, to pay the ordained price for his triumphs. Occasionally +the forces of evil had to be bribed with a promise of protection. For +the surrender of dangerous plates, for example, a counterfeiter might +receive immunity, or for the turning of State's evidence a guilty man +might have to go scott free. At other times, to squeeze confession out +of a crook, a cruelty as refined as that of the Inquisition had to be +adopted. In one stubborn case the end had been achieved by depriving +the victim of sleep, this Chinese torture being kept up until the +needed nervous collapse. At another time the midnight cell of a +suspected murderer had been "set" like a stage, with all the +accessories of his crime, including even the cadaver, and when suddenly +awakened the frenzied man had shrieked out his confession. But, as a +rule, it was by imposing on his prisoner's better instincts, such as +gang-loyalty or pity for a supposedly threatened "rag," that the point +was won. In resources of this nature Blake became quite +conscienceless, salving his soul with the altogether Jesuitic claim +that illegal means were always justified by the legal end. + +By the time he had fought his way up to the office of Second Deputy he +no longer resented being known as a "rough neck" or a "flat foot." As +an official, he believed in roughness; it was his right; and one touch +of right made away with all wrong, very much as one grain of pepsin +properly disposed might digest a carload of beef. A crook was a crook. +His natural end was the cell or the chair, and the sooner he got there +the better for all concerned. So Blake believed in "hammering" his +victims. He was an advocate of "confrontation." He had faith in the +old-fashioned "third-degree" dodges. At these, in his ponderous way, +he became an adept, looking on the nervous system of his subject as a +nut, to be calmly and relentlessly gnawed at until the meat of truth +lay exposed, or to be cracked by the impact of some sudden great shock. +Nor was the Second Deputy above resorting to the use of "plants." +Sometimes he had to call in a "fixer" to manufacture evidence, that the +far-off ends of justice might not be defeated. He made frequent use of +women of a certain type, women whom he could intimidate as an officer +or buy over as a good fellow. He had his _aides_ in all walks of life, +in clubs and offices, in pawnshops and saloons, in hotels and steamers +and barber shops, in pool rooms and anarchists' cellars. He also had +his visiting list, his "fences" and "stool-pigeons" and "shoo-flies." + +He preferred the "outdoor" work, both because he was more at home in it +and because it was more spectacular. He relished the bigger cases. He +liked to step in where an underling had failed, get his teeth into the +situation, shake the mystery out of it, and then obliterate the +underling with a half hour of blasphemous abuse. He had scant patience +with what he called the "high-collar cops." He consistently opposed +the new-fangled methods, such as the _Portrait Parle_, and pin-maps for +recording crime, and the graphic-system boards for marking the +movements of criminals. All anthropometric nonsense such as +Bertillon's he openly sneered at, just as he scoffed at card indexes +and finger prints and other academic innovations which were +debilitating the force. He had gathered his own data, at great pains, +he nursed his own personal knowledge as to habitual offenders and their +aliases, their methods, their convictions and records, their associates +and hang outs. He carried his own gallery under his own hat, and he +was proud of it. His memory was good, and he claimed always to know +his man. His intuitions were strong, and if he disliked a captive, +that captive was in some way guilty--and he saw to it that his man did +not escape. He was relentless, once his professional pride was +involved. Being without imagination, he was without pity. It was, at +best, a case of dog eat dog, and the Law, the Law for which he had such +reverence, happened to keep him the upper dog. + +Yet he was a comparatively stupid man, an amazingly self-satisfied +toiler who had chanced to specialize on crime. And even as he became +more and more assured of his personal ability, more and more entrenched +in his tradition of greatness, he was becoming less and less elastic, +less receptive, less adaptive. Much as he tried to blink the fact, he +was compelled to depend more and more on the office behind him. His +personal gallery, the gallery under his hat, showed a tendency to +become both obsolete and inadequate. That endless catacomb of lost +souls grew too intricate for one human mind to compass. New faces, new +names, new tricks tended to bewilder him. He had to depend more and +more on the clerical staff and the finger-print bureau records. His +position became that of a villager with a department store on his +hands, of a country shopkeeper trying to operate an urban emporium. He +was averse to deputizing his official labors. He was ignorant of +system and science. He took on the pathos of a man who is out of his +time, touched with the added poignancy of a passionate incredulity as +to his predicament. He felt, at times, that there was something wrong, +that the rest of the Department did not look on life and work as he +did. But he could not decide just where the trouble lay. And in his +uncertainty he made it a point to entrench himself by means of +"politics." It became an open secret that he had a pull, that his +position was impregnable. This in turn tended to coarsen his methods. +It lifted him beyond the domain of competitive effort. It touched his +carelessness with arrogance. It also tinged his arrogance with +occasional cruelty. + +He redoubled his efforts to sustain the myth which had grown up about +him, the myth of his vast cleverness and personal courage. He showed a +tendency for the more turbulent centers. He went among murderers +without a gun. He dropped into dives, protected by nothing more than +the tradition of his office. He pushed his way in through thugs, +picked out his man, and told him to come to Headquarters in an hour's +time--and the man usually came. His appetite for the spectacular +increased. He preferred to head his own gambling raids, ax in hand. +But more even than his authority he liked to parade his knowledge. He +liked to be able to say: "This is Sheeny Chi's coup!" or, "That's a job +that only Soup-Can Charlie could do!" When a police surgeon hit on the +idea of etherizing an obdurate "dummy chucker," to determine if the +prisoner could talk or not, Blake appropriated the suggestion as his +own. And when the "press boys" trooped in for their daily gist of +news, he asked them, as usual, not to couple his name with the +incident; and they, as usual, made him the hero of the occasion. + +For Never-Fail Blake had made it a point to be good to the press boys. +He acquired an ability to "jolly" them without too obvious loss of +dignity. He took them into his confidences, apparently, and made his +disclosures personal matters, individual favors. He kept careful note +of their names, their characteristics, their interests. He cultivated +them, keeping as careful track of them from city to city as he did of +the "big" criminals themselves. They got into the habit of going to +him for their special stories. He always exacted secrecy, pretended +reluctance, yet parceled out to one reporter and another those dicta to +which his name could be most appropriately attached. He even +surrendered a clue or two as to how his own activities and triumphs +might be worked into a given story. When he perceived that those +worldly wise young men of the press saw through the dodge, he became +more adept, more adroit, more delicate in method. But the end was the +same. + +It was about this time that he invested in his first scrap-book. Into +this secret granary went every seed of his printed personal history. +Then came the higher records of the magazines, the illustrated articles +written about "Blake, the Hamard of America," as one of them expressed +it, and "Never-Fail Blake," as another put it. He was very proud of +those magazine articles, he even made ponderous and painstaking efforts +for their repetition, at considerable loss of dignity. Yet he adopted +the pose of disclaiming responsibility, of disliking such things, of +being ready to oppose them if some effective method could only be +thought out. He even hinted to those about him at Headquarters that +this seeming garrulity was serving a good end, claiming it to be +harmless pother to "cover" more immediate trails on which he pretended +to be engaged. + +But the scrap-books grew in number and size. It became a task to keep +up with his clippings. He developed into a personage, as much a +personage as a grand-opera prima donna on tour. His successes were +talked over in clubs. His name came to be known to the men in the +street. His "camera eye" was now and then mentioned by the scientists. +His unblemished record was referred to in an occasional editorial. +When an ex-police reporter came to him, asking him to father a +macaronic volume bearing the title "Criminals of America," Blake not +only added his name to the title page, but advanced three hundred +dollars to assist towards its launching. + +The result of all this was a subtle yet unmistakable shifting of +values, an achievement of public glory at the loss of official +confidence. He excused his waning popularity among his co-workers on +the ground of envy. It was, he held, merely the inevitable penalty for +supreme success in any field. But a hint would come, now and then, +that troubled him. "You think you 're a big gun, Blake," one of his +underworld victims once had the temerity to cry out at him. "You think +you 're the king of the Hawkshaws! But if you were on _my_ side of the +fence, you 'd last about as long as a snowball on a crownsheet!" + + + + +III + +It was not until the advent of Copeland, the new First Deputy, that +Blake began to suspect his own position. Copeland was an out-and-out +"office" man, anything but a "flat foot." Weak looking and pallid, +with the sedentary air of a junior desk clerk, vibratingly restless +with no actual promise of being penetrating, he was of that +indeterminate type which never seems to acquire a personality of its +own. The small and bony and steel-blue face was as neutral as the +spare and reticent figure that sat before a bald table in a bald room +as inexpressive and reticent as its occupant. Copeland was not only +unknown outside the Department; he was, in a way, unknown in his own +official circles. + +And then Blake woke up to the fact that some one on the inside was +working against him, was blocking his moves, was actually using him as +a "blind." While he was given the "cold" trails, younger men went out +on the "hot" ones. There were times when the Second Deputy suspected +that his enemy was Copeland. Not that he could be sure of this, for +Copeland himself gave no inkling of his attitude. He gave no inkling +of anything, in fact, personal or impersonal. But more and more Blake +was given the talking parts, the rôle of spokesman to the press. He +was more and more posted in the background, like artillery, to +intimidate with his remote thunder and cover the advance of more agile +columns. He was encouraged to tell the public what he knew, but he was +not allowed to know too much. And, ironically enough, he bitterly +resented this rôle of "mouthpiece" for the Department. + +"You call yourself a gun!" a patrolman who had been shaken down for +insubordination broke out at him. "A gun! why, you 're only a _park_ +gun! That's all you are, a broken-down bluff, an ornamental has-been, +a park gun for kids to play 'round!" + +Blake raged at that, impotently, pathetically, like an old lion with +its teeth drawn. He prowled moodily around, looking for an enemy on +whom to vent his anger. But he could find no tangible force that +opposed him. He could see nothing on which to centralize his activity. +Yet something or somebody was working against him. To fight that +opposition was like fighting a fog. It was as bad as trying to +shoulder back a shadow. + +He had his own "spots" and "finders" on the force. When he had been +tipped off that the powers above were about to send him out on the +Binhart case, he passed the word along to his underlings, without loss +of time, for he felt that he was about to be put on trial, that they +were making the Binhart capture a test case. And he had rejoiced +mightily when his dragnet had brought up the unexpected tip that Elsie +Verriner had been in recent communication with Binhart, and with +pressure from the right quarter could be made to talk. + +This tip had been a secret one. Blake, on his part, kept it well +muffled, for he intended that his capture of Binhart should be not only +a personal triumph for the Second Deputy, but a vindication of that +Second Deputy's methods. + +So when the Commissioner called him and Copeland into conference, the +day after his talk with Elsie Verriner, Blake prided himself on being +secretly prepared for any advances that might be made. + +It was the Commissioner who did the talking. Copeland, as usual, +lapsed into the background, cracking his dry knuckles and blinking his +pale-blue eyes about the room as the voices of the two larger men +boomed back and forth. + +"We 've been going over this Binhart case," began the Commissioner. +"It's seven months now--and nothing done!" + +Blake looked sideways at Copeland. There was muffled and meditative +belligerency in the look. There was also gratification, for it was the +move he had been expecting. + +"I always said McCooey was n't the man to go out on that case," said +the Second Deputy, still watching Copeland. + +"Then who _is_ the man?" asked the Commissioner. + +Blake took out a cigar, bit the end off, and struck a match. It was +out of place; but it was a sign of his independence. He had long since +given up plug and fine-cut and taken to fat Havanas, which he smoked +audibly, in plethoric wheezes. Good living had left his body stout and +his breathing slightly asthmatic. He sat looking down at his massive +knees; his oblique study of Copeland, apparently, had yielded him scant +satisfaction. Copeland, in fact, was making paper fans out of the +official note-paper in front of him. + +"What's the matter with Washington and Wilkie?" inquired Blake, +attentively regarding his cigar. + +"They 're just where we are--at a standstill," acknowledged the +Commissioner. + +"And that's where we 'll stay!" heavily contended the Second Deputy. + +The entire situation was an insidiously flattering one to Blake. Every +one else had failed. They were compelled to come to him, their final +resource. + +"Why?" demanded his superior. + +"Because we have n't got a man who can turn the trick! We have n't got +a man who can go out and round up Binhart inside o' seven years!" + +"Then what is your suggestion?" It was Copeland who spoke, mild and +hesitating. + +"D'you want my suggestion?" demanded Blake, warm with the wine-like +knowledge which, he knew, made him master of the situation. + +"Of course," was the Commissioner's curt response. + +"Well, you 've got to have a man who knows Binhart, who knows him and +his tricks and his hang outs!" + +"Well, who does?" + +"I do," declared Blake. + +The Commissioner indulged in his wintry smile. + +"You mean if you were n't tied down to your Second Deputy's chair you +could go out and get him!" + +"I could!" + +"Within a reasonable length of time?" + +"I don't know about the time! But I could get him, all right." + +"If you were still on the outside work?" interposed Copeland. + +"I certainly would n't expect to dig him out o' my stamp drawer," was +Blake's heavily facetious retort. + +Copeland and the Commissioner looked at each other, for one fraction of +a second. + +"You know what _my_ feeling is," resumed the latter, "on this Binhart +case." + +"I know what my feeling is," declared Blake. + +"What?" + +"That the right method would 've got him six months ago, without all +this monkey work!" + +"Then why not end the monkey work, as you call it?" + +"How?" + +"By doing what you say you can do!" was the Commissioner's retort. + +"How 'm I going to hold down a chair and hunt a crook at the same time?" + +"Then why hold down the chair? Let the chair take care of itself. It +could be arranged, you know." + +Blake had the stage-juggler's satisfaction of seeing things fall into +his hands exactly as he had manoeuvered they should. His reluctance +was merely a dissimulation, a stage wait for heightened dramatic effect. + +"How 'd you do the arranging?" he calmly inquired. + +"I could see the Mayor in the morning. There will be no Departmental +difficulty." + +"Then where 's the trouble?" + +"There is none, if you are willing to go out." + +"Well, we can't get Binhart here by pink-tea invitations. Somebody 's +got to go out and _get_ him!" + +"The bank raised the reward to eight thousand this week," interposed +the ruminative Copeland. + +"Well, it 'll take money to get him," snapped back the Second Deputy, +remembering that he had a nest of his own to feather. + +"It will be worth what it costs," admitted the Commissioner. + +"Of course," said Copeland, "they 'll have to honor your drafts--in +reason." + +"There will be no difficulty on the expense side," quietly interposed +the Commissioner. "The city wants Binhart. The whole country wants +Binhart. And they will be willing to pay for it." + +Blake rose heavily to his feet. His massive bulk was momentarily +stirred by the prospect of the task before him. For one brief moment +the anticipation of that clamor of approval which would soon be his +stirred his lethargic pulse. Then his cynic calmness again came back +to him. + +"Then what 're we beefing about?" he demanded. "You want Binhart and I +'ll get him for you." + +The Commissioner, tapping the top of his desk with his gold-banded +fountain pen, smiled. It was almost a smile of indulgence. + +"You _know_ you will get him?" he inquired. + +The inquiry seemed to anger Blake. He was still dimly conscious of the +operation of forces which he could not fathom. There were things, +vague and insubstantial, which he could not understand. But he nursed +to his heavy-breathing bosom the consciousness that he himself was not +without his own undivulged powers, his own private tricks, his own +inner reserves. + +"I say I 'll get him!" he calmly proclaimed. "And I guess that ought +to be enough!" + + + + +IV + +The unpretentious, brownstone-fronted home of Deputy Copeland was +visited, late that night, by a woman. She was dressed in black, and +heavily veiled. She walked with the stoop of a sorrowful and +middle-aged widow. + +She came in a taxicab, which she dismissed at the corner. From the +house steps she looked first eastward and then westward, as though to +make sure she was not being followed. Then she rang the bell. + +She gave no name; yet she was at once admitted. Her visit, in fact, +seemed to be expected, for without hesitation she was ushered upstairs +and into the library of the First Deputy. + +He was waiting for her in a room more intimate, more personal, more +companionably crowded than his office, for the simple reason that it +was not a room of his own fashioning. He stood in the midst of its +warm hangings, in fact, as cold and neutral as the marble Diana behind +him. He did not even show, as he closed the door and motioned his +visitor into a chair, that he had been waiting for her. + +The woman, still standing, looked carefully about the room, from side +to side, saw that they were alone, made note of the two closed doors, +and then with a sigh lifted her black gloved hands and began to remove +the widow's cap from her head. She sighed again as she tossed the +black crepe on the dark-wooded table beside her. As she sank into the +chair the light from the electrolier fell on her shoulders and on the +carefully coiled and banded hair, so laboriously built up into a crown +that glinted nut-brown above the pale face she turned to the man +watching her. + +"Well?" she said. And from under her level brows she stared at +Copeland, serene in her consciousness of power. It was plain that she +neither liked him nor disliked him. It was equally plain that he, too, +had his ends remote from her and her being. + +"You saw Blake again?" he half asked, half challenged. + +"No," she answered. + +"Why?" + +"I was afraid to." + +"Did n't I tell you we 'd take care of your end?" + +"I 've had promises like that before. They were n't always remembered." + +"But our office never made you that promise before, Miss Verriner." + +The woman let her eyes rest on his impassive face. + +"That's true, I admit. But I must also admit I know Jim Blake. We 'd +better not come together again, Blake and me, after this week." + +She was pulling off her gloves as she spoke. She suddenly threw them +down on the table. "There 's just one thing I want to know, and know +for certain. I want to know if this is a plant to shoot Blake up?" + +The First Deputy smiled. It was not altogether at the mere calmness +with which she could suggest such an atrocity. + +"Hardly," he said. + +"Then what is it?" she demanded. + +He was both patient and painstaking with her. His tone was almost +paternal in its placativeness. + +"It's merely a phase of departmental business," he answered her. "And +we 're anxious to see Blake round up Connie Binhart." + +"That's not true," she answered with neither heat nor resentment, "or +you would never have started him off on this blind lead. You 'd never +have had me go to him with that King Edward note and had it work out to +fit a street in Montreal. You 've got a wooden decoy up there in +Canada, and when Blake gets there he 'll be told his man slipped away +the day before. Then another decoy will bob up, and Blake will go +after that. And when you 've fooled him two or three times he 'll sail +back to New York and break me for giving him a false tip." + +"Did you give it to him?" + +"No, he hammered it out of me. But you knew he was going to do that. +That was part of the plant." + +She sat studying her thin white hands for several seconds. Then she +looked up at the calm-eyed Copeland. + +"How are you going to protect me, if Blake comes back? How are you +going to keep your promise?" + +The First Deputy sat back in his chair and crossed his thin legs. + +"Blake will not come back," he announced. She slewed suddenly round on +him again. + +"Then it _is_ a plant!" she proclaimed. + +"You misunderstand me, Miss Verriner. Blake will not come back as an +official. There will be changes in the Department, I imagine; changes +for the better which even he and his Tammany Hall friends can't stop, +by the time he gets back with Binhart." + +The woman gave a little hand gesture of impatience. + +"But don't you see," she protested, "supposing he gives up Binhart? +Supposing he suspects something and hurries back to hold down his +place?" + +"They call him Never-Fail Blake," commented the unmoved and dry-lipped +official. He met her wide stare with his gently satiric smile. + +"I see," she finally said, "you 're not going to shoot him up. You 're +merely going to wipe him out." + +"You are quite wrong there," began the man across the table from her. +"Administration changes may happen, and in--" + +"In other words, you 're getting Jim Blake out of the way, off on this +Binhart trail, while you work him out of the Department." + +"No competent officer is ever worked out of this Department," parried +the First Deputy. + +She sat for a silent and studious moment or two, without looking at +Copeland. Then she sighed, with mock plaintiveness. Her wistfulness +seemed to leave her doubly dangerous. + +"Mr. Copeland, are n't you afraid some one might find it worth while to +tip Blake off?" she softly inquired. + +"What would you gain?" was his pointed and elliptical interrogation. + +She leaned forward in the fulcrum of light, and looked at him soberly. + +"What is your idea of me?" she asked. + +He looked back at the thick-lashed eyes with their iris rings of deep +gray. There was something alert and yet unparticipating in their +steady gaze. They held no trace of abashment. They were no longer +veiled. There was even something disconcerting in their lucid and +level stare. + +"I think you are a very intelligent woman," Copeland finally confessed. + +"I think I am, too," she retorted. "Although I have n't used that +intelligence in the right way. Don't smile! I 'm not going to turn +mawkish. I 'm not good. I don't know whether I want to be. But I +know one thing: I 've got to keep busy--I 've got to be active. I 've +_got_ to be!" + +"And?" prompted the First Deputy, as she came to a stop. + +"We all know, now, exactly where we 're at. We all know what we want, +each one of us. We know what Blake wants. We know what you want. And +I want something more than I 'm getting, just as you want something +more than writing reports and rounding up push-cart peddlers. I want +my end, as much as you want yours." + +"And?" again prompted the First Deputy. + +"I 've got to the end of my ropes; and I want to swing around. It's no +reform bee, mind! It's not what other women like me think it is. But +I can't go on. It doesn't lead to anything. It does n't pay. I want +to be safe. I 've _got_ to be safe!" + +He looked up suddenly, as though a new truth had just struck home with +him. For the first time, all that evening, his face was ingenuous. + +"I know what's behind me," went on the woman. "There 's no use digging +that up. And there 's no use digging up excuses for it. But there +_are_ excuses--good excuses, or I 'd never have gone through what I +have, because I feel I was n't made for it. I 'm too big a coward to +face what it leads to. I can look ahead and see through things. I can +understand too easily." She came to a stop, and sat back, with one +white hand on either arm of the chair. "And I 'm afraid to go on. I +want to begin over. And I want to begin on the right side!" + +He sat pondering just how much of this he could believe. But she +disregarded his veiled impassivity. + +"I want you to take Picture 3,970 out of the Identification Bureau, the +picture and the Bertillon measurements. And then I want you to give me +the chance I asked for." + +"But that does not rest with me, Miss Verriner!" + +"It will rest with you. I could n't stool with my own people here. +But Wilkie knows my value. He knows what I can do for the service if I +'m on their side. He could let me begin with the Ellis Island +spotting. I could stop that Stockholm white-slave work in two months. +And when you see Wilkie to-morrow you can swing me one way or the +other!" + +Copeland, with his chin on his bony breast, looked up to smile into her +intent and staring eyes. + +"You are a very clever woman," he said. "And what is more, you know a +great deal!" + +"I know a great deal!" she slowly repeated, and her steady gaze +succeeded in taking the ironic smile out of the corners of his eyes. + +"Your knowledge," he said with a deliberation equal to her own, "will +prove of great value to you--as an agent with Wilkie." + +"That's as you say!" she quietly amended as she rose to her feet. +There was no actual threat in her words, just as there was no actual +mockery in his. But each was keenly conscious of the wheels that +revolved within wheels, of the intricacies through which each was +threading a way to certain remote ends. She picked up her black gloves +from the desk top. She stood there, waiting. + +"You can count on me," he finally said, as he rose from his chair. "I +'ll attend to the picture. And I 'll say the right thing to Wilkie!" + +"Then let's shake hands on it!" she quietly concluded. And as they +shook hands her gray-irised eyes gazed intently and interrogatively +into his. + + + + +V (a) + +When Never-Fail Blake alighted from his sleeper in Montreal he found +one of Teal's men awaiting him at Bonaventure Station. There had been +a hitch or a leak somewhere, this man reported. Binhart, in some way, +had slipped through their fingers. + +All they knew was that the man they were tailing had bought a ticket +for Winnipeg, that he was not in Montreal, and that, beyond the railway +ticket, they had no trace of him. + +Blake, at this news, had a moment when he saw red. He felt, during +that moment, like a drum-major who had "muffed" his baton on parade. +Then recovering himself, he promptly confirmed the Teal operative's +report by telephone, accepted its confirmation as authentic, consulted +a timetable, and made a dash for Windsor Station. There he caught the +Winnipeg express, took possession of a stateroom and indited carefully +worded telegrams to Trimble in Vancouver, that all out-going Pacific +steamers should be watched, and to Menzler in Chicago, that the +American city might be covered in case of Binhart's doubling southward +on him. Still another telegram he sent to New York, requesting the +Police Department to send on to him at once a photograph of Binhart. + +In Winnipeg, two days later, Blake found himself on a blind trail. +When he had talked with a railway detective on whom he could rely, when +he had visited certain offices and interviewed certain officials, when +he had sought out two or three women acquaintances in the city's +sequestered area, he faced the bewildering discovery that he was still +without an actual clue of the man he was supposed to be shadowing. + +It was then that something deep within his nature, something he could +never quite define, whispered its first faint doubt to him. This doubt +persisted even when late that night a Teal Agency operative wired him +from Calgary, stating that a man answering Binhart's description had +just left the Alberta Hotel for Banff. To this latter point Blake +promptly wired a fuller description of his man, had an officer posted +to inspect every alighting passenger, and early the next morning +received a telegram, asking for still more particulars. + +He peered down at this message, vaguely depressed in spirit, discarding +theory after theory, tossing aside contingency after contingency. And +up from this gloomy shower slowly emerged one of his "hunches," one of +his vague impressions, coming blindly to the surface very much like an +earthworm crawling forth after a fall of rain. There was something +wrong. Of that he felt certain. He could not place it or define it. +To continue westward would be to depend too much on an uncertainty; it +would involve the risk of wandering too far from the center of things. +He suddenly decided to double on his tracks and swing down to Chicago. +Just why he felt as he did he could not fathom. But the feeling was +there. It was an instinctive propulsion, a "hunch." These hunches +were to him, working in the dark as he was compelled to, very much what +whiskers are to a cat. They could not be called an infallible guide. +But they at least kept him from colliding with impregnabilities. + +Acting on this hunch, as he called it, he caught a Great Northern train +for Minneapolis, transferred to a Chicago, Milwaukee & St. Paul +express, and without loss of time sped southward. When, thirty hours +later, he alighted in the heart of Chicago, he found himself in an +environment more to his liking, more adaptable to his ends. He was not +disheartened by his failure. He did not believe in luck, in miracles, +or even in coincidence. But experience had taught him the bewildering +extent of the resources which he might command. So intricate and so +wide-reaching were the secret wires of his information that he knew he +could wait, like a spider at the center of its web, until the betraying +vibration awakened some far-reaching thread of that web. In every +corner of the country lurked a non-professional ally, a secluded +tipster, ready to report to Blake when the call for a report came. The +world, that great detective had found, was indeed a small one. From +its scattered four corners, into which his subterranean wires of +espionage stretched, would in time come some inkling, some hint, some +discovery. And at the converging center of those wires Blake was able +to sit and wait, like the central operator at a telephone switchboard, +knowing that the tentacles of attention were creeping and wavering +about dim territories and that in time they would render up their +awaited word. + +In the meantime, Blake himself was by no means idle. It would not be +from official circles, he knew, that his redemption would come. Time +had already proved that. For months past every police chief in the +country had held his description of Binhart. That was a fact which +Binhart himself very well knew; and knowing that, he would continue to +move as he had been moving, with the utmost secrecy, or at least +protected by some adequate disguise. + +It would be from the underworld that the echo would come. And next to +New York, Blake knew, Chicago would make as good a central exchange for +this underworld as could be desired. Knowing that city of the Middle +West, and knowing it well, he at once "went down the line," making his +rounds stolidly and systematically, first visiting a West Side +faro-room and casually interviewing the "stools" of Custom House Place +and South dark Street, and then dropping in at the Café Acropolis, in +Halsted Street, and lodging houses in even less savory quarters. He +duly canvassed every likely dive, every "melina," every gambling house +and yegg hang out. He engaged in leisurely games of pool with +stone-getters and gopher men. He visited bucket-shops and barrooms, +and dingy little Ghetto cafés. He "buzzed" tipsters and floaters and +mouthpieces. He fraternized with till tappers and single-drillers. He +always made his inquiries after Binhart seem accidental, a case +apparently subsidiary to two or three others which he kept always to +the foreground. + +He did not despair over the discovery that no one seemed to know of +Binhart or his movements. He merely waited his time, and extended new +ramifications into newer territory. His word still carried its weight +of official authority. There was still an army of obsequious +underlings compelled to respect his wishes. It was merely a matter of +time and mathematics. Then the law of averages would ordain its end; +the needed card would ultimately be turned up, the right dial-twist +would at last complete the right combination. + +The first faint glimmer of life, in all those seemingly dead wires, +came from a gambler named Mattie Sherwin, who reported that he had met +Binhart, two weeks before, in the café of the Brown Palace in Denver. +He was traveling under the name of Bannerman, wore his hair in a +pomadour, and had grown a beard. + +Blake took the first train out of Chicago for Denver. In this latter +city an Elks' Convention was supplying blue-bird weather for +underground "haymakers," busy with bunco-steering, "rushing" +street-cars and "lifting leathers." Before the stampede at the news of +his approach, he picked up Biff Edwards and Lefty Stivers, put on the +screws, and learned nothing. He went next to Glory McShane, a Market +Street acquaintance indebted for certain old favors, and from her, too, +learned nothing of moment. He continued the quest in other quarters, +and the results were equally discouraging. + +Then began the real detective work about which, Blake knew, newspaper +stories were seldom written. This work involved a laborious and +monotonous examination of hotel registers, a canvassing of ticket +agencies and cab stands and transfer companies. It was anything but +story-book sleuthing. It was a dispiriting tread-mill round, but he +was still sifting doggedly through the tailings of possibilities when a +code-wire came from St. Louis, saying Binhart had been seen the day +before at the Planters' Hotel. + +Blake was eastbound on his way to St. Louis one hour after the receipt +of this wire. And an hour after his arrival in St. Louis he was +engaged in an apparently care free and leisurely game of pool with one +Loony Ryan, an old-time "box man" who was allowed to roam with a +clipped wing in the form of a suspended indictment. Loony, for the +liberty thus doled out to him, rewarded his benefactors by an +occasional indulgence in the "pigeon-act." + +"Draw for lead?" asked Blake, lighting a cigar. + +"Sure," said Loony. + +Blake pushed his ball to the top cushion, won the draw, and broke. + +"Seen anything of Wolf Yonkholm?" he casually inquired, as he turned to +chalk his cue. But his eye, with one quick sweep, had made sure of +every face in the room. + +Loony studied the balls for a second or two. Wolf was a "dip" with an +international record. + +"Last time I saw Wolf he was out at 'Frisco, workin' the Beaches," was +Loony's reply. + +Blake ventured an inquiry or two about other worthies of the +underworld. The players went on with their game, placid, self-immured, +matter-of-fact. + +"Where's Angel McGlory these days?" asked Blake, as he reached over to +place a ball. + +"What's she been doin'?" demanded Loony, with his cue on the rail. + +"She 's traveling with a bank sneak named Blanchard or Binhart," +explained Blake. "And I want her." + +Loony Ryan made his stroke. + +"Hep Roony saw Binhart this mornin', beatin' it for N' Orleans. But he +was n't travelin' wit' any moll that Hep spoke of." + +Blake made his shot, chalked his cue again, and glanced down at his +watch. His eyes were on the green baize, but his thoughts were +elsewhere. + +"I got 'o leave you, Loony," he announced as he put his cue back in the +rack. He spoke slowly and calmly. But Loony's quick gaze circled the +room, promptly checking over every face between the four walls. + +"What's up?" he demanded. "Who 'd you spot?" + +"Nothing, Loony, nothing! But this game o' yours blamed near made me +forget an appointment o' mine!" + +Twenty minutes after he had left the bewildered Loony Ryan in the pool +parlor he was in a New Orleans sleeper, southward bound. He knew that +he was getting within striking distance of Binhart, at last. The zest +of the chase took possession of him. The trail was no longer a "cold" +one. He knew which way Binhart was headed. And he knew he was not +more than a day behind his man. + + + + +V (b) + +The moment Blake arrived in New Orleans he shut himself in a telephone +booth, called up six somewhat startled acquaintances, learned nothing +to his advantage, and went quickly but quietly to the St. Charles. +There he closeted himself with two dependable "elbows," started his +detectives on a round of the hotels, and himself repaired to the Levee +district, where he held off-handed and ponderously facetious +conversations with certain unsavory characters. Then came a visit to +certain equally unsavory wharf-rats and a call or two on South Rampart +Street. But still no inkling of Binhart or his intended movements came +to the detective's ears. + +It was not until the next morning, as he stepped into Antoine's, on St. +Louis Street just off the Rue Royal, that anything of importance +occurred. The moment he entered that bare and cloistral restaurant +where Monsieur Jules could dish up such startling uncloistral dishes, +his eyes fell on Abe Sheiner, a drum snuffer with whom he had had +previous and somewhat painful encounters. Sheiner, it was plain to +see, was in clover, for he was breakfasting regally, on squares of +toast covered with shrimp and picked crab meat creamed, with a bisque +of cray-fish and _papa-bottes_ in ribbons of bacon, to say nothing of +fruit and _bruilleau_. + +Blake insisted on joining his old friend Sheiner, much to the tatter's +secret discomfiture. It was obvious that the drum snuffer, having made +a recent haul, would be amenable to persuasion. And, like all yeggs, +he was an upholder of the "moccasin telegraph," a wanderer and a +carrier of stray tidings as to the movements of others along the +undergrooves of the world. So while Blake breakfasted on shrimp and +crab meat and French artichokes stuffed with caviar and anchovies, he +intimated to the uneasy-minded Sheiner certain knowledge as to a +certain recent coup. In the face of this charge Sheiner indignantly +claimed that he had only been playing the ponies and having a run of +greenhorn's luck. + +"Abe, I 've come down to gather you in," announced the calmly +mendacious detective. He continued to sip his _bruilleau_ with +fraternal unconcern. + +"You got nothing _on_ me, Jim," protested the other, losing his taste +for the delicacies arrayed about him. + +"Well, we got 'o go down to Headquarters and talk that over," calmly +persisted Blake. + +"What's the use of pounding me, when I 'm on the square again?" +persisted the ex-drum snuffer. + +"That's the line o' talk they all hand out. That's what Connie Binhart +said when we had it out up in St. Louis." + +"Did you bump into Binhart in St. Louis?" + +"We had a talk, three days ago." + +"Then why 'd he blow through this town as though he had a regiment o' +bulls and singed cats behind him!" + +Blake's heart went down like an elevator with a broken cable. But he +gave no outward sign of this inward commotion. + +"Because he wants to get down to Colon before the Hamburg-American boat +hits the port," ventured Blake. "His moll's aboard!" + +"But he blew out for 'Frisco this morning," contended the puzzled +Sheiner. "Shot through as though he 'd just had a rumble!" + +"Oh, he _said_ that, but he went south, all right." + +"Then he went in an oyster sloop. There 's nothing sailing from this +port to-day." + +"Well, what's Binhart got to do with our trouble anyway? What I want--" + +"But I saw him start," persisted the other. "He ducked for a day coach +and said he was traveling for his health. And he sure looked like a +man in a hurry!" + +Blake sipped his bruilleau, glanced casually at his watch, and took out +a cigar and lighted it. He blinked contentedly across the table at the +man he was "buzzing." The trick had been turned. The word had been +given. He knew that Binhart was headed westward again. He also knew +that Binhart had awakened to the fact that he was being followed, that +his feverish movements were born of a stampeding fear of capture. + +Yet Binhart was not a coward. Flight, in fact, was his only resource. +It was only the low-brow criminal, Blake knew, who ran for a hole and +hid in it until he was dragged out. The more intellectual type of +offender preferred the open. And Binhart was of this type. He was +suave and artful; he was active bodied and experienced in the ways of +the world. What counted still more, he was well heeled with money. +Just how much he had planted away after the Newcomb coup no one knew. +But no one denied that it was a fortune. It was ten to one that +Binhart would now try to get out of the country. He would make his way +to some territory without an extradition treaty. He would look for a +land where he could live in peace, where his ill-gotten wealth would +make exile endurable. + +Blake, as he smoked his cigar and turned these thoughts over in his +mind, could afford to smile. There would be no peace and no rest for +Connie Binhart; he himself would see to that. And he would "get" his +man; whether it was in a week's time or a month's time, he would "get" +his man and take him back in triumph to New York. He would show +Copeland and the Commissioner and the world in general that there was +still a little life in the old dog, that there was still a haul or two +he could make. + +So engrossing were these thoughts that Blake scarcely heard the drum +snuffer across the table from him, protesting the innocence of his ways +and the purity of his intentions. Then for the second time that +morning Blake completely bewildered him, by suddenly accepting those +protestations and agreeing to let everything drop. It was necessary, +of course, to warn Sheiner, to exact a promise of better living. But +Blake's interest in the man had already departed. He dropped him from +his scheme of things, once he had yielded up his data. He tossed him +aside like a sucked orange, a smoked cigar, a burnt-out match. +Binhart, in all the movements of all the stellar system, was the one +name and the one man that interested him. + +Loony Sheiner was still sitting at that table in Antoine's when Blake, +having wired his messages to San Pedro and San Francisco, caught the +first train out of New Orleans. As he sped across the face of the +world, crawling nearer and nearer the Pacific Coast, no thought of the +magnitude of that journey oppressed him. His imagination remained +untouched. He neither fretted nor fumed at the time this travel was +taking. In spite of the electric fans at each end of his Pullman, it +is true, he suffered greatly from the heat, especially during the ride +across the Arizona Desert. He accepted it without complaint, stolidly +thanking his lucky stars that men were n't still traveling across +America's deserts by ox-team. He was glad when he reached the Colorado +River and wound up into California, leaving the alkali and sage brush +and yucca palms of the Mojave well behind him. He was glad in his +placid way when he reached his hotel in San Francisco and washed the +grit and grime from his heat-nettled body. + +But once that body had been bathed and fed, he started on his rounds of +the underworld, seined the entire harbor-front without effect, and then +set out his night-lines as cautiously as a fisherman in forbidden +waters. He did not overlook the shipping offices and railway stations, +neither did he neglect the hotels and ferries. Then he quietly lunched +at Martenelli's with the much-honored but most-uncomfortable Wolf +Yonkholm, who promptly suspended his "dip" operations at the Beaches +out of respect to Blake's sudden call. + +Nothing of moment, however, was learned from the startled Wolf, and at +Coppa's six hours later, Blake dined with a Chink-smuggler named Goldie +Hopper. Goldie, after his fifth glass of wine and an adroit decoying +of the talk along the channels which most interested his portly host, +casually announced that an Eastern crook named Blanchard had got away, +the day before, on the Pacific mail steamer _Manchuria_. He was clean +shaven and traveled as a clergyman. That struck Goldie as the height +of humor, a bank sneak having the nerve to deck himself out as a +gospel-spieler. + +His elucidation of it, however, brought no answering smile from the +diffident-eyed Blake, who confessed that he was rounding up a couple of +nickel-coiners and would be going East in a day or two. + +Instead of going East, however, he hurriedly consulted maps and +timetables, found a train that would land him in Portland in twenty-six +hours, and started north. He could eventually save time, he found, by +hastening on to Seattle and catching a Great Northern steamer from that +port. When a hot-box held his train up for over half an hour, Blake +stood with his timepiece in his hand, watching the train crew in their +efforts to "freeze the hub." They continued to lose time, during the +night. At Seattle, when he reached the Great Northern docks, he found +that his steamer had sailed two hours before he stepped from his +sleeper. + +His one remaining resource was a Canadian Pacific steamer from +Victoria. This, he figured out, would get him to Hong Kong even +earlier than the steamer which he had already missed. He had a hunch +that Hong Kong was the port he wanted. Just why, he could not explain. +But he felt sure that Binhart would not drop off at Manila. Once on +the run, he would keep out of American quarters. It was a gamble; it +was a rough guess. But then all life was that. And Blake had a dogged +and inarticulate faith in his "hunches." + +Crossing the Sound, he reached Victoria in time to see the _Empress of +China_ under way, and heading out to sea. Blake hired a tug and +overtook her. He reached the steamer's deck by means of a Jacob's +ladder that swung along her side plates like a mason's plumbline along +a factory wall. + +Binhart, he told himself, was by this time in mid-Pacific, untold miles +away, heading for that vast and mysterious East into which a man could +so easily disappear. He was approaching gloomy and tangled waterways +that threaded between islands which could not even be counted. He was +fleeing towards dark rivers which led off through barbaric and +mysterious silence, into the heart of darkness. He was drawing nearer +and nearer to those regions of mystery where a white man might be +swallowed up as easily as a rice grain is lost in a shore lagoon. He +would soon be in those teeming alien cities as under-burrowed as a +gopher village. + +But Blake did not despair. Their whole barbaric East, he told himself, +was only a Chinatown slum on a large scale. And he had never yet seen +the slum that remained forever impervious to the right dragnet. He did +not know how or where the end would be. But he knew there would be an +end. He still hugged to his bosom the placid conviction that the world +was small, that somewhere along the frontiers of watchfulness the +impact would be recorded and the alarm would be given. A man of +Binhart's type, with the money Binhart had, would never divorce himself +completely from civilization. He would always crave a white man's +world; he would always hunger for what that world stood for and +represented. He would always creep back to it. He might hide in his +heathen burrow, for a time; but there would be a limit to that exile. +A power stronger than his own will would drive him back to his own +land, back to civilization. And civilization, to Blake, was merely a +rather large and rambling house equipped with a rather efficient +burglar-alarm system, so that each time it was entered, early or late, +the tell-tale summons would eventually go to the right quarter. And +when the summons came Blake would be waiting for it. + + + + +VI + +It was by wireless that Blake made what efforts he could to confirm his +suspicions that Binhart had not dropped off at any port of call between +San Francisco and Hong Kong. In due time the reply came back to +"Bishop MacKishnie," on board the westbound _Empress of China_ that the +Reverend Caleb Simpson had safely landed from the _Manchuria_ at Hong +Kong, and was about to leave for the mission field in the interior. + +The so-called bishop, sitting in the wireless-room of the _Empress of +China_, with a lacerated black cigar between his teeth, received this +much relayed message with mixed feelings. He proceeded to send out +three Secret Service code-despatches to Shanghai, Amoy and Hong Kong, +which, being picked up by a German cruiser, were worried over and +argued over and finally referred back to an intelligence bureau for +explanation. + +But at Yokohama, Blake hurried ashore in a sampan, met an agent who +seemed to be awaiting him, and caught a train for Kobe. He hurried on, +indifferent to the beauties of the country through which he wound, +unimpressed by the oddities of the civilization with which he found +himself confronted. His mind, intent on one thing, seemed unable to +react to the stimuli of side-issues. From Kobe he caught a _Toyo Kisen +Kaisha_ steamer for Nagasaki and Shanghai. This steamer, he found, lay +over at the former port for thirteen hours, so he shifted again to an +outbound boat headed for Woosung. + +It was not until he was on the tender, making the hour-long run from +Woosung up the Whangpoo to Shanghai itself, that he seemed to emerge +from his half-cataleptic indifference to his environment. He began to +realize that he was at last in the Orient. + +As they wound up the river past sharp-nosed and round-hooded sampans, +and archaic Chinese battle-ships and sea-going junks and gunboats +flying their unknown foreign flags, Blake at last began to realize that +he was in a new world. The very air smelt exotic; the very colors, the +tints of the sails, the hues of clothing, the forms of things, land and +sky itself--all were different. This depressed him only vaguely. He +was too intent on the future, on the task before him, to give his +surroundings much thought. + +Blake had entirely shaken off this vague uneasiness, in fact, when +twenty minutes after landing he found himself in a red-brick hotel +known as The Astor, and guardedly shaking hands with an incredulously +thin and sallow-faced man of about forty. Although this man spoke with +an English accent and exile seemed to have foreigneered him in both +appearance and outlook, his knowledge of America was active and +intimate. He passed over to the detective two despatches in cipher, +handed him a confidential list of Hong Kong addresses, gave him certain +information as to Macao, and an hour later conducted him down the river +to the steamer which started that night for Hong Kong. + +As Blake trod that steamer's deck and plowed on through strange seas, +surrounded by strange faces, intent on his strange chase, no sense of +vast adventure entered his soul. No appreciation of a great hazard +bewildered his emotions. The kingdom of romance dwells in the heart, +in the heart roomy enough to house it. And Blake's heart was taken up +with more material things. He was preoccupied with his new list of +addresses, with his new lines of procedure, with the men he must +interview and the dives and clubs and bazars he must visit. He had his +day's work to do, and he intended to do it. + +The result was that of Hong Kong he carried away no immediate personal +impression, beyond a vague jumble, in the background of consciousness, +of Buddhist temples and British red-jackets, of stately parks and +granite buildings, of mixed nationalities and native theaters, of +anchored warships and a floating city of houseboats. For it was the +same hour that he landed in this orderly and strangely English city +that the discovery he was drawing close to Binhart again swept clean +the slate of his emotions. The response had come from a consulate +secretary. One wire in all his sentinel network had proved a live one. +Binhart was not in Hong Kong, but he had been seen in Macao; he was +known to be still there. And beyond that there was little that +Never-Fail Blake cared to know. + +His one side-movement in Hong Kong was to purchase an American +revolver, for it began to percolate even through his indurated +sensibilities that he was at last in a land where his name might not be +sufficiently respected and his office sufficiently honored. For the +first time in seven long years he packed a gun, he condescended to go +heeled. Yet no minutest tingle of excitement spread through his +lethargic body as he examined this gun, carefully loaded it, and stowed +it away in his wallet-pocket. It meant no more to him than the stowing +away of a sandwich against the emergency of a possible lost meal. + + + + +VII + +By the time he was on the noon boat that left for Macao, Blake had +quite forgotten about the revolver. As he steamed southward over +smooth seas, threading a way through boulder-strewn islands and +skirting mountainous cliffs, his movements seemed to take on a sense of +finality. He stood at the rail, watching the hazy blue islands, the +forests of fishing-boats and high-pooped junks floating lazily at +anchor, the indolent figures which he could catch glimpses of on deck, +the green waters of the China Sea. He watched them with intent, yet +abstracted, eyes. Some echo of the witchery of those Eastern waters at +times penetrated his own preoccupied soul. A vague sense of his +remoteness from his old life at last crept in to him. + +He thought of the watching green lights that were flaring up, dusk by +dusk, in the shrill New York night, the lamps of the precinct stations, +the lamps of Headquarters, where the great building was full of moving +feet and shifting faces, where telephones were ringing and detectives +were coming and going, and policemen in uniform were passing up and +down the great stone steps, clean-cut, ruddy-faced, strong-limbed +policemen, talking and laughing as they started out on their night +details. He could follow them as they went, those confident-striding +"flatties" with their ash night-sticks at their side, soldiers without +bugles or banner, going out to do the goodly tasks of the Law, soldiers +of whom he was once the leader, the pride, the man to whom they pointed +as the Vidoc of America. + +And he would go back to them as great as ever. He would again compel +their admiration. The newspaper boys would again come filing into his +office and shake hands with him and smoke his cigars and ask how much +he could tell them about his last haul. And he would recount to them +how he shadowed Binhart half way round the world, and gathered him in, +and brought him back to Justice. + +It was three o'clock in the afternoon when Blake's steamer drew near +Macao. Against a background of dim blue hills he could make out the +green and blue and white of the houses in the Portuguese quarters, +guarded on one side by a lighthouse and on the other by a stolid square +fort. Swinging around a sharp point, the boat entered the inner +harbor, crowded with Chinese craft and coasters and dingy tramps of the +sea. + +Blake seemed in no hurry to disembark. The sampan into which he +stepped, in fact, did not creep up to the shore until evening. There, +ignoring the rickshaw coolies who awaited him as he passed an +obnoxiously officious trio of customs officers, he disappeared up one +of the narrow and slippery side streets of the Chinese quarter. + +He followed this street for some distance, assailed by the smell of its +mud and rotting sewerage, twisting and turning deeper into the +darkness, past dogs and chattering coolies and oil lamps and +gaming-house doors. Into one of these gaming houses he turned, passing +through the blackwood sliding door and climbing the narrow stairway to +the floor above. There, from a small quadrangular gallery, he could +look down on the "well" of the fan-tan lay out below. + +He made his way to a seat at the rail, took out a cigar, lighted it, +and let his veiled gaze wander about the place, point by point, until +he had inspected and weighed and appraised every man in the building. +He continued to smoke, listlessly, like a sightseer with time on his +hands and in no mood for movement. The brim of his black boulder +shadowed his eyes. His thumbs rested carelessly in the arm-holes of +his waistcoat. He lounged back torpidly, listening to the drone and +clatter of voices below, lazily inspecting each newcomer, pretending to +drop off into a doze of ennui. But all the while he was most acutely +awake. + +For somewhere in that gathering, he knew, there was a messenger +awaiting him. Whether he was English or Portuguese, white or yellow, +Blake could not say. But from some one there some word or signal was +to come. + +He peered down at the few white men in the pit below. He watched the +man at the head of the carved blackwood table, beside his heap of brass +"cash," watched him again and again as he took up his handful of coins, +covered them with a brass hat while the betting began, removed the hat, +and seemed to be dividing the pile, with the wand in his hand, into +fours. The last number of the last four, apparently, was the object of +the wagers. + +Blake could not understand the game. It puzzled him, just as the +yellow men so stoically playing it puzzled him, just as the entire +country puzzled him. Yet, obtuse as he was, he felt the gulf of +centuries that divided the two races. These yellow men about him +seemed as far away from his humanity, as detached from his manner of +life and thought, as were the animals he sometimes stared at through +the bars of the Bronx Zoo cages. + +A white man would have to be pretty far gone, Blake decided, to fall +into their ways, to be satisfied with the life of those yellow men. He +would have to be a terrible failure, or he would have to be hounded by +a terrible fear, to live out his life so far away from his own kind. +And he felt now that Binhart could never do it, that a life sentence +there would be worse than a life sentence to "stir." So he took +another cigar, lighted it, and sat back watching the faces about him. + +For no apparent reason, and at no decipherable sign, one of the yellow +faces across the smoke-filled room detached itself from its fellows. +This face showed no curiosity, no haste. Blake watched it as it calmly +approached him. He watched until he felt a finger against his arm. + +"You clum b'long me," was the enigmatic message uttered in the +detective's ear. + +"Why should I go along with you?" Blake calmly inquired. + +"You clum b'long me," reiterated the Chinaman. The finger again +touched the detective's arm. "Clismas!" + +Blake rose, at once. He recognized the code word of "Christmas." This +was the messenger he had been awaiting. + +He followed the figure down the narrow stairway, through the sliding +door, out into the many-odored street, foul with refuse, bisected by +its open sewer of filth, took a turning into a still narrower street, +climbed a precipitous hill cobbled with stone, turned still again, +always overshadowed and hemmed in by tall houses close together, with +black-beamed lattice doors through which he could catch glimpses of +gloomy interiors. He turned again down a wooden-walled hallway that +reminded him of a Mott Street burrow. When the Chinaman touched him on +the sleeve he came to a stop. + +His guide was pointing to a closed door in front of them. + +"You sabby?" he demanded. + +Blake hesitated. He had no idea of what was behind that door, but he +gathered from the Chinaman's motion that he was to enter. Before he +could turn to make further inquiry the Chinaman had slipped away like a +shadow. + + + + +VIII + +Blake stood regarding the door. The he lifted his revolver from his +breast pocket and dropped it into his side pocket, with his hand on the +butt. Then with his left hand he quietly opened the door, pushed it +back, and as quietly stepped into the room. + +On the floor, in the center of a square of orange-colored matting, he +saw a white woman sitting. She was drinking tea out of an egg-shell of +a cup, and after putting down the cup she would carefully massage her +lips with the point of her little finger. This movement puzzled the +newcomer until he suddenly realized that it was merely to redistribute +the rouge on them. + +She was dressed in a silk petticoat of almost lemon yellow and an +azure-colored silk bodice that left her arms and shoulders bare to the +light that played on them from three small oil lamps above her. Her +feet and ankles were also bare, except for the matting sandals into +which her toes were thrust. On one thin arm glimmered an +extraordinarily heavy bracelet of gold. Her skin, which was very +white, was further albificated by a coat of rice powder. She was +startlingly slight. Blake, as he watched her, could see the oval +shadows under her collar bones and the almost girlish meagerness of +breast half-covered by the azure silk bodice. + +She looked up slowly as Blake stepped into the room. Her eyes widened, +and she continued to look, with parted lips, as she contemplated the +intruder's heavy figure. There was no touch of fear on her face. It +was more curiosity, the wilful, wide-eyed curiosity of the child. She +even laughed a little as she stared at the intruder. Her rouged lips +were tinted a carmine so bright that they looked like a wound across +her white face. That gash of color became almost clown-like as it +crescented upward with its wayward mirth. Her eyebrows were heavily +penciled and the lids of the eyes elongated by a widening point of blue +paint. Her bare heel, which she caressed from time to time with +fingers whereon the nails were stained pink with henna, was small and +clean cut, as clean cut, Blake noticed, as the heel of a razor, while +the white calf above it was as thin and flat as a boy's. + +"Hello, New York," she said with her foolish and inconsequential little +laugh. Her voice took on an oddly exotic intonation, as she spoke. +Her teeth were small and white; they reminded Blake of rice, while she +repeated the "New York," bubblingly, as though she were a child with a +newly learned word. + +"Hello!" responded the detective, wondering how or where to begin. She +made him think of a painted marionette, so maintained were her poses, +so unreal was her make up. + +"You 're the party who 's on the man hunt," she announced. + +"Am I?" equivocated Blake. She had risen to her feet by this time, +with monkey-like agility, and showed herself to be much taller than he +had imagined. He noticed a knife scar on her forearm. + +"You 're after this man called Binhart," she declared. + +"Oh, no, I 'm not," was Blake's sagacious response. "I don't want +Binhart!" + +"Then what do you want?" + +"I want the money he 's got." + +The little painted face grew serious; then it became veiled. + +"How much money has he?" + +"That's what I want to find out!" + +She squatted ruminatively down on the edge of her divan. It was low +and wide and covered with orange-colored silk. + +"Then you'll have to find Binhart!" was her next announcement. + +"Maybe!" acknowledged Blake. + +"I can show you where he is!" + +"All right," was the unperturbed response. The blue-painted eyes were +studying him. + +"It will be worth four thousand pounds, in English gold," she announced. + +Blake took a step or two nearer her. + +"Is that the message Ottenheim told you to give me?" he demanded. His +face was red with anger. + +"Then three thousand pounds," she calmly suggested, wriggling her toes +into a fallen sandal. + +Blake did not deign to speak. His inarticulate grunt was one of +disgust. + +"Then a thousand, in gold," she coyly intimated. She twisted about to +pull the strap of her bodice up over her white shoulder-blades. "Or I +will kill him for you for two thousand pounds in gold!" + +Her eyes were as tranquil as a child's. Blake remembered that he was +in a world not his own. + +"Why should I want him killed?" he inquired. He looked about for some +place to sit. There was not a chair in the room. + +"Because he intends to kill _you_," answered the woman, squatting on +the orange-covered divan. + +"I wish he 'd come and try," Blake devoutly retorted. + +"He will not come," she told him. "It will be done from the dark. _I_ +could have done it. But Ottenheim said no." + +"And Ottenheim said you were to work with me in this," declared Blake, +putting two and two together. + +The woman shrugged a white shoulder. + +"Have you any money?" she asked. She put the question with the +artlessness of a child. + +"Mighty little," retorted Blake, still studying the woman from where he +stood. He was wondering if Ottenheim had the same hold on her that the +authorities had on Ottenheim, the ex-forger who enjoyed his parole only +on condition that he remain a stool-pigeon of the high seas. He +pondered what force he could bring to bear on her, what power could +squeeze from those carmine and childish lips the information he must +have. + +He knew that he could break that slim body of hers across his knee. +But he also knew that he had no way of crushing out of it the truth he +sought, the truth he must in some way obtain. The woman still squatted +on the divan, peering down at the knife scar on her arm from time to +time, studying it, as though it were an inscription. + +Blake was still watching the woman when the door behind him was slowly +opened; a head was thrust in, and as quietly withdrawn again. Blake +dropped his right hand to his coat pocket and moved further along the +wall, facing the woman. There was nothing of which he stood afraid: he +merely wished to be on the safe side. + +"Well, what word 'll I take back to Ottenheim?" he demanded. + +The woman grew serious. Then she showed her rice-like row of teeth as +she laughed. + +"That means there 's nothing in it for me," she complained with +pouting-lipped moroseness. Her venality, he began to see, was merely +the instinctive acquisitiveness of the savage, the greed of the petted +child. + +"No more than there is for me," Blake acknowledged. She turned and +caught up a heavily flowered mandarin coat of plaited cream and gold. +She was thrusting one arm into it when a figure drifted into the room +from the matting-hung doorway on Blake's left. As she saw this figure +she suddenly flung off the coat and stooped to the tea tray in the +middle of the floor. + +Blake saw that the newcomer was a Chinaman. This newcomer, he also +saw, ignored him as though he were a door post, confronting the woman +and assailing her with a quick volley of words, of incomprehensible +words in the native tongue. She answered with the same clutter and +clack of unknown syllables, growing more and more excited as the +dialogue continued. Her thin face darkened and changed, her white arms +gyrated, the fires of anger burned in the baby-like eyes. She seemed +expostulating, arguing, denouncing, and each wordy sally was met by an +equally wordy sally from the Chinaman. She challenged and rebuked with +her passionately pointed finger; she threatened with angry eyes; she +stormed after the newcomer as he passed like a shadow out of the room; +she met him with a renewed storm when he returned a moment later. + +The Chinaman now stood watching her, impassive and immobile, as though +he had taken his stand and intended to stick to it. Blake studied him +with calm and patient eyes. That huge-limbed detective in his day had +"pounded" too many Christy Street Chinks to be in any way intimidated +by a queue and a yellow face. He was not disturbed. He was merely +puzzled. + +Then the woman turned to the mandarin coat, and caught it up, shook it +out, and for one brief moment stood thoughtfully regarding it. Then +she suddenly turned about on the Chinaman. + +Blake, as he stood watching that renewed angry onslaught, paid little +attention to the actual words that she was calling out. But as he +stood there he began to realize that she was not speaking in Chinese, +but in English. + +"Do you hear me, white man? Do you hear me?" she cried out, over and +over again. Yet the words seemed foolish, for all the time as she +uttered them, she was facing the placid-eyed Chinaman and gesticulating +in his face. + +"Don't you see," Blake at last heard her crying, "he doesn't know what +I'm saying! He doesn't understand a word of English!" And then, and +then only, it dawned on Blake that every word the woman was uttering +was intended for his own ears. She was warning him, and all the while +pretending that her words were the impetuous words of anger. + +"Watch this man!" he heard her cry. "Don't let him know you 're +listening. But remember what I say, remember it. And God help you if +you haven't got a gun." + +Blake could see her, as in a dream, assailing the Chinaman with her +gestures, advancing on him, threatening him, expostulating with him, +but all in pantomime. There was something absurd about it, as absurd +as a moving-picture film which carries the wrong text. + +"He 'll pretend to take you to the man you want," the woman was +panting. "That's what he will say. But it's a lie. He 'll take you +out to a sampan, to put you aboard Binhart's boat. But the three of +them will cut your throat, cut your throat, and then drop you +overboard. He 's to get so much in gold. Get out of here with him. +Let him think you 're going. But drop away, somewhere, before you get +to the beach. And watch them all the way." + +Blake stared at the immobile Chinaman, as though to make sure that the +other man had not understood. He was still staring at that impassive +yellow face, he was still absorbing the shock of his news, when the +outer door opened and a second Chinaman stepped into the room. The +newcomer cluttered a quick sentence or two to his countryman, and was +still talking when a third figure sidled in. + +Those spoken words, whatever they were, seemed to have little effect on +any one in the room except the woman. She suddenly sprang about and +exploded into an angry shower of denials. + +"It's a lie!" she cried in English, storming about the impassive trio. +"You never heard me peach! You never heard me say a word! It's a lie!" + +Blake strode to the middle of the room, towering above the other +figures, dwarfing them by his great bulk, as assured of his mastery as +he would have been in a Chatham Square gang fight. + +"What's the row here?" he thundered, knowing from the past that power +promptly won its own respect. "What 're you talking about, you two?" +He turned from one intruder to another. "And you? And you? What do +you want, anyway?" + +The three contending figures, however, ignored him as though he were a +tobacconist's dummy. They went on with their exotic cackle, as though +he was no longer in their midst. They did not so much as turn an eye +in his direction. And still Blake felt reasonably sure of his position. + +It was not until the woman squeaked, like a frightened mouse, and ran +whimpering into the corner of the room, that he realized what was +happening. He was not familiar with the wrist movement by which the +smallest bodied of the three men was producing a knife from his sleeve. +The woman, however, had understood from the first. + +"White man, look out!" she half sobbed from her corner. "Oh, white +man!" she repeated in a shriller note as the Chinaman, bending low, +scuttled across the room to the corner where she cowered. + +Blake saw the knife by this time. It was thin and long, for all the +world like an icicle, a shaft of cutting steel ground incredibly thin, +so thin, in fact, that at first sight it looked more like a point for +stabbing than a blade for cutting. + +The mere glitter of that knife electrified the staring white man into +sudden action. He swung about and tried to catch at the arm that held +the steel icicle. He was too late for that, but his fingers closed on +the braided queue. By means of this queue he brought the Chinaman up +short, swinging him sharply about so that he collided flat faced with +the room wall. + +Then, for the first time, Blake grew into a comprehension of what +surrounded him. He wheeled about, stooped and caught up the +papier-mâché tea-tray from the floor and once more stood with his back +to the wall. He stood there, on guard, for a second figure with a +second steel icicle was sidling up to him. He swung viciously out and +brought the tea-tray down on the hand that held this knife, crippling +the fingers and sending the steel spinning across the room. Then with +his free hand he tugged the revolver from his coat pocket, holding it +by the barrel and bringing the metal butt down on the queue-wound head +of the third man, who had no knife, but was struggling with the woman +for the metal icicle she had caught up from the floor. + +Then the five seemed to close in together, and the fight became +general. It became a mêlée. With his swinging right arm Blake +battered and pounded with his revolver butt. With his left hand he +made cutting strokes with the heavy papier-mâché tea-tray, keeping +their steel, by those fierce sweeps, away from his body. One Chinaman +he sent sprawling, leaving him huddled and motionless against the +orange-covered divan. The second, stunned by a blow of the tea-tray +across the eyes, could offer no resistance when Blake's smashing right +dealt its blow, the metal gun butt falling like a trip hammer on the +shaved and polished skull. + +As the white man swung about he saw the third Chinaman with his hand on +the woman's throat, holding her flat against the wall, placing her +there as a butcher might place a fowl on his block ready for the blow +of his carver. Blake stared at the movement, panting for breath, +overcome by that momentary indifference wherein a winded athlete +permits without protest an adversary to gain his momentary advantage. +Then will triumphed over the weakness of the body. But before Blake +could get to the woman's side he saw the Chinaman's loose-sleeved right +hand slowly and deliberately ascend. As it reached the meridian of its +circular upsweep he could see the woman rise on her toes, rise as +though with some quick effort, yet some effort which Blake could not +understand. + +At the same moment that she did so a look of pained expostulation crept +into the staring slant eyes on a level with her own. The yellow jaw +gaped, filled with blood, and the poised knife fell at his side, +sticking point down in the flooring. The azure and lemon-yellow that +covered the woman's body flamed into sudden scarlet. It was only as +the figure with the expostulating yellow face sank to the ground, +crumpling up on itself as it fell, that Blake comprehended. That quick +sweep of scarlet, effacing the azure and lemon, had come from the +sudden deluge of blood that burst over the woman's body. She had made +use of the upstroke, Mexican style. Her knife had cut the full length +of the man's abdominal cavity, clean and straight to the breastbone. +He had been ripped up like a herring. + +Blake panted and wheezed, not at the sight of the blood, but at the +exertion to which his flabby muscles had been put. His body was moist +with sweat. His asthmatic throat seemed stifling his lungs. A faint +nausea crept through him, a dim ventral revolt at the thought that such +things could take place so easily, and with so little warning. + +His breast still heaved and panted and he was still fighting for breath +when he saw the woman stoop and wipe the knife on one of the fallen +Chinaman's sleeves. + +"We 've got to get out of here!" she whimpered, as she caught up the +mandarin coat and flung it over her shoulders, for in the struggle her +body had been bared almost to the waist. Blake saw the crimson that +dripped on her matting slippers and maculated the cream white of the +mandarin coat. + +"But where's Binhart?" he demanded, as he looked stolidly about for his +black boulder. + +"Never mind Binhart," she cried, touching the eviscerated body at her +feet with one slipper toe, "or we 'll get what _he_ got!" + +"I want that man Binhart!" persisted the detective. + +"Not here! Not here!" she cried, folding the loose folds of the cloak +closer about her body. + +She ran to the matting curtain, looked out, and called back, "Quick! +Come quick!" Then she ran back, slipped the bolt in the outer door and +rejoined the waiting detective. + +"Oh, white man!" she gasped, as the matting fell between them and the +room incarnadined by their struggle. Blake was not sure, but he +thought he heard her giggle, hysterically, in the darkness. They were +groping their way along a narrow passage. They slipped through a +second door, closed and locked it after them, and once more groped on +through the darkness. + +How many turns they took, Blake could not remember. She stopped and +whispered to him to go softly, as they came to a stairway, as steep and +dark as a cistern. Blake, at the top, could smell opium smoke, and +once or twice he thought he heard voices. The woman stopped him, with +outstretched arms, at the stair head, and together they stood and +listened. + +Blake, with nerves taut, waited for some sign from her to go on again. +He thought she was giving it, when he felt a hand caress his side. He +felt it move upward, exploringly. At the same time that he heard her +little groan of alarm he knew that the hand was not hers. + +He could not tell what the darkness held, but his movement was almost +instinctive. He swung out with his great arm, countered on the +crouching form in front of him, caught at a writhing shoulder, and +tightening his grip, sent the body catapulting down the stairway at his +side. He could hear a revolver go off as the body went tumbling and +rolling down--Blake knew that it was a gun not his own. + +"Come on, white man!" the girl in front of him was crying, as she +tugged at his coat. And they went on, now at a run, taking a turn to +the right, making a second descent, and then another to the left. They +came to still another door, which they locked behind them. Then they +scrambled up a ladder, and he could hear her quick hands padding about +in the dark. A moment later she had thrust up a hatch. He saw it led +to the open air, for the stars were above them. + +He felt grateful for that open air, for the coolness, for the sense of +deliverance which came with even that comparative freedom. + +"Don't stop!" she whispered. And he followed her across the slant of +the uneven roof. He was weak for want of breath. The girl had to +catch him and hold him for a moment. + +"On the next roof you must take off your shoes," she warned him. "You +can rest then. But hurry--hurry!" + +He gulped down the fresh air as he tore at his shoe laces, thrusting +each shoe in a side pocket as he started after her. For by this time +she was scrambling across the broken sloping roofs, as quick and agile +as a cat, dropping over ledges, climbing up barriers and across coping +tiles. Where she was leading him he had no remotest idea. She +reminded him of a cream-tinted monkey in the maddest of steeplechases. +He was glad when she came to a stop. + +The town seemed to lay to their right. Before them were the scattered +lights of the harbor and the mild crescent of the outer bay. They +could see the white wheeling finger of some foreign gunboat as its +searchlight played back and forth in the darkness. + +She sighed with weariness and dropped cross-legged down on the coping +tiles against which he leaned, regaining his breath. She squatted +there, cooingly, like a child exhausted with its evening games. + +"I 'm dished!" she murmured, as she sat there breathing audibly through +the darkness. "I 'm dished for this coast!" + +He sat down beside her, staring at the search-light. There seemed +something reassuring, something authoritative and comforting, in the +thought of it watching there in the darkness. + +The girl touched him on the knee and then shifted her position on the +coping tiles, without rising to her feet. + +"Come here!" she commanded. And when he was close beside her she +pointed with her thin white arm. "That's Saint Poalo there--you can +just make it out, up high, see. And those lights are the Boundary +Gate. And this sweep of lights below here is the _Praya_. Now look +where I 'm pointing. That's the Luiz Camoes lodging-house. You see +the second window with the light in it?" + +"Yes, I see it." + +"Well, Binhart 's inside that window." + +"You know it?" + +"I know it." + +"So he 's there?" said Blake, staring at the vague square of light. + +"Yes, he's there, all right. He's posing as a buyer for a tea house, +and calls himself Bradley. Lee Fu told me; and Lee Fu is always right." + +She stood up and pulled the mandarin coat closer about her thin body. +The coolness of the night air had already chilled her. Then she +squinted carefully about in the darkness. + +"What are you going to do?" she asked. + +"I 'm going to get Binhart," was Blake's answer. + +He could hear her little childlike murmur of laughter. + +"You 're brave, white man," she said, with a hand on his arm. She was +silent for a moment, before she added; "And I think you 'll get him." + +"Of course I 'll get him," retorted Blake, buttoning his coat. The +fires had been relighted on the cold hearth of his resolution. It came +to him only as an accidental after-thought that he had met an unknown +woman and had passed through strange adventures with her and was now +about to pass out of her life again, forever. + +"What 'll you do?" he asked. + +Again he heard the careless little laugh. + +"Oh, I 'll slip down through the Quarter and cop some clothes +somewhere. Then I 'll have a sampan take me out to the German boat. +It 'll start for Canton at daylight." + +"And then?" asked Blake, watching the window of the Luiz Camoes +lodging-house below him. + +"Then I 'll work my way up to Port Arthur, I suppose. There 's a navy +man there who 'll help me!" + +"Have n't you any money?" Blake put the question a little uneasily. + +Again he felt the careless coo of laughter. + +"Feel!" she said. She caught his huge hand between hers and pressed it +against her waist line. She rubbed his fingers along what he accepted +as a tightly packed coin-belt. He was relieved to think that he would +not have to offer her money. Then he peered over the coping tiles to +make sure of his means of descent. + +"You had better go first," she said, as she leaned out and looked down +at his side. "Crawl down this next roof to the end there. At the +corner, see, is the end of the ladder." + +He stooped and slipped his feet into his shoes. Then he let himself +cautiously down to the adjoining roof, steeper even than the one on +which they had stood. She bent low over the tiles, so that her face +was very close to his as he found his footing and stood there. + +"Good-by, white man," she whispered. + +"Good-by!" he whispered back, as he worked his way cautiously and +ponderously along that perilous slope. + +She leaned there, watching him as he gained the ladder-end. He did not +look back as he lowered himself, rung by rung. All thought of her, in +fact, had passed from his preoccupied mind. He was once more intent on +his own grim ends. He was debating with himself just how he was to get +in through that lodging-house window and what his final move would be +for the round up of his enemy. He had made use of too many "molls" in +his time to waste useless thought on what they might say or do or +desire. When he had got Binhart, he remembered, he would have to look +about for something to eat, for he was as hungry as a wolf. And he did +not even hear the girl's second soft whisper of "Good-by." + + + + +IX + +That stolid practicality which had made Blake a successful operative +asserted itself in the matter of his approach to the Luiz Camoes house, +the house which had been pointed out to him as holding Binhart. + +He circled promptly about to the front of that house, pressed a gold +coin in the hand of the half-caste Portuguese servant who opened the +door, and asked to be shown to the room of the English tea merchant. + +That servant, had he objected, would have been promptly taken +possession of by the detective, and as promptly put in a condition +where he could do no harm, for Blake felt that he was too near the end +of his trail to be put off by any mere side issue. But the coin and +the curt explanation that the merchant must be seen at once admitted +Blake to the house. + +The servant was leading him down the length of the half-lit hall when +Blake caught him by the sleeve. + +"You tell my rickshaw boy to wait! Quick, before he gets away!" + +Blake knew that the last door would be the one leading to Binhart's +room. The moment he was alone in the hall he tiptoed to this door and +pressed an ear against its panel. Then with his left hand, he slowly +turned the knob, caressing it with his fingers that it might not click +when the latch was released. As he had feared, it was locked. + +He stood for a second or two, thinking. Then with the knuckle of one +finger he tapped on the door, lightly, almost timidly. + +A man's voice from within, cried out, "Wait a minute! Wait a minute!" +But Blake, who had been examining the woodwork of the door-frame, did +not choose to wait a minute. Any such wait, he felt, would involve too +much risk. In one minute, he knew, a fugitive could either be off and +away, or could at least prepare himself for any one intercepting that +flight. So Blake took two quick steps back, and brought his massive +shoulder against the door. It swung back, as though nothing more than +a parlor match had held it shut. Blake, as he stepped into the room, +dropped his right hand to his coat pocket. + +Facing him, at the far side of the room, he saw Binhart. + +The fugitive sat in a short-legged reed chair, with a grip-sack open on +his knees. His coat and vest were off, and the light from the oil lamp +at his side made his linen shirt a blotch of white. + +He had thrown his head up, at the sound of the opening door, and he +still sat, leaning forward in the low chair in an attitude of startled +expectancy. There was no outward and apparent change on his face as +his eyes fell on Blake's figure. He showed neither fear nor +bewilderment. His career had equipped him with histrionic powers that +were exceptional. As a bank-sneak and confidence-man he had long since +learned perfect control of his features, perfect composure even under +the most discomforting circumstances. + +"Hello, Connie!" said the detective facing him. He spoke quietly, and +his attitude seemed one of unconcern. Yet a careful observer might +have noticed that the pulse of his beefy neck was beating faster than +usual. And over that great body, under its clothing, were rippling +tremors strangely like those that shake the body of a leashed bulldog +at the sight of a street cat. + +"Hello, Jim!" answered Binhart, with equal composure. He had aged +since Blake had last seen him, aged incredibly. His face was thin now, +with plum-colored circles under the faded eyes. + +He made a move as though to lift down the valise that rested on his +knees. But Blake stopped him with a sharp movement of his right hand. + +"That's all right," he said. "Don't get up!" + +Binhart eyed him. During that few seconds of silent tableau each man +was appraising, weighing, estimating the strength of the other. + +"What do you want, Jim?" asked Binhart, almost querulously. + +"I want that gun you 've got up there under your liver pad," was +Blake's impassive answer. + +"Is that all?" asked Binhart. But he made no move to produce the gun. + +"Then I want you," calmly announced Blake. + +A look of gentle expostulation crept over Binhart's gaunt face. + +"You can't do it, Jim," he announced. "You can't take me away from +here." + +"But I'm going to," retorted Blake. + +"How?" + +"I 'm just going to take you." + +He crossed the room as he spoke. + +"Give me the gun," he commanded. + +Binhart still sat in the low reed chair. He made no movement in +response to Blake's command. + +"What's the good of getting rough-house," he complained. + +"Gi' me the gun," repeated Blake. + +"Jim, I hate to see you act this way," but as Binhart spoke he slowly +drew the revolver from its flapped pocket. Blake's revolver barrel was +touching the white shirt-front as the movement was made. It remained +there until he had possession of Binhart's gun. Then he backed away, +putting his own revolver back in his pocket. + +"Now, get your clothes on," commanded Blake. + +"What for?" temporized Binhart. + +"You 're coming with me!" + +"You can't do it, Jim," persisted the other. "You could n't get me +down to the waterfront, in this town. They 'd get you before you were +two hundred yards away from that door." + +"I 'll risk it," announced the detective. + +"And I 'd fight you myself, every move. This ain't Manhattan Borough, +you know, Jim; you can't kidnap a white man. I 'd have you in irons +for abduction the first ship we struck. And at the first port of call +I 'd have the best law sharps money could get. You can't do it, Jim. +It ain't law!" + +"What t' hell do I care for law," was Blake's retort. "I want you and +you 're going to come with me." + +"Where am I going?" + +"Back to New York." + +Binhart laughed. It was a laugh without any mirth in it. + +"Jim, you 're foolish. You could n't get me back to New York alive, +any more than you could take Victoria Peak to New York!" + +"All right, then, I 'll take you along the other way, if I ain't going +to take you alive. I 've followed you a good many thousand miles, +Connie, and a little loose talk ain't going to make me lie down at this +stage of the game." + +Binhart sat studying the other man for a moment or two. + +"Then how about a little real talk, the kind of talk that money makes?" + +"Nothing doing!" declared Blake, folding his arms. + +Binhart flickered a glance at him as he thrust his own right hand down +into the hand-bag on his knees. + +"I want to show you what you could get out of this," he said, leaning +forward a little as he looked up at Blake. + +When his exploring right hand was lifted again above the top of the bag +Blake firmly expected to see papers of some sort between its fingers. +He was astonished to see something metallic, something which glittered +bright in the light from the wall lamp. The record of this discovery +had scarcely been carried back to his brain, when the silence of the +room seemed to explode into a white sting, a puff of noise that felt +like a whip lash curling about Blake's leg. It seemed to roll off in a +shifting and drifting cloud of smoke. + +It so amazed Blake that he fell back against the wall, trying to +comprehend it, to decipher the source and meaning of it all. He was +still huddled back against the wall when a second surprise came to him. +It was the discovery that Binhart had caught up a hat and a coat, and +was running away, running out through the door while his captor stared +after him. + +It was only then Blake realized that his huddled position was not a +thing of his own volition. Some impact had thrown him against the wall +like a toppled nine-pin. The truth came to him, in a sudden flash; +Binhart had shot at him. There had been a second revolver hidden away +in the hand bag, and Binhart had attempted to make use of it. + +A great rage against Binhart swept through him. A still greater rage +at the thought that his enemy was running away brought Blake lurching +and scrambling to his feet. He was a little startled to find that it +hurt him to run. But it hurt him more to think of losing Binhart. + +He dove for the door, hurling his great bulk through it, tossing aside +the startled Portuguese servant who stood at the outer entrance. He +ran frenziedly out into the night, knowing by the staring faces of the +street-corner group that Binhart had made the first turning and was +running towards the water-front. He could see the fugitive, as he came +to the corner; and like an unpenned bull he swung about and made after +him. His one thought was to capture his man. His one obsession was to +haul down Binhart. + +Then, as he ran, a small trouble insinuated itself into his mind. He +could not understand the swishing of his right boot, at every hurrying +stride. But he did not stop, for he could already smell the odorous +coolness of the waterfront and he knew he must close in on his man +before that forest of floating sampans and native house-boats swallowed +him up. + +A lightheadedness crept over him as he came panting down to the water's +edge. The faces of the coolies about him, as he bargained for a +sampan, seemed far away and misty. The voices, as the flat-bottomed +little skiff was pushed off in pursuit of the boat which was hurrying +Binhart out into the night, seemed remote and thin, as though coming +from across foggy water. He was bewildered by a sense of dampness in +his right leg. He patted it with his hand, inquisitively, and found it +wet. + +He stooped down and felt his boot. It was full of blood. It was +overrunning with blood. He remembered then. Binhart had shot him, +after all. + +He could never say whether it was this discovery, or the actual loss of +blood, that filled him with a sudden giddiness. He fell forward on his +face, on the bottom of the rocking sampan. + +He must have been unconscious for some time, for when he awakened he +was dimly aware that he was being carried up the landing-ladder of a +steamer. He heard English voices about him. A very youthful-looking +ship's surgeon came and bent over him, cut away his trouser-leg, and +whistled. + +"Why, he 's been bleeding like a stuck pig!" he heard a startled voice, +very close to him, suddenly exclaim. And a few minutes later, after +being moved again, he opened his eyes to find himself in a berth and +the boyish-looking surgeon assuring him it was all right. + +"Where's Binhart?" asked Blake. + +"That's all right, old chap, you just rest up a bit," said the +placatory youth. + +At nine the next morning Blake was taken ashore at Hong Kong. + +After eleven days in the English hospital he was on his feet again. He +was quite strong by that time. But for several weeks after that his +leg was painfully stiff. + + + + +X + +Twelve days later Blake began just where he had left off. He sent out +his feelers, he canvassed the offices from which some echo might come, +he had Macao searched and all westbound steamers which he could reach +by wireless were duly warned. But more than ever, now, he found, he +had to depend on his own initiative, his own personal efforts. The +more official the quarters to which he looked for coöperation, the less +response he seemed to elicit. In some circles, he saw, his story was +even doubted. It was listened to with indifference; it was dismissed +with shrugs. There were times when he himself was smiled at, pityingly. + +He concluded, after much thought on the matter, that Binhart would +continue to work his way westward. That the fugitive would strike +inland and try to reach Europe by means of the Trans-Siberian Railway +seemed out of the question. On that route he would be too easily +traced. The carefully guarded frontiers of Russia, too, would offer +obstacles which he dare not meet. He would stick to the ragged and +restless sea-fringes, concluded the detective. But before acting on +that conclusion he caught a _Toyo Kisen Kaisha_ steamer for Shanghai, +and went over that city from the Bund and the Maloo to the narrowest +street in the native quarter. In all this second search, however, he +found nothing to reward his efforts. So he started doggedly southward +again, stopping at Saigon and Bangkok and Singapore. + +At each of these ports he went through the same rounds, canvassed the +same set of officials, and made the same inquiries. Then he would go +to the native quarters, to the gambling houses, to the water-front and +the rickshaw coolies and half-naked Malay wharf-rats, holding the +departmental photograph of Binhart in his hand and inquiring of +stranger after stranger: "You know? You savvy him?" And time after +time the curious yellow faces would bend over the picture, the +inscrutable slant eyes would study the face, sometimes silently, +sometimes with a disheartening jabber of heathen tongues. But not one +trace of Binhart could he pick up. + +Then he went on to Penang. There he went doggedly through the same +manoeuvers, canvassing the same rounds and putting the same questions. +And it was at Penang that a sharp-eyed young water-front coolie +squinted at the well-thumbed photograph, squinted back at Blake, and +shook his head in affirmation. A tip of a few English shillings +loosened his tongue, but as Blake understood neither Malay nor Chinese +he was in the dark until he led his coolie to a Cook's agent, who in +turn called in the local officers, who in turn consulted with the +booking-agents of the P. & O. Line. It was then Blake discovered that +Binhart had booked passage under the name of Blaisdell, twelve days +before, for Brindisi. + +Blake studied the map, cashed a draft, and waited for the next steamer. +While marking time he purchased copies of "French Self-Taught" and +"Italian Self-Taught," hoping to school himself in a speaking knowledge +of these two tongues. But the effort was futile. Pore as he might +over those small volumes, he could glean nothing from their laboriously +pondered pages. His mind was no longer receptive. It seemed +indurated, hard-shelled. He had to acknowledge to his own soul that it +was beyond him. He was too old a dog to learn new tricks. + +The trip to Brindisi seemed an endless one. He seemed to have lost his +earlier tendency to be a "mixer." He became more morose, more +self-immured. He found himself without the desire to make new friends, +and his Celtic ancestry equipped him with a mute and sullen antipathy +for his aggressively English fellow travelers. He spent much of his +time in the smoking-room, playing solitaire. When they stopped at +Madras and Bombay he merely emerged from his shell to make sure if no +trace of Binhart were about. He was no more interested in these +heathen cities of a heathen East than in an ash-pile through which he +might have to rake for a hidden coin. + +By the time he reached Brindisi he had recovered his lost weight, and +added to it, by many pounds. He had also returned to his earlier habit +of chewing "fine-cut." He gave less thought to his personal +appearance, becoming more and more indifferent as to the impression he +made on those about him. His face, for all his increase in flesh, lost +its ruddiness. It was plain that during the last few months he had +aged, that his hound-like eye had grown more haggard, that his always +ponderous step had lost the last of its resilience. + +Yet one hour after he had landed at Brindisi his listlessness seemed a +thing of the past. For there he was able to pick up the trail again, +with clear proof that a man answering to Binhart's description had +sailed for Corfu. From Corfu the scent was followed northward to +Ragusa, and from Ragusa, on to Trieste, where it was lost again. + +Two days of hard work, however, convinced Blake that Binhart had sailed +from Fiume to Naples. He started southward by train, at once, vaguely +surprised at the length of Italy, vaguely disconcerted by the unknown +tongue and the unknown country which he had to face. + +It was not until he arrived at Naples that he seemed to touch solid +ground again. That city, he felt, stood much nearer home. In it were +many persons not averse to curry favor with a New York official, and +many persons indirectly in touch with the home Department. These +persons he assiduously sought out, one by one, and in twelve hours' +time his net had been woven completely about the city. And, so far as +he could learn, Binhart was still somewhere in that city. + +Two days later, when least expecting it, he stepped into the wine-room +of an obscure little pension hotel on the Via Margellina and saw +Binhart before him. Binhart left the room as the other man stepped +into it. He left by way of the window, carrying the casement with him. +Blake followed, but the lighter and younger man out-ran him and was +swallowed up by one of the unknown streets of an unknown quarter. An +hour later Blake had his hired agents raking that quarter from cellar +to garret. It was not until the evening of the following day that +these agents learned Binhart had made his way to the Marina, bribed a +water-front boatman to row him across the bay, and had been put aboard +a freighter weighing anchor for Marseilles. + +For the second time Blake traversed Italy by train, hurrying +self-immured and preoccupied through Rome and Florence and Genoa, and +then on along the Riviera to Marseilles. + +In that brawling and turbulent French port, after the usual rounds and +the usual inquiries down in the midst of the harbor-front forestry of +masts, he found a boatman who claimed to have knowledge of Binhart's +whereabouts. This piratical-looking boatman promptly took Blake +several miles down the coast, parleyed in the _lingua Franca_ of the +Mediterranean, argued in broken English, and insisted on going further. +Blake, scenting imposture, demanded to be put ashore. This the boatman +refused to do. It was then and only then that the detective suspected +he was the victim of a "plant," of a carefully planned shanghaing +movement, the object of which, apparently, was to gain time for the +fugitive. + +It was only at the point of a revolver that Blake brought the boat +ashore, and there he was promptly arrested and accused of attempted +murder. He found it expedient to call in the aid of the American +Consul, who, in turn, suggested the retaining of a local advocate. +Everything, it is true, was at last made clear and in the end Blake was +honorably released. + +But Binhart, in the meantime, had caught a Lloyd Brazileiro steamer for +Rio de Janeiro, and was once more on the high seas. + +Blake, when he learned of this, sat staring about him, like a man +facing news which he could not assimilate. He shut himself up in his +hotel room, for an hour, communing with his own dark soul. He emerged +from that self-communion freshly shaved and smoking a cigar. He found +that he could catch a steamer for Barcelona, and from that port take a +Campania Transatlantic boat for Kingston, Jamaica. + +From the American consulate he carried away with him a bundle of New +York newspapers. When out on the Atlantic he arranged these according +to date and went over them diligently, page by page. They seemed like +echoes out of another life. He read listlessly on, going over the +belated news from his old-time home with the melancholy indifference of +the alien, with the poignant impersonality of the exile. He read of +fires and crimes and calamities, of investigations and elections. He +read of a rumored Police Department shake up, and he could afford to +smile at the vitality of that hellbender-like report. Then, as he +turned the worn pages, the smile died from his heavy lips, for his own +name leaped up like a snake from the text and seemed to strike him in +the face. He spelled through the paragraphs carefully, word by word, +as though it were in a language with which he was only half familiar. +He even went back and read the entire column for a second time. For +there it told of his removal from the Police Department. The +Commissioner and Copeland had saved their necks, but Blake was no +longer Second Deputy. They spoke of him as being somewhere in the +Philippines, on the trail of the bank-robber Binhart. They went on to +describe him as a sleuth of the older school, as an advocate of the now +obsolete "third-degree" methods, and as a product of the "machine" +which had so long and so flagrantly placed politics before efficiency. + +Blake put down the papers, lighted a cigar, sat back, and let the truth +of what he had read percolate into his actual consciousness. He was +startled, at first, that no great outburst of rage swept through him. +All he felt, in fact, was a slow and dull resentment, a resentment +which he could not articulate. Yet dull as it was, hour by hour and +day by idle day it grew more virulent. About him stood nothing against +which this resentment could be marshaled. His pride lay as helpless as +a whale washed ashore, too massive to turn and face the tides of +treachery that had wrecked it. All he asked for was time. Let them +wait, he kept telling himself; let them wait until he got back with +Binhart! Then they would all eat crow, every last man of them! + +For Blake did not intend to give up the trail. To do so would have +been beyond him. His mental fangs were already fixed in Binhart. To +withdraw them was not in his power. He could no more surrender his +quarry than the python's head, having once closed on the rabbit, could +release its meal. With Blake, every instinct sloped inward, just as +every python-fang sloped backward. The actual reason for the chase was +no longer clear to his own vision. It was something no longer to be +reckoned with. The only thing that counted was the fact that he had +decided to "get" Binhart, that he was the pursuer and Binhart was the +fugitive. It had long since resolved itself into a personal issue +between him and his enemy. + + + + +XI + +Three hours after he had disembarked from his steamer at Rio, Blake was +breakfasting at the Café Britto in the Ovidor. At the same table with +him sat a lean-jawed and rat-eyed little gambler by the name of Passos. + +Two hours after this breakfast Passos might have been seen on the +Avenida Central, in deep talk with a peddler of artificial diamonds. +Still later in the day he held converse with a fellow gambler at the +Paineiras, half-way up Mount Corcovado; and the same afternoon he was +interrogating a certain discredited concession-hunter on the Petropolis +boat. + +By evening he was able to return to Blake with the information that +Binhart had duly landed at Rio, had hidden for three days in the +outskirts of the city, and had gone aboard a German cargo-boat bound +for Colon. Two days later Blake himself was aboard a British freighter +northward bound for Kingston. Once again he beheld a tropical sun +shimmer on hot brass-work and pitch boil up between bone-white +deck-boards sluiced and resluiced by a half-naked crew. Once again he +had to face an enervating equatorial heat that vitiated both mind and +body. But he neither fretted nor complained. Some fixed inner purpose +seemed to sustain him through every discomfort. Deep in that soul, +merely filmed with its fixed equatorial calm, burned some dormant and +crusader-like propulsion. And an existence so centered on one great +issue found scant time to worry over the trivialities of the moment. + +After a three-day wait at Jamaica Blake caught an Atlas liner for +Colon. And at Colon he found himself once more among his own kind. +Scattered up and down the Isthmus he found an occasional Northerner to +whom he was not unknown, engineers and construction men who could talk +of things that were comprehensible to him, gamblers and adventurers who +took him poignantly back to the life he had left so far behind him. +Along that crowded and shifting half-way house for the tropic-loving +American he found more than one passing friend to whom he talked +hungrily and put many wistful questions. Sometimes it was a rock +contractor tanned the color of a Mexican saddle. Sometimes it was a +new arrival in Stetson and riding-breeches and unstained leather +leggings. Sometimes it was a coatless dump-boss blaspheming his +toiling army of spick-a-dees. + +Sometimes he talked with graders and car-men and track-layers in +Chinese saloons along Bottle Alley. Sometimes it was with a +bridge-builder or a lottery capper in the barroom of the Hotel Central, +where he would sit without coat or vest, calmly giving an eye to his +game of "draw" or stolidly "rolling the bones" as he talked--but always +with his ears open for one particular thing, and that thing had to do +with the movements or the whereabouts of Connie Binhart. + +One night, as he sat placidly playing his game of "cut-throat" in his +shirt-sleeves, he looked up and saw a russet-faced figure as stolid as +his own. This figure, he perceived, was discreetly studying him as he +sat under the glare of the light. Blake went on with his game. In a +quarter of an hour, however, he got up from the table and bought a +fresh supply of "green" Havana cigars. Then he sauntered out to where +the russet-faced stranger stood watching the street crowds. + +"Pip, what 're you doing down in these parts?" he casually inquired. +He had recognized the man as Pip Tankred, with whom he had come in +contact five long years before. Pip, on that occasion, was engaged in +loading an East River banana-boat with an odd ton or two of cartridges +designed for Castro's opponents in Venezuela. + +"Oh, I 'm freightin' bridge equipment down the West Coast," he solemnly +announced. "And transshippin' a few cases o' phonograph-records as a +side-line!" + +"Have a smoke?" asked Blake. + +"Sure," responded the russet-faced bucaneer. And as they stood smoking +together Blake tenderly and cautiously put out the usual feelers, +plying the familiar questions and meeting with the too-familiar lack of +response. Like all the rest of them, he soon saw, Pip Tankred knew +nothing of Binhart or his whereabouts. And with that discovery his +interest in Pip Tankred ceased. + +So the next day Blake moved inland, working his interrogative way along +the Big Ditch to Panama. He even slipped back over the line to San +Cristobel and Ancon, found nothing of moment awaiting him there, and +drifted back into Panamanian territory. It was not until the end of +the week that the first glimmer of hope came to him. + +It came in the form of an incredibly thin gringo in an incredibly +soiled suit of duck. Blake had been sitting on the wide veranda of the +Hotel Angelini, sipping his "swizzle" and studiously watching the +Saturday evening crowds that passed back and forth through Panama's +bustling railway station. He had watched the long line of rickety cabs +backed up against the curb, the two honking auto-busses, the shifting +army of pleasure-seekers along the sidewalks, the noisy saloons round +which the crowds eddied like bees about a hive, and he was once more +appraising the groups closer about him, when through that seething and +bustling mass of humanity he saw Dusty McGlade pushing his way, a Dusty +McGlade on whom the rum of Jamaica and the _mezcal_ of Guatemala and +the _anisado_ of Ecuador had combined with the _pulque_ of Mexico to +set their unmistakable seal. + +But three minutes later the two men were seated together above their +"swizzles" and Blake was exploring Dusty's faded memories as busily as +a leather-dip might explore an inebriate's pockets. + +"Who 're you looking for, Jim?" suddenly and peevishly demanded the man +in the soiled white duck, as though impatient of the other's +indirections. + +Blake smoked for a moment or two before answering. + +"I 'm looking for a man called Connie Binhart," he finally confessed, +as he continued to study that ruinous figure in front of him. It +startled him to see what idleness and alcohol and the heat of the +tropics could do to a man once as astute as Dusty McGlade. + +"Then why didn't you say so?" complained McGlade, as though impatient +of obliquities that had been altogether too apparent. He had once been +afraid of this man called Blake, he remembered. But time had changed +things, as time has the habit of doing. And most of all, time had +changed Blake himself, had left the old-time Headquarters man oddly +heavy of movement and strangely slow of thought. + +"Well, I'm saying it now!" Blake's guttural voice was reminding him. + +"Then why did n't you say it an hour ago?" contested McGlade, with his +alcoholic peevish obstinacy. + +"Well, let's have it now," placated the patient-eyed Blake. He waited, +with a show of indifference. He even overlooked Dusty's curt laugh of +contempt. + +"I can tell you all right, all right--but it won't do you much good!" + +"Why not?" And still Blake was bland and patient. + +"Because," retorted McGlade, fixing the other man with a lean finger +that was both unclean and unsteady, "_you can't get at him_!" + +"You tell me where he is," said Blake, striking a match. "I 'll attend +to the rest of it!" + +McGlade slowly and deliberately drank the last of his swizzle. Then he +put down his empty glass and stared pensively and pregnantly into it. + +"What's there in it for me?" he asked. + +Blake, studying him across the small table, Weighed both the man and +the situation. + +"Two hundred dollars in American green-backs," he announced as he drew +out his wallet. He could see McGlade moisten his flaccid lips. He +could see the faded eyes fasten on the bills as they were counted out. +He knew where the money would go, how little good it would do. But +that, he knew, was not his funeral. All he wanted was Binhart. + +"Binhart's in Guayaquil," McGlade suddenly announced. + +"How d' you know that?" promptly demanded Blake. + +"I know the man who sneaked him out from Balboa. He got sixty dollars +for it. I can take you to him. Binhart 'd picked up a medicine-chest +and a bag of instruments from a broken-down doctor at Colon. He went +aboard a Pacific liner as a doctor himself. + +"What liner?" + +"He went aboard the _Trunella_. He thought he 'd get down to Callao. +But they tied the _Trunella_ up at Guayaquil." + +"And you say he 's there now?" + +"Yes!" + +"And aboard the _Trunella_?" + +"Sure! He's got to be aboard the _Trunella_!" + +"Then why d' you say I can't get at him?" + +"Because Guayaquil and the _Trunella_ and the whole coast down there is +tied up in quarantine. That whole harbor's rotten with yellow-jack. +It's tied up as tight as a drum. You could n't get a boat on all the +Pacific to touch that port these days!" + +"But there's got to be _something_ going there!" contended Blake. + +"They daren't do it! They couldn't get clearance--they couldn't even +get _pratique_! Once they got in there they 'd be held and given the +blood-test and picketed with a gunboat for a month! And what's more, +they 've got that Alfaro revolution on down there! They 've got +boat-patrols up and down the coast, keeping a lookout for gun-runners!" + +Blake, at this last word, raised his ponderous head. + +"The boat-patrols wouldn't phase me," he announced. His thoughts, in +fact, were already far ahead, marshaling themselves about other things. + +"You 've a weakness for yellow fever?" inquired the ironic McGlade. + +"I guess it 'd take more than a few fever germs to throw me off that +trail," was the detective's abstracted retort. He was recalling +certain things that the russet-faced Pip Tankred had told him. And +before everything else he felt that it would be well to get in touch +with that distributor of bridge equipment and phonograph records. + +"You don't mean you 're going to try to get into Guayaquil?" demanded +McGlade. + +"If Connie Binhart 's down there I 've got to go and get him," was +Never-Fail Blake's answer. + + * * * * * * + +The following morning Blake, having made sure of his ground, began one +of his old-time "investigations" of that unsuspecting worthy known as +Pip Tankred. + +This investigation involved a hurried journey back to Colon, the +expenditure of much money in cable tolls, the examination of records +that were both official and unofficial, the asking of many questions +and the turning up of dimly remembered things on which the dust of time +had long since settled. + +It was followed by a return to Panama, a secret trip several miles up +the coast to look over a freighter placidly anchored there, a +dolorous-appearing coast-tramp with unpainted upperworks and a rusty +red hull. The side-plates of this red hull, Blake observed, were as +pitted and scarred as the face of an Egyptian obelisk. Her ventilators +were askew and her funnel was scrofulous and many of her rivet-heads +seemed to be eaten away. But this was not once a source of +apprehension to the studious-eyed detective. + +The following evening he encountered Tankred himself, as though by +accident, on the veranda of the Hotel Angelini. The latter, at Blake's +invitation, sat down for a cocktail and a quiet smoke. + +They sat in silence for some time, watching the rain that deluged the +city, the warm devitalizing rain that unedged even the fieriest of +Signer Angelini's stimulants. + +"Pip," Blake very quietly announced, "you 're going to sail for +Guayaquil to-morrow!" + +"Am I?" queried the unmoved Pip. + +"You 're going to start for Guayaquil tomorrow," repeated Blake, "and +you 're going to take me along with you!" + +"My friend," retorted Pip, emitting a curling geyser of smoke as long +and thin as a pool-que, "you 're sure laborin' under the +misapprehension this steamer o' mine is a Pacific mailer! But she +ain't, Blake!" + +"I admit that," quietly acknowledged the other man. "I saw her +yesterday!" + +"And she don't carry no passengers--she ain't allowed to," announced +her master. + +"But she 's going to carry me," asserted Blake, lighting a fresh cigar. + +"What as?" demanded Tankred. And he fixed Blake with a belligerent eye +as he put the question. + +"As an old friend of yours!" + +"And then what?" still challenged the other. + +"As a man who knows your record, in the next place. And on the next +count, as the man who 's wise to those phony bills of lading of yours, +and those doped-up clearance papers, and those cases of carbines you +'ve got down your hold labeled bridge equipment, and that nitro and +giant-caps, and that hundred thousand rounds of smokeless you 're +running down there as phonograph records!" + +Tankred continued to smoke. + +"You ever stop to wonder," he finally inquired, "if it ain't kind o' +flirtin' with danger knowin' so much about me and my freightin' +business?" + +"No, you 're doing the coquetting in this case, I guess!" + +"Then I ain't standin' for no rivals--not on this coast!" + +The two men, so dissimilar in aspect and yet so alike in their +accidental attitudes of an uncouth belligerency, sat staring at each +other. + +"You 're going to take me to Guayaquil," repeated Blake. + +"That's where you 're dead wrong," was the calmly insolent rejoinder. +"I ain't even _goin'_ to Guayaquil." + +"I say you are." + +Tankred's smile translated his earlier deliberateness into open +contempt. + +"You seem to forget that this here town you 're heefin' about lies a +good thirty-five miles up the Guayas River. And if I 'm gun-runnin' +for Alfaro, as you say, I naturally ain't navigatin' streams where they +'d be able to pick me off the bridge-deck with a fishin'-pole!" + +"But you 're going to get as close to Guayaquil as you can, and you +know it." + +"Do I?" said the man with the up-tilted cigar. + +"Look here, Pip," said Blake, leaning closer over the table towards +him. "I don't give a tinker's dam about Alfaro and his two-cent +revolution. I 'm not sitting up worrying over him or his junta or how +he gets his ammunition. But I want to get into Guayaquil, and this is +the only way I can do it!" + +For the first time Tankred turned and studied him. + +"What d' you want to get into Guayaquil for?" he finally demanded. +Blake knew that nothing was to be gained by beating about the bush. + +"There's a man I want down there, and I 'm going down to get him!" + +"Who is he?" + +"That's my business," retorted Blake. + +"And gettin' into Guayaquil's your business!" Tankred snorted back. + +"All I 'm going to say is he 's a man from up North--and he 's not in +your line of business, and never was and never will be!" + +"How do I know that?" + +"You 'll have my word for it!" + +Tankred swung round on him. + +"D' you realize you 'll have to sneak ashore in a _lancha_ and pass a +double line o' patrol? And then crawl into a town that's reekin' with +yellow-jack, a town you 're not likely to crawl out of again inside o' +three months?" + +"I know all that!" acknowledged Blake. + +For the second time Tankred turned and studied the other man. + +"And you're still goin' after your gen'leman friend from up North?" he +inquired. + +"Pip, I 've got to get that man!" + +"You've got 'o?" + +"I 've got to, and I 'm going to!" + +Tankred threw his cigar-end away and laughed leisurely and quietly. + +"Then what're we sittin' here arguin' about, anyway? If it's settled, +it's settled, ain't it?" + +"Yes, I think it's settled!" + +Again Tankred laughed. + +"But take it from me, my friend, you'll sure see some rough goin' this +next few days!" + + + + +XII + +As Tankred had intimated, Blake's journey southward from Panama was +anything but comfortable traveling. The vessel was verminous, the food +was bad, and the heat was oppressive. It was a heat that took the life +out of the saturated body, a thick and burdening heat that hung like a +heavy gray blanket on a gray sea which no rainfall seemed able to cool. + +But Blake uttered no complaint. By day he smoked under a sodden +awning, rained on by funnel cinders. By night he stood at the rail. +He stood there, by the hour together, watching with wistful and haggard +eyes the Alpha of Argo and the slowly rising Southern Cross. Whatever +his thoughts, as he watched those lonely Southern skies, he kept them +to himself. + +It was the night after they had swung about and were steaming up the +Gulf of Guayaquil under a clear sky that Tankred stepped down to +Blake's sultry little cabin and wakened him from a sound sleep. + +"It's time you were gettin' your clothes on," he announced. + +"Getting my clothes on?" queried Blake through the darkness. + +"Yes, you can't tell what we 'll bump into, any time now!" + +The wakened sleeper heard the other man moving about in the velvety +black gloom. + +"What 're you doing there?" was his sharp question as he heard the +squeak and slam of a shutter. + +"Closin' this dead-light, of course," explained Tankred. A moment +later he switched on the electric globe at the bunkhead. "We 're +gettin' in pretty close now and we 're goin' with our lights doused!" + +He stood for a moment, staring down at the sweat-dewed white body on +the bunk, heaving for breath in the closeness of the little cabin. His +mind was still touched into mystery by the spirit housed in that +uncouth and undulatory flesh. He was still piqued by the vast sense of +purpose which Blake carried somewhere deep within his seemingly +tepid-willed carcass, like the calcinated pearl at the center of an +oyster. + +"You 'd better turn out!" he called back as he stepped into the +engulfing gloom of the gangway. + +Blake rolled out of his berth and dressed without haste or excitement. +Already, overhead, he could hear the continuous tramping of feet, with +now and then a quiet-noted order from Tankred himself. He could hear +other noises along the ship's side, as though a landing-ladder were +being bolted and lowered along the rusty plates. + +When he went up on deck he found the boat in utter darkness. To that +slowly moving mass, for she was now drifting ahead under quarter-speed, +this obliteration of light imparted a sense of stealthiness. This note +of suspense, of watchfulness, of illicit adventure was reflected in the +very tones of the motley deckhands who brushed past him in the humid +velvety blackness. + +As he stood at the rail, staring ahead through this blackness, Blake +could see a light here and there along the horizon. These lights +increased in number as the boat steamed slowly on. Then, far away in +the roadstead ahead of them, he made out an entire cluster of lights, +like those of a liner at anchor. Then he heard the tinkle of a bell +below deck, and he realized that the engines had stopped. + +In the lull of the quieted ship's screw he could hear the wash of +distant surf, faint and phantasmal above the material little near-by +boat-noises. Then came a call, faint and muffled, like the complaining +note of a harbor gull. A moment later the slow creak of oars crept up +to Blake's straining ears. Then out of the heart of the darkness that +surrounded him, not fifty feet away, he saw emerge one faint point of +light, rising and falling with a rhythm as sleepy as the slow creak of +the oars. On each side of it other small lights sprang up. They were +close beside the ship, by this time, a flotilla of lights, and each +light, Blake finally saw, came from a lantern that stood deep in the +bottom of a boat, a lantern that had been covered with a square of +matting or sail-cloth, until some prearranged signal from the drifting +steamer elicited its answering flicker of light. Then they swarmed +about the oily water, shifting and swaying on their course like a +cluster of fireflies, alternately dark and luminous in the dip and rise +of the ground-swell. Within each small aura of radiance the watcher at +the rail could see a dusky and quietly moving figure, the faded blue of +a denim garment, the brown of bare arms, or the sinews of a straining +neck. Once he caught the whites of a pair of eyes turned up towards +the ship's deck. He could also see the running and wavering lines of +fire as the oars puddled and backed in the phosphorescent water under +the gloomy steel hull. Then he heard a low-toned argument in Spanish. +A moment later the flotilla of small boats had fastened to the ship's +side, like a litter of suckling pigs to a sow's breast. Every light +went out again, every light except a faint glow as a guide to the first +boat at the foot of the landing-ladder. Along this ladder Blake could +hear barefooted figures padding and grunting as cases and bales were +cautiously carried down and passed from boat to boat. + +He swung nervously about as he felt a hand clutch his arm. He found +Tankred speaking quietly into his ear. + +"There 'll be one boat over," that worthy was explaining. "One +boat--you take that--the last one! And you 'd better give the +_guinney_ a ten-dollar bill for his trouble!" + +"All right! I 'm ready!" was Blake's low-toned reply as he started to +move forward with the other man. + +"Not yet! Not yet!" was the other's irritable warning, as Blake felt +himself pushed back. "You stay where you are! We 've got a +half-hour's hard work ahead of us yet!" + +As Blake leaned over the rail again, watching and listening, he began +to realize that the work was indeed hard, that there was some excuse +for Tankred's ill-temper. Most men, he acknowledged, would feel the +strain, where one misstep or one small mistake might undo the work of +months. Beyond that, however, Blake found little about which to +concern himself. Whether it was legal or illegal did not enter his +mind. That a few thousand tin-sworded soldiers should go armed or +unarmed was to him a matter of indifference. It was something not of +his world. It did not impinge on his own jealously guarded circle of +activity, on his own task of bringing a fugitive to justice. And as +his eyes strained through the gloom at the cluster of lights far ahead +in the roadstead he told himself that it was there that his true goal +lay, for it was there that the _Trunella_ must ride at anchor and +Binhart must be. + +Then he looked wonderingly back at the flotilla under the rail, for he +realized that every movement and murmur of life there had come to a +sudden stop. It was a cessation of all sound, a silence as ominously +complete as that of a summer woodland when a hawk soars overhead. Even +the small light deep in the bottom of the first _lancha_ tied to the +landing-ladder had been suddenly quenched. + +Blake, staring apprehensively out into the gloom, caught the sound of a +soft and feverish throbbing. His disturbed mind had just registered +the conclusion that this sound must be the throbbing of a passing +marine-engine, when the thought was annihilated by a second and more +startling occurrence. + +Out across the blackness in front of him suddenly flashed a white saber +of light. For one moment it circled and wavered restlessly about, +feeling like a great finger along the gray surface of the water. Then +it smote full on Blake and the deck where he stood, blinding him with +its glare, picking out every object and every listening figure as +plainly as a calcium picks out a scene on the stage. + +Without conscious thought Blake dropped lower behind the ship's rail. +He sank still lower, until he found himself down on his hands and knees +beside a rope coil. As he did so he heard the call of a challenging +Spanish voice, a murmur of voices, and then a repeated command. + +There was no answer to this challenge. Then came another command and +then silence again. Then a faint thrill arrowed through Blake's +crouching body, for from somewhere close behind him a gun-shot rang out +and was repeated again and again. Blake knew, at that sound, that +Tankred or one of his men was firing straight into the dial of the +searchlight, that Tankred himself intended to defy what must surely be +an Ecuadorean gunboat. The detective was oppressed by the thought that +his own jealously nursed plan might at any moment get a knock on the +head. + +At almost the same time the peevishly indignant Blake could hear the +tinkle of the engine-room bell below him and then the thrash of the +screw wings. The boat began to move forward, dangling the knocking and +rocking flotilla of _lanchas_ and surf-boats at her side, like a +deer-mouse making off with its young. Then came sharp cries of +protest, in Spanish, and more cries and curses in harbor-English, and a +second engine-room signal and a cessation of the screw thrashings. +This was followed by a shower of carbine-shots and the plaintive whine +of bullets above the upper-works, the crack and thud of lead against +the side-plates. At the same time Blake heard the scream of a +denim-clad figure that suddenly pitched from the landing-ladder into +the sea. Then came an answering volley, from somewhere close below +Blake. He could not tell whether it was from the boat-flotilla or from +the port-holes above it. But he knew that Tankred and his men were +returning the gunboat's fire. + +Blake, by this time, was once more thinking lucidly. Some of the cases +in those surf-boats, he remembered, held giant-caps and dynamite, and +he knew what was likely to happen if a bullet struck them. He also +remembered that he was still exposed to the carbine fire from behind +the searchlight. + +He stretched out, flat on the deck-boards, and wormed his way slowly +and ludicrously aft. He did not bring those uncouth vermiculations to +a stop until he was well back in the shelter of a rusty capstan, cut +off from the light by a lifeboat swinging on its davits. As he +clambered to his feet again he saw this light suddenly go out and then +reappear. As it did so he could make out a patrol-boat, gray and +low-bodied, slinking forward through the gloom. He could see that boat +crowded with men, men in uniform, and he could see that each man +carried a carbine. He could also see that it would surely cut across +the bow of his own steamer. A moment later he knew that Tankred +himself had seen this, for high above the crack and whine of the +shooting and the tumult of voices he could now hear Tankred's +blasphemous shouts. + +"Cut loose those boats!" bellowed the frantic gun-runner. Then he +repeated the command, apparently in Spanish. And to this came an +answering babel of cries and expostulations and counter-cries. But +still the firing from behind the searchlight kept up. Blake could see +a half-naked seaman with a carpenter's ax skip monkey-like down the +landing-ladder. He saw the naked arm strike with the ax, the two hands +suddenly catch at the bare throat, and the figure fall back in a huddle +against the red-stained wooden steps. + +Blake also saw, to his growing unrest, that the firing was increasing +in volume, that at the front of the ship sharp volley and +counter-volley was making a pandemonium of the very deck on which he +knelt. For by this time the patrol-boat with the carbineers had +reached the steamer's side and a boarding-ladder had been thrown across +her quarter. And Blake began to comprehend that he was in the most +undesirable of situations. He could hear the repeated clang of the +engine-room telegraph and Tankred's frenzied and ineffectual bellow of +"Full steam ahead! For the love o' Christ, full ahead down there!" + +Through all that bedlam Blake remained resentfully cool, angrily +clear-thoughted. He saw that the steamer did not move forward. He +concluded the engine-room to be deserted. And he saw both the futility +and the danger of remaining where he was. + +He crawled back to where he remembered the rope-coil lay, dragging the +loose end of it back after him, and then lowering it over the ship's +side until it touched the water. Then he shifted this rope along the +rail until it swung over the last of the line of surf-boats that bobbed +and thudded against the side-plates of the gently rolling steamer. +About him, all the while, he could hear the shouts of men and the +staccato crack of the rifles. But he saw to it that his rope was well +tied to the rail-stanchion. Then he clambered over the rail itself, +and with a double twist of the rope about his great leg let himself +ponderously down over the side. + +He swayed there, for a moment, until the roll of the ship brought him +thumping against the rusty plates again. At the same moment the +shifting surf-boat swung in under him. Releasing his hold, he went +tumbling down between the cartridge-cases and the boat-thwarts. + +This boat, he saw, was still securely tied to its mate, one of the +larger-bodied _lanchas_, and he had nothing with which to sever the +rope. His first impulse was to reach for his revolver and cut through +the manilla strands by means of a half-dozen quick shots. But this, he +knew, would too noisily announce his presence there. So he fell on his +knees and peered and prodded about the boat bottom. There, to his +surprise, he saw the huddled body of a dead man, face down. This body +he turned over, running an exploring hand along the belt-line. As he +had hoped, he found a heavy nine-inch knife there. + +He was dodging back to the bow of the surf-boat when a uniformed figure +carrying a rifle came scuttling and shouting down the landing-ladder. +Blake's spirits sank as he saw that figure. He knew now that his +movement had been seen and understood. He knew, too, as he saw the +figure come scrambling out over the rocking boats, what capture would +mean. + +He had the last strand of the rope severed before the Ecuadorean with +the carbine reached the _lancha_ next to him. He still felt, once he +was free, that he could use his revolver and get away. But before +Blake could push off a sinewy brown hand reached out and clutched the +gunwale of the liberated boat. Blake ignored the clutching hand. But, +relying on his own sheer strength, he startled the owning of the hand +by suddenly flinging himself forward, seizing the carbine barrel, and +wresting it free. A second later it disappeared beneath the surface of +the water. + +That impassioned brown hand, however, still clung to the boat's +gunwale. It clung there determinedly, blindly--and Blake knew there +was no time for a struggle. He brought the heavy-bladed knife down on +the clinging fingers. It was a stroke like that of a cleaver on a +butcher's block. In the strong white light that still played on them +he could see the flash of teeth in the man's opened mouth, the upturn +of the staring eye-balls as the severed fingers fell away and he +screamed aloud with pain. + +But with one quick motion of his gorilla-like arms Blake pushed his +boat free, telling himself there was still time, warning himself to +keep cool and make the most of every chance. Yet as he turned to take +up the oars he saw that he had been discovered by the Ecuadoreans on +the freighter's deck, that his flight was not to be as simple as he had +expected. He saw the lean brown face, picked out by the white light, +as a carbineer swung his short-barreled rifle out over the rail--and +the man in the surf-boat knew by that face what was coming. + +His first impulse was to reach into his pocket for his revolver. But +that, he knew, was already too late, for a second man had joined the +first and a second rifle was already swinging round on him. His next +thought was to dive over the boat's side. This thought had scarcely +formulated itself, however, before he heard the bark of the rifle and +saw the puff of smoke. + +At the same moment he felt the rip and tug of the bullet through the +loose side-folds of his coat. And with that rip and tug came a third +thought, over which he did not waver. He threw up his hands, sharply, +and flung himself headlong across the body of the dead man in the +bottom of the surf-boat. + +He fell heavily, with a blow that shook the wind from his body. But as +he lay there he knew better than to move. He lay there, scarcely +daring to breathe, dreading that the rise and fall of his breast would +betray his ruse, praying that his boat would veer about so his body +would be in the shadow. For he knew the two waiting carbines were +still pointed at him. + +He lay there, counting the seconds, knowing that he and his slowly +drifting surf-boat were still in the full white fulgor of the wavering +searchlight. He lay there as a second shot came whistling overhead, +spitting into the water within three feet of him. Then a third bullet +came, this time tearing through the wood of the boat bottom beside him. +And he still waited, without moving, wondering what the next shot would +do. He still waited, his passive body horripilating with a vast +indignation at the thought of the injustice of it all, at the thought +that he must lie there and let half-baked dagoes shower his +unprotesting back with lead. But he lay there, still counting the +seconds, as the boat drifted slowly out on the quietly moving tide. + +Then a new discovery disturbed him. It obliterated his momentary joy +at the thought that they were no longer targeting down at him. He +could feel the water slowly rising about his prostrate body. He +realized that the boat in which he lay was filling. He calmly figured +out that with the body of the dead man and the cartridge-cases about +him it was carrying a dead weight of nearly half a ton. And through +the bullet hole in its bottom the water was rushing in. + +Yet he could do nothing. He could make no move. For at the slightest +betrayal of life, he knew, still another volley would come from that +ever-menacing steamer's deck. He counted the minutes, painfully, +methodically, feeling the water rise higher and higher about his body. +The thought of this rising water and what it meant did not fill him +with panic. He seemed more the prey of a deep and sullen resentment +that his plans should be so gratuitously interfered with, that his +approach to the _Trunella_ should be so foolishly delayed, that so many +cross-purposes should postpone and imperil his quest of Binhart. + +He knew, by the slowly diminishing sounds, that he was drifting further +and further away from Tankred and his crowded fore-deck. But he was +still within the area of that ever-betraying searchlight. Some time, +he knew, he must drift beyond it. But until that moment came he dare +make no move to keep himself afloat. + +By slowly turning his head an inch or two he was able to measure the +height of the gunwale above the water. Then he made note of where an +oar lay, asking himself how long he could keep afloat on a timber so +small, wondering how far he could be from land. Then he suddenly fell +to questioning if the waters of that coast were shark infested. + +He was still debating the problem when he became conscious of a change +about him. A sudden pall of black fell like balm on his startled face. +The light was no longer there. He found himself engulfed in a +relieving, fortifying darkness, a darkness that brought him to his feet +in the slowly moving boat. He was no longer visible to the rest of the +world. At a breath, almost, he had passed into eclipse. + +His first frantic move was to tug and drag the floating body at his +feet to the back of the boat and roll it overboard. Then he waded +forward and one by one carefully lifted the cases of ammunition and +tumbled them over the side. One only he saved, a smaller wooden box +which he feverishly pried open with his knife and emptied into the sea. +Then he flung away the top boards, placing the empty box on the seat in +front of him. Then he fell on his hands and knees, fingering along the +boat bottom until he found the bullet-hole through which the water was +boiling up. + +Once he had found it he began tearing at his clothes like a madman, for +the water was now alarmingly high. These rags and shreds of clothing +he twisted together and forced into the hole, tamping them firmly into +place with his revolver-barrel. + +Then he caught up the empty wooden box from the boat seat and began to +bale. He baled solemnly, as though his very soul were in it. He was +oblivious of the strange scene silhouetted against the night behind +him, standing out as distinctly as though it were a picture thrown on a +sheet from a magic-lantern slide--a circle of light surrounding a +drifting and rusty-sided ship on which tumult had turned into sudden +silence. He was oblivious of his own wet clothing and his bruised body +and the dull ache in his leg wound of many months ago. He was intent +only on the fact that he was lowering the water in his surf-boat, that +he was slowly drifting further and further away from the enemies who +had interfered with his movements, and that under the faint spangle of +lights which he could still see in the offing on his right lay an +anchored liner, and that somewhere on that liner lay a man for whom he +was looking. + + + + +XIII + +Once assured that his surf-boat would keep afloat, Blake took the oars +and began to row. But even as he swung the boat lumberingly about he +realized that he could make no headway with such a load, for almost a +foot of water still surged along its bottom. So he put down the oars +and began to bale again. He did not stop until the boat was emptied. +Then he carefully replugged the bullet-hole, took up the oars again, +and once more began to row. + +He rowed, always keeping his bow towards the far-off spangle of lights +which showed where the _Trunella_ lay at anchor. + +He rowed doggedly, determinedly. He rowed until his arms were tired +and his back ached. But still he did not stop. It occurred to him, +suddenly, that there might be a tide running against him, that with all +his labor he might be making no actual headway. Disturbed by this +thought, he fixed his attention on two almost convergent lights on +shore, rowing with renewed energy as he watched them. He had the +satisfaction of seeing these two lights slowly come together, and he +knew he was making some progress. + +Still another thought came to him as he rowed doggedly on. And that +was the fear that at any moment, now, the quick equatorial morning +might dawn. He had no means of judging the time. To strike a light +was impossible, for his matches were water-soaked. Even his watch, he +found, had been stopped by its bath in sea-water. But he felt that +long hours had passed since midnight, that it must be close to the +break of morning. And the fear of being overtaken by daylight filled +him with a new and more frantic energy. + +He rowed feverishly on, until the lights of the _Trunella_ stood high +above him and he could hear the lonely sound of her bells as the watch +was struck. Then he turned and studied the dark hull of the steamer as +she loomed up closer in front of him. He could see her only in +outline, at first, picked out here and there by a light. But there +seemed something disheartening, something intimidating, in her very +quietness, something suggestive of a plague-ship deserted by crew and +passengers alike. That dark and silent hull at which he stared seemed +to house untold possibilities of evil. + +Yet Blake remembered that it also housed Binhart. And with that +thought in his mind he no longer cared to hesitate. He rowed in under +the shadowy counter, bumping about the rudder-post. Then he worked his +way forward, feeling quietly along her side-plates, foot by foot. + +He had more than half circled the ship before he came to her +landing-ladder. The grilled platform at the bottom of this row of +steps stood nearly as high as his shoulders, as though the ladder-end +had been hauled up for the night. + +Blake balanced himself on the bow of his surf-boat and tugged and +strained until he gained the ladder-bottom. He stood there, recovering +his breath, for a moment or two, peering up towards the inhospitable +silence above him. But still he saw no sign of life. No word or +challenge was flung down at him. Then, after a moment's thought, he +lay flat on the grill and deliberately pushed the surf-boat off into +the darkness. He wanted no more of it. He knew, now, there could be +no going back. + +He climbed cautiously up the slowly swaying steps, standing for a +puzzled moment at the top and peering about him. Then he crept along +the deserted deck, where a month of utter idleness, apparently, had +left discipline relaxed. He shied away from the lights, here and +there, that dazzled his eyes after his long hours of darkness. With an +instinct not unlike that which drives the hiding wharf-rat into the +deepest corner at hand, he made his way down through the body of the +ship. He shambled and skulked his way down, a hatless and ragged and +uncouth figure, wandering on along gloomy gangways and corridors until +he found himself on the threshold of the engine-room itself. + +He was about to back out of this entrance and strike still deeper when +he found himself confronted by an engineer smoking a short brier-root +pipe. The pale blue eyes of this sandy-headed engineer were wide with +wonder, startled and incredulous wonder, as they stared at the ragged +figure in the doorway. + +"Where in the name o' God did _you_ come from?" demanded the man with +the brier-root pipe. + +"I came out from Guayaquil," answered Blake, reaching searchingly down +in his wet pocket. "And I can't go back." + +The sandy-headed man backed away. + +"From the fever camps?" + +Blake could afford to smile at the movement. + +"Don't worry--there 's no fever 'round me. _That 's_ what I 've been +through!" And he showed the bullet-holes through his tattered +coat-cloth. + +"How'd you get here?" + +"Rowed out in a surf-boat--and I can't go back!" + +The sandy-headed engineer continued to stare at the uncouth figure in +front of him, to stare at it with vague and impersonal wonder. And in +facing that sandy-headed stranger, Blake knew, he was facing a judge +whose decision was to be of vast moment in his future destiny, whose +word, perhaps, was to decide on the success or failure of much +wandering about the earth. + +"I can't go back!" repeated Blake, as he reached out and dropped a +clutter of gold into the palm of the other man. The pale blue eyes +looked at the gold, looked out along the gangway, and then looked back +at the waiting stranger. + +"That Alfaro gang after you?" he inquired. + +"They 're _all_ after me!" answered the swaying figure in rags. They +were talking together, by this time, almost in whispers, like two +conspirators. The young engineer seemed puzzled. But a wave of relief +swept through Blake when in the pale blue eyes he saw almost a look of +pity. + +"What d' you want me to do?" he finally asked. + +Blake, instead of answering that question, asked another. + +"When do you move out of here?" + +The engineer put the coins in his pocket. + +"Before noon to-morrow, thank God! The _Yorktown_ ought to be here by +morning--she 's to give us our release!" + +"Then you'll sail by noon?" + +"We 've _got_ to! They 've tied us up here over a month, without +reason. They worked that old yellow-jack gag--and not a touch of fever +aboard all that time!" + +A great wave of contentment surged through Blake's weary body. He put +his hand up on the smaller man's shoulder. + +"Then you just get me out o' sight until we 're off, and I 'll fix +things so you 'll never be sorry for it!" + +The pale-eyed engineer studied the problem. Then he studied the figure +in front of him. + +"There's nothing crooked behind this?" + +Blake forced a laugh from his weary lungs. "I 'll prove that in two +days by wireless--and pay first-class passage to the next port of call!" + +"I 'm fourth engineer on board here, and the Old Man would sure fire +me, if--" + +"But you needn't even know about me," contended Blake. "Just let me +crawl in somewhere where I can sleep!" + +"You need it, all right, by that face of yours!" + +"I sure do," acknowledged the other as he stood awaiting his judge's +decision. + +"Then I 'd better get you down to my bunk. But remember, I can only +stow you there until we get under way--perhaps not that long!" + +He stepped cautiously out and looked along the gangway. "This is your +funeral, mind, when the row comes. You 've got to face that, yourself!" + +"Oh, I 'll face it, all right!" was Blake's calmly contented answer. +"All I want now is about nine hours' sleep!" + +"Come on, then," said the fourth engineer. And Blake followed after as +he started deeper down into the body of the ship. And already, deep +below him, he could hear the stokers at work in their hole. + + + + +XIV + +After seven cataleptic hours of unbroken sleep Blake awakened to find +his shoulder being prodded and shaken by the pale-eyed fourth engineer. +The stowaway's tired body, during that sleep, had soaked in renewed +strength as a squeezed sponge soaks up water. He could afford to blink +with impassive eyes up at the troubled face of the young man wearing +the oil-stained cap. + +"What's wrong?" he demanded, awakening to a luxurious comprehension of +where he was and what he had escaped. Then he sat up in the narrow +berth, for it began to dawn on him that the engines of the _Trunella_ +were not in motion. "Why are n't we under way?" + +"They 're having trouble up there, with the _Commandante_. We can't +get off inside of an hour--and anything's likely to happen in that +time. That's why I 've got to get you out of here!" + +"Where 'll you get me?" asked Blake. He was on his feet by this time, +arraying himself in his wet and ragged clothing. + +"That's what I 've been talking over with the Chief," began the young +engineer. Blake wheeled about and fixed him with his eye. + +"Did you let your Chief in on this?" he demanded, and he found it hard +to keep his anger in check. + +"I had to let him in on it," complained the other. "If it came to a +hue up or a searching party through here, they 'd spot you first thing. +You 're not a passenger; you 're not signed; you're not anything!" + +"Well, supposing I 'm not?" + +"Then they 'd haul you back and give you a half year in that +_Lazaretto_ o' theirs!" + +"Well, what do I have to do to keep from being hauled back?" + +"You 'll have to be one o' the workin' crew, until we get off. The +Chief says that, and I think he's right!" + +A vague foreboding filled Blake's soul. He had imagined that the +ignominy and agony of physical labor was a thing of the past with him. +And he was still sore in every sinew and muscle of his huge body. + +"You don't mean stoke-hole work?" he demanded. + +The fourth engineer continued to look worried. + +"You don't happen to know anything about machinery, do you?" he began. + +"Of course I do," retorted Blake, thinking gratefully of his early days +as a steamfitter. + +"Then why could n't I put you in a cap and jumper and work you in as +one of the greasers?" + +"What do you mean by greasers?" + +"That's an oiler in the engine-room. It--it may not be the coolest +place on earth, in this latitude, but it sure beats the stoke-hole!" + +And it was in this way, thirty minutes later, that Blake became a +greaser in the engine-room of the _Trunella_. + +Already, far above him, he could hear the rattle and shriek of +winch-engines and the far-off muffled roar of the whistle, rumbling its +triumph of returning life. Already the great propeller engines +themselves had been tested, after their weeks of idleness, languidly +stretching and moving like an awakening sleeper, slowly swinging their +solemn tons forward through their projected cycles and then as solemnly +back again. + +About this vast pyramid-shaped machinery, galleried like a Latin +house-court, tremulous with the breath of life that sang and hissed +through its veins, the new greaser could see his fellow workers with +their dripping oil-cans, groping gallery by gallery up towards the +square of daylight that sifted down into the oil-scented pit where he +stood. He could see his pale-eyed friend, the fourth engineer, spanner +in hand, clinging to a moving network of steel like a spider to its +tremulous web--and in his breast, for the first time, a latent respect +for that youth awakened. He could see other greasers wriggling about +between intricate shafts and wheels, crawling cat-like along narrow +steel ledges, mounting steep metal ladders guarded by hot hand rails, +peering into oil boxes, "worrying" the vacuum pump, squatting and +kneeling about iron floors where oil-pits pooled and pump-valves +clacked and electric machines whirred and the antiphonal song of the +mounting steam roared like music in the ears of the listening Blake, +aching as he was for the first relieving throb of the screws. Stolidly +and calmly the men about him worked, threatened by flailing steel, +hissed at by venomously quiescent powers, beleaguered by mysteriously +moving shafts, surrounded by countless valves and an inexplicable +tangle of pipes, hemmed in by an incomprehensible labyrinth of copper +wires, menaced by the very shimmering joints and rods over which they +could run such carelessly affectionate fingers. + +Blake could see the assistant engineers, with their eyes on the +pointers that stood out against two white dials. He could see the +Chief, the Chief whom he would so soon have to buy over and placate, +moving about nervous and alert. Then he heard the tinkle of the +telegraph bell, and the repeated gasp of energy as the engineers threw +the levers. He could hear the vicious hum of the reversing-engines, +and then the great muffled cough of power as the ponderous valve-gear +was thrown into position and the vaster machinery above him was coerced +into a motion that seemed languid yet relentless. + +He could see the slow rise and fall of the great cranks. He could hear +the renewed signals and bells tinkles, the more insistent clack of +pumps, the more resolute rise and fall of the ponderous cranks. And he +knew that they were at last under way. He gave no thought to the heat +of the oil-dripping pit in which he stood. He was oblivious of the +perilous steel that whirred and throbbed about him. He was unconscious +of the hot hand rails and the greasy foot-ways and the mingling odor of +steam and parching lubricant and ammonia-gas from a leaking "beef +engine." He quite forgot the fact that his dungaree jumper was wet +with sweat, that his cap was already fouled with oil. All he knew was +that he and Binhart were at last under way. + +He was filled with a new lightness of spirit as he felt the throb of +"full speed ahead" shake the steel hull about which he so contentedly +climbed and crawled. He found something fortifying in the thought that +this vast hull was swinging out to her appointed sea lanes, that she +was now intent on a way from which no caprice could turn her. There +seemed something appeasingly ordered and implacable in the mere +revolutions of the engines. And as those engines settled down to their +labors the intent-eyed men about him fell almost as automatically into +the routines of toil as did the steel mechanism itself. + +When at the end of the first four-houred watch a gong sounded and the +next crew filed cluttering in from the half-lighted between-deck +gangways and came sliding down the polished steel stair rails, Blake +felt that his greatest danger was over. + +There would still be an occasional palm to grease, he told himself, an +occasional bit of pad money to be paid out. But he could meet those +emergencies with the fortitude of a man already inured to the exactions +of venal accomplices. + +Then a new discovery came to him. It came as he approached the chief +engineer, with the object in view of throwing a little light on his +presence there. And as he looked into that officer's coldly indignant +eye he awakened to the fact that he was no longer on land, but afloat +on a tiny world with an autocracy and an authority of its own. He was +in a tiny world, he saw, where his career and his traditions were not +to be reckoned with, where he ranked no higher than conch-niggers and +beach-combers and _cargadores_. He was a _dungaree_-clad greaser in an +engine-room, and he was promptly ordered back with the rest of his +crew. He was not even allowed to talk. + +When his watch came round he went on duty again. He saw the futility +of revolt, until the time was ripe. He went through his appointed +tasks with the solemn precision of an apprentice. He did what he was +commanded to do. Yet sometimes the heat would grow so intense that the +great sweating body would have to shamble to a ventilator and there +drink in long drafts of the cooler air. The pressure of invisible +hoops about the great heaving chest would then release itself, the +haggard face would regain some touch of color, and the new greaser +would go back to his work again. One or two of the more observant +toilers about him, experienced in engine-room life, marveled at the +newcomer and the sense of mystery which hung over him. One or two of +them fell to wondering what inner spirit could stay him through those +four-houred ordeals of heat and labor. + +Yet they looked after him with even more inquisitive eyes when, on the +second day out, he was peremptorily summoned to the Captain's room. +What took place in that room no one in the ship ever actually knew. + +But the large-bodied stowaway returned below-decks, white of face and +grim of jaw. He went back to his work in silence, in dogged and +unbroken silence which those about him knew enough to respect. + +It was whispered about, it is true, that among other things a large and +ugly-looking revolver had been taken from his clothing, and that he had +been denied the use of the ship's wireless service. A steward outside +the Captain's door, it was also whispered, had overheard the +shipmaster's angry threat to put the stowaway in irons for the rest of +the voyage and return him to the Ecuadorean authorities. It was +rumored, too, that late in the afternoon of the same day, when the new +greaser had complained of faintness and was seeking a breath of fresh +air at the foot of a midships deck-ladder, he had chanced to turn and +look up at a man standing on the promenade deck above him. + +The two men stood staring at each other for several moments, and for +all the balmy air about him the great body of the stranger just up from +the engine-room had shivered and shaken, as though with a malarial +chill. + +What it meant, no one quite knew. Nor could anything be added to that +rumor, beyond the fact that the first-class passenger, who was known to +be a doctor and who had stared so intently down at the quiet-eyed +greaser, had turned the color of ashes and without a word had slipped +away. And the bewilderment of the entire situation was further +increased when the _Trunella_ swung in at Callao and the large-bodied +man of mystery was peremptorily and none too gently put ashore. It was +noted, however, that the first-class passenger who had stared down at +him from the promenade-deck remained aboard the vessel as she started +southward again. It was further remarked that he seemed more at ease +when Callao was left well behind, although he sat smoking side by side +with the operator in the wireless room until the _Trunella_ had steamed +many miles southward on her long journey towards the Straits of +Magellan. + + + + +XV + +Seven days after the _Trunella_ swung southward from Callao Never-Fail +Blake, renewed as to habiliments and replenished as to pocket, embarked +on a steamer bound for Rio de Janeiro. + +He watched the plunging bow as it crept southward. He saw the heat and +the gray sea-shimmer left behind him. He saw the days grow longer and +the nights grow colder. He saw the Straits passed and the northward +journey again begun. But he neither fretted nor complained of his fate. + +After communicating by wireless with both Montevideo and Buenos Ayres +and verifying certain facts of which he seemed already assured, he +continued on his way to Rio. And over Rio he once more cast and pursed +up his gently interrogative net, gathering in the discomforting +information that Binhart had already relayed, from that city to a +Lloyd-Brazileiro steamer. This steamer, he learned, was bound for +Ignitos, ten thousand dreary miles up the Amazon. + +Five days later Blake followed in a Clyde-built freighter. When well +up the river he transferred to a rotten-timbered sidewheeler that had +once done duty on the Mississippi, and still again relayed from river +boat to river boat, move by move falling more and more behind his +quarry. + +The days merged into weeks, and the weeks into months. He suffered +much from the heat, but more from the bad food and the bad water. For +the first time in his life he found his body shaken with fever and was +compelled to use quinin in great quantities. The attacks of insects, +of insects that flew, that crawled, that tunneled beneath the skin, +turned life into a torment. His huge triple-terraced neck became raw +with countless wounds. But he did not stop by the way. His eyes +became oblivious of the tangled and overcrowded life about him, of the +hectic orchids and huge butterflies and the flaming birds-of-paradise, +of the echoing aisle ways between interwoven jungle growths, of the +arching aerial roofs of verdure and the shadowy hanging-gardens from +which by day parakeets chattered and monkeys screamed and by night +ghostly armies of fireflies glowed. He was no longer impressed by that +world of fierce appetites and fierce conflicts. He seemed to have +attained to a secret inner calm, to an obsessional impassivity across +which the passing calamities of existence only echoed. He merely +recalled that he had been compelled to eat of disagreeable things and +face undesirable emergencies, to drink of the severed Water-vine, to +partake of monkey-steak and broiled parrot, to sleep in poisonous +swamplands. His spirit, even with the mournful cry of night birds in +his ears, had been schooled into the acceptance of a loneliness that to +another might have seemed eternal and unendurable. + +By the time he had reached the Pacific coast his haggard hound's eyes +were more haggard than ever. His skin hung loose on his great body, as +though a vampire bat had drained it of its blood. But to his own +appearance he gave scant thought. For new life came to him when he +found definite traces of Binhart. These traces he followed up, one by +one, until he found himself circling back eastward along the valley of +the Magdalena. And down the Magdalena he went, still sure of his +quarry, following him to Bogota, and on again from Bogota to +Barranquilla, and on to Savanilla, where he embarked on a +Hamburg-American steamer for Limon. + +At Limon it was not hard to pick up the lost trail. But Binhart's +movements, after leaving that port, became a puzzle to the man who had +begun to pride himself on growing into knowledge of his adversary's +inmost nature. For once Blake found himself uncertain as to the +other's intentions. The fugitive now seemed possessed with an idea to +get away from the sea, to strike inland at any cost, as though water +had grown a thing of horror to him. He zigzagged from obscure village +to village, as though determined to keep away from all main-traveled +avenues of traffic. Yet, move as he might, it was merely a matter of +time and care to follow up the steps of a white man as distinctly +individualized as Binhart. + +This white man, it seemed, was at last giving way to the terror that +must have been haunting him for months past. His movements became +feverish, erratic, irrational. He traveled in strange directions and +by strange means, by bullock-cart, by burro, by dug-out, sometimes on +foot and sometimes on horseback. Sometimes he stayed over night at a +rubber-gatherers' camp, sometimes he visited a banana plantation, +bought a fresh horse, and pushed on again. When he reached the +Province of Alajuela he made use of the narrow cattle passes, pressing +on in a northwesterly direction along the valleys of the San Juan and +the San Carlos River. A madness seemed to have seized him, a madness +to make his way northward, ever northward. + +Over heartbreaking mountainous paths, through miasmic jungles, across +sun-baked plateaus, chilled by night and scorched by day, chafed and +sore, tortured by _niguas_ and _coloradillas_, mosquitoes and +_chigoes_, sleeping in verminous hay-thatched huts of bamboo bound +together with bejuco-vine, mislead by lying natives and stolen from by +peons, Blake day by day and week by week fought his way after his +enemy. When worn to lightheadedness he drank _guaro_ and great +quantities of black coffee; when ill he ate quinin. + +The mere act of pursuit had become automatic with him. He no longer +remembered why he was seeking out this man. He no longer remembered +the crime that lay at the root of that flight and pursuit. It was not +often, in fact, that his thoughts strayed back to his old life. When +he did think of it, it seemed only something too far away to remember, +something phantasmal, something belonging to another world. There were +times when all his journeying through steaming swamplands and forests +of teak and satin-wood and over indigo lagoons and mountain-passes of +moonlit desolation seemed utterly and unfathomably foolish. But he +fought back such moods, as though they were a weakness. He let nothing +deter him. He stuck to his trail, instinctively, doggedly, +relentlessly. + +It was at Chalavia that a peon named Tico Viquez came to Blake with the +news of a white man lying ill of black-water fever in a native hut. +For so much gold, Tico Viquez intimated, he would lead the señor to the +hut in question. + +Blake, who had no gold to spare, covered the startled peon with his +revolver and commanded Viquez to take him to that hut. There was that +in the white man's face which caused the peon to remember that life was +sweet. He led the way through a reptilious swamp and into the fringe +of a nispero forest, where they came upon a hut with a roof of +corrugated iron and walls of wattled bamboo. + +Blake, with his revolver in his hand and his guide held before him as a +human shield, cautiously approached the door of this hut, for he feared +treachery. Then, with equal caution, he peered through the narrow +doorway. He stood there for several moments, without moving. + +Then he slipped his revolver back into his pocket and stepped into the +hut. For there, in one corner of it, lay Binhart. He lay on a bed +made of bull-hide stretched across a rough-timbered frame. Yet what +Blake looked down on seemed more a shriveled mummy of Binhart than the +man himself. A vague trouble took possession of the detective as he +blinked calmly down at the glazed and sunken eyes, the gaunt neck, the +childishly helpless body. He stood there, waiting until the man on the +sagging bull-skin saw him. + +"Hello, Jim!" said the sick man, in little more than a whisper. + +"Hello, Connie!" was the other's answer. He picked up a palmetto frond +and fought away the flies. The uncleanness of the place turned his +stomach. + +"What's up, Connie?" he asked, sitting calmly down beside the narrow +bed. + +The sick man moved a hand, weakly, as though it were the yellow flapper +of some wounded amphibian. + +"The jig's up!" he said. The faint mockery of a smile wavered across +the painfully gaunt face. It reminded the other man of heat-lightning +on a dark skyline. "You got me, Jim. But it won't do much good. I 'm +going to cash in." + +"What makes you say that?" argued Blake, studying the lean figure. +There was a look of mild regret on his own sodden and haggard face. +"What's wrong with you, anyway?" + +The man on the bed did not answer for some time. When he spoke, he +spoke without looking at the other man. + +"They said it was black-water fever. Then they said it was +yellow-jack. But I know it's not. I think it's typhoid, or swamp +fever. It's worse than malaria. I dam' near burn up every night. I +get out of my head. I 've done that three nights. That's why the +niggers won't come near me now!" + +Blake leaned forward and fought away the flies again. + +"Then it's a good thing I got up with you." + +The sick man rolled his eyes in their sockets, so as to bring his enemy +into his line of vision. + +"Why?" he asked. + +"Because I 'm not going to let you die," was Blake's answer. + +"You can't help it, Jim! The jig 's up!" + +"I 'm going to get a litter and get you up out o' this hell-hole of a +swamp," announced Blake. "I 'm going to have you carried up to the +hills. Then I 'm going back to Chalavia to get a doctor o' some kind. +Then I 'm going to put you on your feet again!" + +Binhart slowly moved his head from side to side. Then the +heat-lightning smile played about the hollow face again. + +"It was some chase, Jim, was n't it?" he said, without looking at his +old-time enemy. + +Blake stared down at him with his haggard hound's eyes; there was no +answering smile on his heavy lips, now furzed with their grizzled +growth of hair. There seemed something ignominious in such an end, +something futile and self-frustrating. It was unjust. It left +everything so hideously incomplete. He revolted against it with a +sullen and senseless rage. + +"By God, you 're not going to die!" declared the staring and +sinewy-necked man at the bedside. "I say you 're not going to die. I +'m going to get you out o' here alive!" + +A sweat of weakness stood out on Binhart's white face. + +"Where to?" he asked, as he had asked one before. And his eyes +remained closed as put the question. + +"To the pen," was the answer which rose Blake's lips. But he did not +utter the words. Instead, he rose impatiently to his feet. But the +man on the bed must have sensed that unspoken response, for he opened +his eyes and stared long and mournfully at his heavy-bodied enemy. + +"You 'll never get me there!" he said, in little more than a whisper. +"Never!" + + + + +XVI + +Binhart was moved that night up into the hills. There he was installed +in a bungalow of an abandoned banana plantation and a doctor was +brought to his bedside. He was delirious by the time this doctor +arrived, and his ravings through the night were a source of vague worry +to his enemy. On the second day the sick man showed signs of +improvement. + +For three weeks Blake watched over Binhart, saw to his wants, journeyed +to Chalavia for his food and medicines. When the fever was broken and +Binhart began to gain strength the detective no longer made the trip to +Chalavia in person. He preferred to remain with the sick man. + +He watched that sick man carefully, jealously, hour by hour and day by +day. A peon servant was paid to keep up the vigil when Blake slept, as +sleep he must. + +But the strain was beginning to tell on him. He walked heavily. The +asthmatic wheeze of his breathing became more audible. His earlier +touch of malaria returned to him, and he suffered from intermittent +chills and fever. The day came when Blake suggested it was about time +for them to move on. + +"Where to?" asked Binhart. Little had passed between the two men, but +during all those silent nights and days each had been secretly yet +assiduously studying the other. + +"Back to New York," was Blake's indifferent-noted answer. Yet this +indifference was a pretense, for no soul had ever hungered more for a +white man's country than did the travel-worn and fever-racked Blake. +But he had his part to play, and he did not intend to shirk it. They +went about their preparations quietly, like two fellow excursionists +making ready for a journey with which they were already over-familiar. +It was while they sat waiting for the guides and mules that Blake +addressed himself to the prisoner. + +"Connie," he said, "I 'm taking you back. It does n't make much +difference whether I take you back dead or alive. But I 'm going to +take you back." + +The other man said nothing, but his slight head-movement was one of +comprehension. + +"So I just wanted to say there's no side-stepping, no four-flushing, at +this end of the trip!" + +"I understand," was Binhart's listless response. + +"I'm glad you do," Blake went on in his dully monotonous voice. +"Because I got where I can't stand any more breaks." + +"All right, Jim," answered Binhart. They sat staring at each other. +It was not hate that existed between them. It was something more +dormant, more innate. It was something that had grown ineradicable; as +fixed as the relationship between the hound and the hare. Each wore an +air of careless listlessness, yet each watched the other, every move, +every moment. + +It was as they made their way slowly down to the coast that Blake put +an unexpected question to Binhart. + +"Connie, where in hell did you plant that haul o' yours?" + +This thing had been worrying Blake. Weeks before he had gone through +every nook and corner, every pocket and crevice in Binhart's belongings. + +The bank thief laughed a little. He had been growing stronger, day by +day, and as his spirits had risen Blake's had seemed to recede. + +"Oh, I left that up in the States, where it 'd be safe," he answered. + +"What 'll you do about it?" Blake casually inquired. + +"I can't tell, just yet," was Binhart's retort. + +He rode on silent and thoughtful for several minutes. "Jim," he said +at last, "we 're both about done for. There 's not much left for +either of us. We 're going at this thing wrong. There's a lot o' +money up there, for somebody. And _you_ ought to get it!" + +"What do you mean?" asked Blake. He resented the bodily weakness that +was making burro-riding a torture. + +"I mean it's worth a hundred and fifty thousand dollars to you just to +let me drop out. I 'd hand you over that much to quit the chase." + +"It ain't me that's chasing you, Connie. It's the Law!" was Blake's +quiet-toned response. And the other man knew he believed it. + +"Well, you quit, and I 'll stand for the Law!" + +"But, can't you see, they 'd never stand for you!" + +"Oh, yes they would. I 'd just drop out, and they 'd forget about me. +And you 'd have that pile to enjoy life with!" + +Blake thought it over, ponderously, point by point. For not one +fraction of a second could he countenance the thought of surrendering +Binhart. Yet he wanted both his prisoner and his prisoner's haul; he +wanted his final accomplishment to be complete. + +"But how 'd we ever handle the deal?" prompted the tired-bodied man on +the burro. + +"You remember a woman called Elsie Verriner?" + +"Yes," acknowledged Blake, with a pang of regret which he could not +fathom, at the mention of the name. + +"Well, we could fix it through her." + +"Does Elsie Verriner know where that pile is?" the detective inquired. +His withered hulk of a body was warmed by a slow glow of anticipation. +There was a woman, he remembered, whom he could count on swinging to +his own ends. + +"No, but she could get it," was Binhart's response. + +"And what good would that do _me_?" + +"The two of us could go up to New Orleans. We could slip in there +without any one being the wiser. She could meet us. She 'd bring the +stuff with her. Then, when you had the pile in your hand, I could just +fade off the map." + +Blake rode on again in silence. + +"All right," he said at last. "I 'm willing." + +"Then how 'll you prove it? How 'd I know you 'd make good?" demanded +Binhart. + +"That's not up to me! You're the man that's got to make good!" was +Blake's retort. + +"But you 'll give me the chance?" half pleaded his prisoner. + +"Sure!" replied Blake, as they rode on again. He was wondering how +many more miles of hell he would have to ride through before he could +rest. He felt that he would like to sleep for days, for weeks, without +any thought of where to-morrow would find him or the next day would +bring him. + +It was late that day as they climbed up out of a steaming valley into +higher ground that Binhart pulled up and studied Blake's face. + +"Jim, you look like a sick man to me!" he declared. He said it without +exultation; but there was a new and less passive timber to his voice. + +"I 've been feeling kind o' mean this last day or two," confessed +Blake. His own once guttural voice was plaintive, as he spoke. It was +almost a quavering whine. + +"Had n't we better lay up for a few days?" suggested Binhart. + +"Lay up nothing!" cried Blake, and he clenched that determination by an +outburst of blasphemous anger. But he secretly took great doses of +quinin and drank much native liquor. He fought against a mental +lassitude which he could not comprehend. Never before had that ample +machinery of the body failed him in an emergency. Never before had he +known an illness that a swallow or two of brandy and a night's rest +could not scatter to the four winds. It bewildered him to find his +once capable frame rebelling against its tasks. It left him dazed, as +though he had been confronted by the sudden and gratuitous treachery of +a life-long servant. + +He grew more irritable, more fanciful. He changed guides at the next +native village, fearing that Binhart might have grown too intimate with +the old ones. He was swayed by an ever-increasing fear of intrigues. +He coerced his flagging will into a feverish watchfulness. He became +more arbitrary in his movements and exactions. When the chance came, +he purchased a repeating Lee-Enfield rifle, which he packed across his +sweating back on the trail and slept with under his arm at night. When +a morning came when he was too weak and ill to get up, he lay back on +his grass couch, with his rifle across his knees, watching Binhart, +always watching Binhart. + +He seemed to realize that his power was slipping away, and he brooded +on some plan for holding his prisoner, on any plan, no matter what it +might cost. + +He even pretended to sleep, to the end that Binhart might make an +effort to break away--and be brought down with a bullet. He prayed +that Binhart would try to go, would give him an excuse for the last +move would leave the two of them lying there together. Even to perish +there side by side, foolishly, uselessly, seemed more desirable than +the thought that Binhart might in the end get away. He seemed +satisfied that the two of them should lie there, for all time, each +holding the other down, like two embattled stags with their horns +inextricably locked. And he waited there, nursing his rifle, watching +out of sullenly feverish eyes, marking each movement of the +passive-faced Binhart. + +But Binhart, knowing what he knew, was content to wait. + +He was content to wait until the fever grew, and the poisons of the +blood narcotized the dulled brain into indifference, and then goaded it +into delirium. Then, calmly equipping himself for his journey, he +buried the repeating rifle and slipped away in the night, carrying with +him Blake's quinin and revolver and pocket-filter. He traveled +hurriedly, bearing southeast towards the San Juan. Four days later he +reached the coast, journeyed by boat to Bluefields, and from that port +passed on into the outer world, where time and distance swallowed him +up, and no sign of his whereabouts was left behind. + + + + +XVII + +It was six weeks later that a slender-bodied young Nicaraguan known as +Doctor Alfonso Sedeno (his right to that title resulting from four +years of medical study in Paris) escorted into Bluefields the flaccid +and attenuated shadow of Never-Fail Blake. Doctor Sedeno explained to +the English shipping firm to whom he handed over his patient that the +Señor Americano had been found in a dying condition, ten miles from the +camp of the rubber company for which he acted as surgeon. The Señor +Americano was apparently a prospector who had been deserted by his +partner. He had been very ill. But a few days of complete rest would +restore him. The sea voyage would also help. In the meantime, if the +shipping company would arrange for credit from the hotel, the matter +would assuredly be put right, later on, when the necessary despatches +had been returned from New York. + +For three weeks of torpor Blake sat in the shadowy hotel, watching the +torrential rains that deluged the coast. Then, with the help of a +cane, he hobbled from point to point about the town, quaveringly +inquiring for any word of his lost partner. He wandered listlessly +back and forth, mumbling out a description of the man he sought, +holding up strangers with his tremulous-noted inquiries, peering with +weak and watery eyes into any quarter that might house a fugitive. But +no hint or word of Binhart was to be gleaned from those wanderings, and +at the end of a week he boarded a fruit steamer bound for Kingston. + +His strength came back to him slowly during that voyage, and when he +landed at Kingston he was able to walk without a stick. At Kingston, +too, his draft on New York was finally honored. He was able to creep +out to Constant Spring, to buy new clothes, to ride in a carriage when +he chose, to eat a white man's food again. The shrunken body under the +flaccid skin slowly took on some semblance of its former ponderosity, +the watery eyes slowly lost their dead and vapid stare. + +And with increase of strength came a corresponding increase of mental +activity. All day long he kept turning things over in his tired brain. +Hour by silent hour he would ponder the problem before him. It was +more rumination than active thought. Yet up from the stagnating depths +of his brooding would come an occasional bubble of inspiration. + +Binhart, he finally concluded, had gone north. It was the natural +thing to do. He would go where his haul was hidden away. Sick of +unrest, he would seek peace. He would fall a prey to man's consuming +hunger to speak with his own kind again. Convinced that his enemy was +not at his heels, he would hide away somewhere in his own country. And +once reasonably assured that this enemy had died as he had left him to +die, Binhart would surely remain in his own land, among his own people. + +Blake had no proof of this. He could not explain why he accepted it as +fact. He merely wrote it down as one of his hunches. And with his +old-time faith in the result of that subliminal reasoning, he counted +what remained of his money, paid his bills, and sailed from Kingston +northward as a steerage passenger in a United Fruit steamer bound for +Boston. + +As he had expected, he landed at this New England port without +detection, without recognition. Six hours later he stepped off a train +in New York. + +He passed out into the streets of his native city like a ghost emerging +from its tomb. There seemed something spectral in the very chill of +the thin northern sunlight, after the opulent and oppressive heat of +the tropics. A gulf of years seemed to lie between him and the +actualities so close to him. A desolating sense of loneliness kept +driving him into the city's noisier and more crowded drinking-places, +where, under the lash of alcohol, he was able to wear down his hot ache +of deprivation into a dim and dreary regretfulness. Yet the very faces +about him still remained phantasmal. The commonplaces of street life +continued to take on an alien aspect. They seemed vague and far away, +as though viewed through a veil. He felt that the world had gone on, +and in going on had forgotten him. Even the scraps of talk, the talk +of his own people, fell on his ear with a strange sound. + +He found nothing companionable in that cañon of life and movement known +as Broadway. He stopped to stare with haggard and wistful eyes at a +theater front buoyed with countless electric bulbs, remembering the +proud moment when he had been cheered in a box there, for in his +curtain-speech the author of the melodrama of crime being presented had +confessed that the inspiration and plot of his play had come from that +great detective, Never-Fail Blake. + +He drifted on down past the cafés and restaurants where he had once +dined and supped so well, past the familiar haunts where the appetite +of the spirit for privilege had once been as amply fed as the appetite +of the body for food. He sought out the darker purlieus of the lower +city, where he had once walked as a king and dictated dead-lines and +distributed patronage. He drifted into the underworld haunts where his +name had at one time been a terror. But now, he could see, his +approach no longer resulted in that discreet scurry to cover, that +feverish scuttling away for safety, which marks the blacksnake's +progress through a gopher-village. + +When he came to Center Street, at the corner of Broome, he stopped and +blinked up at the great gray building wherein he had once held sway. +He stood, stoop-shouldered and silent, staring at the green lamps, the +green lamps of vigilance that burned as a sign to the sleeping city. + +He stood there for some time, unrecognized, unnoticed, watching the +platoons of broad-chested "flatties" as they swung out and off to their +midnight patrols, marking the plainly clad "elbows" as they passed +quietly up and down the great stone steps. He thought of Copeland, and +the Commissioner, and of his own last hour at Headquarters. And then +his thoughts went on to Binhart, and the trail that had been lost, and +the task that stood still ahead of him. And with that memory awakened +the old sullen fires, the old dogged and implacable determination. + +In the midst of those reviving fires a new thought was fixed; the +thought that Binhart's career was in some way still involved with that +of Elsie Verriner. If any one knew of Binhart's whereabouts, he +remembered, it would surely be this woman, this woman on whom, he +contended, he could still hold the iron hand of incrimination. The +first move would be to find her. And then, at any cost, the truth must +be wrung from her. + +Never-Fail Blake, from the obscure down-town hotel, into which he crept +like a sick hound shunning the light, sent out his call for Elsie +Verriner. He sent his messages to many and varied quarters, feeling +sure that some groping tentacle of inquiry would eventually come in +touch with her. + +Yet the days dragged by, and no answer came back to him. He chafed +anew at this fresh evidence that his power was a thing of the past, +that his word was no longer law. He burned with a sullen and +self-consuming anger, an anger that could be neither expressed in +action nor relieved in words. + +Then, at the end of a week's time, a note came from Elsie Verriner. It +was dated and postmarked "Washington," and in it she briefly explained +that she had been engaged in Departmental business, but that she +expected to be in New York on the following Monday. Blake found +himself unreasonably irritated by a certain crisp assurance about this +note, a certain absence of timorousness, a certain unfamiliar tone of +independence. But he could afford to wait, he told himself. His hour +would come, later on. And when that hour came, he would take a crimp +out of this calm-eyed woman, or the heavens themselves would fall! And +finding further idleness unbearable, he made his way to a +drinking-place not far from that juncture of First Street and the +Bowery, known as Suicide Corner. In this new-world _Cabaret de Neant_ +he drowned his impatience of soul in a Walpurgis Night of five-cent +beer and fusel-oil whiskey. But his time would come, he repeated +drunkenly, as he watched with his haggard hound's eyes the meretricious +and tragic merriment of the revelers about him--his time would come! + + + + +XVIII + +Blake did not look up as he heard the door open and the woman step into +the room. There was an echo of his old-time theatricalism in that +dissimulation of stolid indifference. But the old-time stage-setting, +he knew, was no longer there. Instead of sitting behind an oak desk at +Headquarters, he was staring down at a beer-stained card-table in the +dingy back room of a dingy downtown hotel. + +He knew the woman had closed the door and crossed the room to the other +side of the card-table, but still he did not look up at her. The +silence lengthened until it became acute, epochal, climactic. + +"You sent for me?" his visitor finally said. + +And as Elsie Verriner uttered the words he was teased by a vague sense +that the scene had happened before, that somewhere before in their +lives it had been duplicated, word by word and move by move. + +"Sit down," he said with an effort at the gruffness of assured +authority. But the young woman did not do as he commanded. She +remained still standing, and still staring down at the face of the man +in front of her. + +So prolonged was this stare that Blake began to be embarrassingly +conscious of it, to fidget under it. When he looked up he did so +circuitously, pretending to peer beyond the white face and the staring +eyes of the young woman confronting him. Yet she ultimately coerced +his unsteady gaze, even against his own will. And as he had expected, +he saw written on her face something akin to horror. + +As he, in turn, stared back at her, and in her eyes saw first +incredulity, and then, what stung him more, open pity itself, it came +home to him that he must indeed have altered for the worse, that his +face and figure must have changed. For the first time it flashed over +him: he was only the wreck of the man he had once been. Yet at the +core of that wreck burned the old passion for power, the ineradicable +appetite for authority. He resented the fact that she should feel +sorry for him. He inwardly resolved to make her suffer for that pity, +to enlighten her as to what life was still left in the battered old +carcass which she could so openly sorrow over. + +"Well, I 'm back," he announced in his guttural bass, as though to +bridge a silence that was becoming abysmal. + +"Yes, you 're back!" echoed Elsie Verriner. She spoke absently, as +though her mind were preoccupied with a problem that seemed +inexplicable. + +"And a little the worse for wear," he pursued, with his mirthless croak +of a laugh. Then he flashed up at her a quick look of resentment, a +look which he found himself unable to repress. "While you're all +dolled up," he said with a snort, as though bent on wounding her, +"dolled up like a lobster palace floater!" + +It hurt him more than ever to see that he could not even dethrone that +fixed look of pity from her face, that even his abuse could not thrust +aside her composure. + +"I 'm not a lobster palace floater," she quietly replied. "And you +know it." + +"Then what are you?" he demanded. + +"I 'm a confidential agent of the Treasury Department," was her +quiet-toned answer. + +"Oho!" cried Blake. "So that's why we 've grown so high and mighty!" + +The woman sank into the chair beside which she had been standing. She +seemed impervious to his mockery. + +"What do you want me for?" she asked, and the quick directness of her +question implied not so much that time was being wasted on side issues +as that he was cruelly and unnecessarily demeaning himself in her eyes. + +It was then that Blake swung about, as though he, too, were anxious to +sweep aside the trivialities that stood between him and his end, as +though he, too, were conscious of the ignominy of his own position. + +"You know where I 've been and what I 've been doing!" he suddenly +cried out. + +"I 'm not positive that I do," was the woman's guarded answer. + +"That's a lie!" thundered Blake. "You know as well as I do!" + +"What have you been doing?" asked the woman, almost indulgently. + +"I 've been trailing Binhart, and you know it! And what's more, you +know where Binhart is, now, at this moment!" + +"What was it you wanted me for?" reiterated the white-faced woman, +without looking at him. + +Her evasions did more than anger Blake; they maddened him. For years +now he had been compelled to face her obliquities, to puzzle over the +enigma of her ultimate character, and he was tired of it all. He made +no effort to hold his feelings in check. Even into his voice crept +that grossness which before had seemed something of the body alone. + +"I want to know where Binhart is!" he cried, leaning forward so that +his head projected pugnaciously from his shoulders like the head of a +fighting-cock. + +"Then you have only wasted time in sending for me," was the woman's +obdurate answer. Yet beneath her obduracy was some vague note of +commiseration which he could not understand. + +"I want that man, and I 'm going to get him," was Blake's impassioned +declaration. "And before you get out of this room you 're going to +tell me where he is!" + +She met his eyes, studiously, deliberately, as though it took a great +effort to do so. Their glances seemed to close in and lock together. + +"Jim!" said the woman, and it startled him to see that there were +actual tears in her eyes. But he was determined to remain superior to +any of her subterfuges. His old habit returned to him, the old habit +of "pounding" a prisoner. He knew that one way to get at the meat of a +nut was to smash the nut. And in all his universe there seemed only +one issue and one end, and that was to find his trail and get his man. +So he cut her short with his quick volley of abuse. + +"I 've got your number, Elsie Verriner, alias Chaddy Cravath," he +thundered out, bringing his great withered fist down on the table top. +"I 've got every trick you ever turned stowed away in cold storage. I +'ve got 'em where they 'll keep until the cows come home. I don't care +whether you 're a secret agent or a Secretary of War. There 's only +one thing that counts with me now. And I 'm going to win out. I 'm +going to win out, in the end, no matter what it costs. If you try to +block me in this I 'll put you where you belong. I 'll drag you down +until you squeal like a cornered rat. I 'll put you so low you 'll +never even stand up again!" + +The woman leaned a little forward, staring into his eyes. + +"I did n't expect this of you, Jim," she said. Her voice was tremulous +as she spoke, and still again he could see on her face that odious and +unfathomable pity. + +"There 's lots of things were n't expected of me. But I 'm going to +surprise you all. I 'm going to get what I 'm after or I 'm going to +put you where I ought to have put you two years ago!" + +"Jim," said the woman, white-lipped hut compelling herself to calmness, +"don't go on like this! Don't! You're only making it worse, every +minute!" + +"Making what worse?" demanded Blake. + +"The whole thing. It was a mistake, from the first. I could have told +you that. But you did then what you 're trying to do now. And see +what you 've lost by it!" + +"What have I lost by it?" + +"You 've lost everything," she answered, and her voice was thin with +misery. "Everything--just as they counted on your doing, just as they +expected!" + +"As who expected?" + +"As Copeland and the others expected when they sent you out on a blind +trail." + +"I was n't sent out on a blind trail." + +"But you found nothing when you went out. Surely you remember that." + +It seemed like going back to another world to another life, as he sat +there coercing his memory to meet the past, the abysmal and embittered +past which he had grown to hate. + +"Are you trying to say this Binhart case was a frame up?" he suddenly +cried out. + +"They wanted you out of the way. It was the only trick they could +think of." + +"That's a lie!" declared Blake. + +"It's not a lie. They knew you 'd never give up. They even +handicapped you--started you wrong, to be sure it would take time, to +be positive of a clear field." + +Blake stared at her, almost stupidly. His mind was groping about, +trying to find some adequate motive for this new line of duplicity. He +kept warning himself that she was not to be trusted. Human beings, all +human beings, he had found, moved only by indirection. He was too old +a bird to have sand thrown in his eyes. + +"Why, you welched on Binhart yourself. You put me on his track. You +sent me up to Montreal!" + +"They made me do that," confessed the unhappy woman. "He was n't in +Montreal. He never had been there!" + +"You had a letter from him there, telling you to come to 881 King +Edward when the coast was clear." + +"That letter was two years old. It was sent from a room in the King +Edward Hotel. That was part of their plant." + +He sat for a long time thinking it over, point by point. He became +disturbed by a sense of instability in the things that had once seemed +most enduring, the sickening cataclysmic horror of a man who finds the +very earth under his feet shaken by its earthquake. His sodden face +appeared to age even as he sat there laboriously reliving the past, the +past that seemed suddenly empty and futile. + +"So you sold me out!" he finally said, studying her white face with his +haggard hound's eyes. + +"I could n't help it, Jim. You forced it on me. You wouldn't give me +the chance to do anything else. I wanted to help you--but you held me +off. You put the other thing before my friendship!" + +"What do _you_ know about friendship?" cried the gray-faced man. + +"We were friends once," answered the woman, ignoring the bitter mockery +in his cry. + +He stared at her, untouched by the note of pathos in her voice. There +was something abstracted about his stare, as though his mind had not +yet adjusted itself to a vast new discovery. His inner vision seemed +dazzled, just as the eye itself may be dazzled by unexpected light. + +"So you sold me out!" he said for a third time. He did not move, but +under that lava-like shell of diffidence were volcanic and coursing +fires which even he himself could not understand. + +"Jim, I would have done anything for you, once," went on the unhappy +woman facing him. "You could have saved me--from him, from myself. +But you let the chance slip away. I couldn't go on. I saw where it +would end. So I had to save myself. I had to save myself--in the only +way I could. Oh, Jim, if you 'd only been kinder!" + +She sat with her head bowed, ashamed of her tears, the tears which he +could not understand. He stared at her great crown of carefully coiled +and plaited hair, shining in the light of the unshaded electric-bulb +above them. It took him back to other days when he had looked at it +with other eyes. And a comprehension of all he had lost crept slowly +home to him. Poignant as was the thought that she had seemed beautiful +to him and he might have once possessed her, this thought was +obliterated by the sudden memory that in her lay centered everything +that had caused his failure. She had been the weak link in his life, +the life which he had so wanted to crown with success. + +"You welcher!" he suddenly gasped, as he continued to stare at her. +His very contemplation of her white face seemed to madden him. In it +he seemed to find some signal and sign of his own dissolution, of his +lost power, of his outlived authority. In her seemed to abide the +reason for all that he had endured. To have attained to a +comprehension of her own feelings was beyond him. Even the effort to +understand them would have been a contradiction of his whole career. +She only angered him. And the hot anger that crept through his body +seemed to smoke out of some inner recess of his being a hate that was +as unreasonable as it was animal-like. All the instincts of existence, +in that moment, reverted to life's one primordial problem, the problem +of the fighting man to whom every other man must be an opponent, the +problem of the feral being, as to whether it should kill or be killed. + +Into that unreasoning blind rage flared all the frustration of months, +of years, all the disappointments of all his chase, all the defeat of +all his career. Even as she sat there in her pink and white frailty +she knew and nursed the secret for which he had girdled the world. He +felt that he must tear it from her, that he must crush it out of her +body as the pit is squeezed from a cherry. And the corroding part of +it was that he had been outwitted by a woman, that he was being defied +by a physical weakling, a slender-limbed thing of ribbons and laces +whose back he could bend and break across his great knee. + +He lurched forward to his feet. His great crouching body seemed drawn +towards her by some slow current which he could not control. + +"Where's Binhart?" he suddenly gasped, and the explosive tensity of +that wheezing cry caused her to look up, startled. He swayed toward +her as she did so, swept by some power not his own. There was +something leonine in his movement, something leonine in his snarl as he +fell on her. He caught her body in his great arms and shook it. He +moved without any sense of movement, without any memory of it. + +"Where 's Binhart?" he repeated, foolishly, for by this time his great +hand had closed on her throat and all power of speech was beyond her. +He swung her about and bore her back across the table. She did not +struggle. She lay there so passive in his clutch that a dull pride +came to him at the thought of his own strength. This belated sense of +power seemed to intoxicate him. He was swept by a blind passion to +crush, to obliterate. It seemed as though the rare and final moment +for the righting of vast wrongs, for the ending of great injustices, +were at hand. His one surprise was that she did not resist him, that +she did not struggle. + +From side to side he twisted and flailed her body about, in his +madness, gloating over her final subserviency to his will, marveling +how well adapted for attack was this soft and slender column of the +neck, on which his throttling fingers had fastened themselves. +Instinctively they had sought out and closed on that slender column, +guided to it by some ancestral propulsion, by some heritage of the +brute. It was made to get a grip on, a neck like that! And he grunted +aloud, with wheezing and voluptuous grunts of gratification, as he saw +the white face alter and the wide eyes darken with terror. He was +making her suffer. He was no longer enveloped by that mild and +tragically inquiring stare that had so discomforted him. He was no +longer stung by the thought that she was good to look on, even with her +head pinned down against a beer-stained card-table. He was converting +her into something useless and broken, into something that could no +longer come between him and his ends. He was completely and finally +humiliating her. He was breaking her. He was converting her into +something corrupt. . . . Then his pendulous throat choked with a +falsetto gasp of wonder. _He was killing her_! + +Then, as suddenly as it had come, the smoke of that mental explosion +seemed to clear away. Even as he gaped into the white face so close to +his own he awoke to reason. The consciousness of how futile, of how +odious, of how maniacal, it all was swept over him. He had fallen low, +but he had never dreamed that he could fall so low as this. + +A reaction of physical nausea left him weak and dizzy. The flexor +muscles of his fingers relaxed. An ague of weakness crept through his +limbs. A vertiginous faintness brought him half tumbling and half +rolling back into his chair, wheezing and moist with sweat. He sat +there looking about him, like a sheep killer looking up from the ewe it +has captured. + +Then his great chest heaved and shook with hysterical sobbing. When, a +little later, he heard the shaken woman's antiphonal sobs, the +realization of how low he had fallen kept him from looking at her. A +great shame possessed him. He stumbled out of the room. He groped his +way down to the open streets, a haggard and broken man from whom life +had wrung some final hope of honor. + + + + +XIX + +No catastrophe that was mental in its origin could oppress for long a +man so essentially physical as Blake. For two desolate hours, it is +true, he wandered about the streets of the city, struggling to medicine +his depression of the mind by sheer weariness of the body. Then the +habit of a lifetime of activity reasserted itself. He felt the need of +focusing his resentment on something tangible and material. And as a +comparative clarity of vision returned to him there also came back +those tendencies of the instinctive fighter, the innate protest against +injustice, the revolt against final surrender, the forlorn claim for at +least a fighting chance. And with the thought of his official downfall +came the thought of Copeland and what Copeland had done to him. + +Out of that ferment of futile protest arose one sudden decision. Even +before he articulated the decision he found it unconsciously swaying +his movements and directing his steps. He would go and see Copeland! +He would find that bloodless little shrimp and put him face to face +with a few plain truths. He would confront that anemic +Deputy-Commissioner and at least let him know what one honest man +thought of him. + +Even when Blake stood before Copeland's brownstone-fronted house, the +house that seemed to wear a mask of staid discretion in every drawn +blind and gloomy story, no hesitation came to him. His naturally +primitive mind foresaw no difficulties in that possible encounter. He +knew it was late, that it was nearly midnight, but even that did not +deter him. The recklessness of utter desperation was on him. His +purpose was something that transcended the mere trivialities of +every-day intercourse. And he must see him. To confront Copeland +became essential to his scheme of things. + +He went ponderously up the brown stone steps and rang the bell. He +waited patiently until his ring was answered. It was some time before +the door swung open. Inside that door Blake saw a solemn-eyed servant +in a black spiked-tailed service-coat and gray trousers. + +"I want to see Mr. Copeland," was Blake's calmly assured announcement. + +"Mr. Copeland is not at home," answered the man in the service-coat. +His tone was politely impersonal. His face, too, was impassive. But +one quick glance seemed to have appraised the man on the doorstep, to +have judged him, and in some way to have found him undesirable. + +"But this is important," said Blake. + +"I'm sorry, sir," answered, the impersonal-eyed servant. Blake made an +effort to keep himself in perfect control. He knew that his unkempt +figure had not won the good-will of that autocratic hireling. + +"I 'm from Police Headquarters," the man on the doorstep explained, +with the easy mendacity that was a heritage of his older days. + +He produced the one official card that remained with him, the one worn +and dog-eared and once water-soaked Deputy-Commissioner's card which +still remained in his dog-eared wallet. "I 've got to see him on +business, Departmental business!" + +"Mr. and Mrs. Copeland are at the Metropolitan, sir," explained the +servant. "At the Opera. And they are not back yet." + +"Then I 'll wait for him," announced Blake, placated by the humbler +note in the voice of the man in the service-coat. + +"Very good, sir," announced the servant. And he led the way upstairs, +switching on the electrics as he went. + +Blake found himself in what seemed to be a library. About this softly +hung room he peered with an acute yet heavy disdain, with an +indeterminate envy which he could not control. It struck him as being +feminine and over fine, that shadowy room with all its warm hangings +and polished wood. It stood for a phase of life with which he had no +patience. And he kept telling himself that it had not been come by +honestly, that on everything about him, from the silver desk ornaments +to the marble bust glimmering out of its shadowy background, he himself +had some secret claim. He scowled up at a number of signed etchings +and a row of diminutive and heavily framed canvases, scowled up at them +with quick contempt. Then he peered uncomfortably about at the shelves +of books, mottled streaks of vellum and morocco stippled with gold, +crowded pickets of soft-lettered color which seemed to stand between +him and a world which he had never cared to enter. It was a foolish +world, that world of book reading, a lackadaisical region of unreality, +a place for women and children, but never meant for a man with a man's +work to do. + +His stolidly contemptuous eyes were still peering about the room when +the door opened and closed again. There was something so +characteristically guarded and secretive in the movement that Blake +knew it was Copeland even before he let his gaze wheel around to the +newcomer. About the entire figure, in fact, he could detect that +familiar veiled wariness, that enigmatic and self-concealing +cautiousness which had always had the power to touch him into a quick +irritation. + +"Mr. Blake, I believe," said Copeland, very quietly. He was in full +evening dress. In one hand he held a silk hat and over one arm hung a +black top-coat. He held himself in perfect control, in too perfect +control, yet his thin face was almost ashen in color, almost the +neutral-tinted gray of a battle-ship's side-plates. And when he spoke +it was with the impersonal polite unction with which he might have +addressed an utter stranger. + +"You wished to see me!" he said, as his gaze fastened itself on Blake's +figure. The fact that he remained standing imparted a tentativeness to +the situation. Yet his eyes remained on Blake, studying him with the +cold and mildly abstracted curiosity with which he might view a mummy +in its case. + +"I do!" said Blake, without rising from his chair. + +"About what?" asked Copeland. There was an acidulated crispness in his +voice which hinted that time might be a matter of importance to him. + +"You know what it's about, all right," was Blake's heavy retort. + +"On the contrary," said Copeland, putting down his hat and coat, "I 'm +quite in the dark as to how I can be of service to you." + +Both his tone and his words angered Blake, angered him unreasonably. +But he kept warning himself to wait, to hold himself in until the +proper moment arrived. + +"I expect no service from you," was Blake's curtly guttural response. +He croaked out his mirthless ghost of a laugh. "You 've taught me +better than that!" + +Copeland, for all his iciness, seemed to resent the thrust. + +"We have always something to learn," retorted, meeting Blake's stolid +stare enmity. + +"I guess I've learned enough!" said Blake. + +"Then I hope it has brought you what you are looking for!" Copeland, +as he spoke, stepped over to a chair, but he still remained on his feet. + +"No, it has n't brought me what I 'm after," said the other man. "Not +yet! But it's going to, in the end, Mr. Copeland, or I 'm going to +know the reason why!" + +He kept warning himself to be calm, yet he found his voice shaking a +little as he spoke. The time was not yet ripe for his outbreak. The +climactic moment was still some distance away. But he could feel it +emerging from the mist just as a pilot sights the bell-buoy that marks +his changing channel. + +"Then might I ask what you are after?" inquired Copeland. He folded +his arms, as though to fortify himself behind a pretense of +indifferency. + +"You know what I 've been after, just as I know what you 've been +after," cried Blake. "You set out to get my berth, and you got it. +And I set out to get Binhart, to get the man your whole push could n't +round up--and I 'm going to get him!" + +"Blake," said Copeland, very quietly, "you are wrong in both instances." + +"Am I!" + +"You are," was Copeland's answer, and he spoke with a studious patience +which his rival resented even more than his open enmity. "In the first +place, this Binhart case is a closed issue." + +"Not with me!" cried Blake, feeling himself surrendering to the tide +that had been tugging at him so long. "They may be able to buy off you +cuff-shooters down at Headquarters. They may grease your palm down +there, until you see it pays to keep your hands off. They may pull a +rope or two and make you back down. But nothing this side o' the gates +o' hell is going to make _me_ back down. I began this man-hunt, and _I +'m going to end it_!" + +He took on a dignity in his own eyes. He felt that in the face of +every obstacle he was still the instrument of an ineluctable and +incorruptible Justice. Uncouth and buffeted as his withered figure may +have been, it still represented the relentlessness of the Law. + +"That man-hunt is out of our hands," he heard Copeland saying. + +"But it's not out of _my_ hands!" reiterated the detective. + +"Yes, it's out of your hands, too," answered Copeland. He spoke with a +calm authority, with a finality, that nettled the other man. + +"What are you driving at?" he cried out. + +"This Binhart hunt is ended," repeated Copeland, and in the eyes +looking down at him Blake saw that same vague pity which had rested in +the gaze of Elsie Verriner. + +"By God, it's not ended!" Blake thundered back at him. + +"It is ended," quietly contended the other. "And precisely as you have +put it--Ended by God!" + +"It's what?" cried Blake. + +"You don't seem to be aware of the fact, Blake, that Binhart is +dead--dead and buried!" + +Blake stared up at him. + +"Is what?" his lips automatically inquired. + +"Binhart died seven weeks ago. He died in the town of Toluca, out in +Arizona. He's buried there." + +"That's a lie!" cried Blake, sagging forward in his chair. + +"We had the Phoenix authorities verify the report in every detail. +There is no shadow of doubt about it." + +Still Blake stared up at the other man. + +"I don't believe it," he wheezed. + +Copeland did not answer him. He stepped to the end of the desk and +with his scholarly white finger touched a mother-of-pearl bell button. +Utter silence reigned in the room until the servant answered his +summons. + +"Bridley, go to my secretary and bring me the portfolio in the second +drawer." + +Blake heard and yet did not hear the message. A fog-like sense of +unreality seemed to drape everything about him. The earth itself +seemed to crumble away and leave him poised alone in the very emptiness +of space. Binhart was dead! + +He could hear Copeland's voice far away. He could see the returning +figure of the servant, but it seemed as gray and ghostlike as the +entire room about him. In his shaking fingers he took the official +papers which Copeland handed over to him. He could read the words, he +could see the signatures, but they seemed unable to impart any +clear-cut message to his brain. His dazed eyes wandered over the +newspaper clippings which Copeland thrust into his unsteady fingers. +There, too, was the same calamitous proclamation, as final as though he +had been reading it on a tombstone. Binhart was dead! Here were the +proofs of it; here was an authentic copy of the death certificate, the +reports of the police verification; here in his hands were the final +and indisputable proofs. + +But he could not quite comprehend it. He tried to tell himself it was +only that his old-time enemy was playing some new trick on him, a trick +which he could not quite fathom. Then the totality of it all swept +home to him, swept through his entire startled being as a tidal-wave +sweeps over a coast-shoal. + +Blake, in his day, had known desolation, but it had seldom been +desolation of spirit. It had never been desolation like this. He +tried to plumb it, to its deepest meaning, but consciousness seemed to +have no line long enough. He only knew that his world had ended. He +saw himself as the thing that life had at last left him--a solitary and +unsatisfied man, a man without an aim, without a calling, without +companionship. + +"So this ends the music!" he muttered, as he rose weakly to his feet. +And yet it was more than the end of the music, he had to confess to +himself. It was the collapse of the instruments, the snapping of the +last string. It was the ultimate end, the end that proclaimed itself +as final as the stabbing thought of his own death itself. + +He heard Copeland asking if he would care for a glass of sherry. +Whether he answered that query or not he never knew. He only knew that +Binhart was dead, and that he himself was groping his way out into the +night, a broken and desolate man. + + + + +XX + +Several days dragged away before Blake's mental clarity returned to +him. Then block by unstable block he seemed to rebuild a new world +about him, a new world which was both narrow and empty. But it at +least gave him something on which to plant his bewildered feet. + +That slow return to the substantialities of life was in the nature of a +convalescence. It came step by languid step; he knew no power to hurry +it. And as is so often the case with convalescents, he found himself +in a world from which time seemed to have detached him. Yet as he +emerged from that earlier state of coma, his old-time instincts and +characteristics began to assert themselves. Some deep-seated inner +spirit of dubiety began to grope about and question and challenge. His +innate skepticism once more became active. That tendency to cynical +unbelief which his profession had imposed upon him stubbornly +reasserted itself. His career had crowned him with a surly +suspiciousness. And about the one thing that remained vital to that +career, or what was left of it, these wayward suspicions arrayed +themselves like wolves, about a wounded stag. + +His unquiet soul felt the need of some final and personal proof of +Binhart's death. He asked for more data than had been given him. He +wanted more information than the fact that Binhart, on his flight +north, had fallen ill of pneumonia in New Orleans, had wandered on to +the dry air of Arizona with a "spot" on his lungs, and had there +succumbed to the tubercular invasion for which his earlier sickness had +laid him open. Blake's slowly awakening and ever-wary mind kept +telling him that after all there might be some possibility of trickery, +that a fugitive with the devilish ingenuity of Binhart would resort to +any means to escape being further harassed by the Law. + +Blake even recalled, a few days later, the incident of the Shattuck +jewel-robbery, during the first weeks of his regime as a Deputy +Commissioner. This diamond-thief named Shattuck had been arrested and +released under heavy bail. Seven months later Shattuck's attorney had +appeared before the District Attorney's office with a duly executed +certificate of death, officially establishing the fact that his client +had died two weeks before in the city of Baltimore. On this he had +based a demand for the dismissal of the case. He had succeeded in +having all action stopped and the affair became, officially, a closed +incident. Yet two months later Shattuck had been seen alive, and the +following winter had engaged in an Albany hotel robbery which had +earned for him, under an entirely different name, a nine-year sentence +in Sing Sing. + +From the memory of that case Never-Fail Blake wrung a thin and ghostly +consolation. The more he brooded over it the more morosely disquieted +he became. The thing grew like a upas tree; it spread until it +obsessed all his waking hours and invaded even his dreams. Then a time +came when he could endure it no more. He faced the necessity of +purging his soul of all uncertainty. The whimpering of one of his +unkenneled "hunches" merged into what seemed an actual voice of +inspiration to him. + +He gathered together what money he could; he arranged what few matters +still remained to engage his attention, going about the task with that +valedictory solemnity with which the forlornly decrepit execute their +last will and testament. Then, when everything was prepared, he once +more started out on the trail. + + * * * * * * + +Two weeks later a rough and heavy-bodied man, garbed in the rough +apparel of a mining prospector, made his way into the sun-steeped town +of Toluca. There he went quietly to the wooden-fronted hotel, hired a +pack-mule and a camp-outfit and made purchase, among other things, of a +pick and shovel. To certain of the men he met he put inquiries as to +the best trail out to the Buenavista Copper Camp. Then, as he waited +for the camp-partner who was to follow him into Toluca, he drifted with +amiable and ponderous restlessness about the town, talking with the +telegraph operator and the barber, swapping yarns at the livery-stable +where his pack-mule was lodged, handing out cigars in the +wooden-fronted hotel, casually interviewing the town officials as to +the health of the locality and the death-rate of Toluca, acquainting +himself with the local undertaker and the lonely young doctor, and even +dropping in on the town officials and making inquiries about +main-street building lots and the need of a new hotel. + +To all this amiable and erratic garrulity there seemed to be neither +direction nor significance. But in one thing the town of Toluca +agreed; the ponderous-bodied old new-comer was a bit "queer" in his +head. + +A time came, however, when the newcomer announced that he could wait no +longer for his belated camp-partner. With his pack-mule and a pick and +shovel he set out, late one afternoon, for the Buenavista Camp. Yet by +nightfall, for some strange reason, any one traveling that lonely trail +might have seen him returning towards Toluca. He did not enter the +town, however, but skirted the outer fringe of sparsely settled houses +and guardedly made his way to a close-fenced area, in which neither +light nor movement could be detected. This silent place awakened in +him no trace of either fear or repugnance. With him he carried his +pick and shovel, and five minutes later the sound of this pick and +shovel might have been heard at work as the ponderous-bodied man +sweated over his midnight labor. When he had dug for what seemed an +interminable length of time, he tore away a layer of pine boards and +released a double row of screw-heads. Then he crouched low down in the +rectangular cavern which he had fashioned with his spade, struck a +match, and peered with a narrow-eyed and breathless intentness at what +faced him there. + +One glance at that tragic mass of corruption was enough for him. He +replaced the screw-heads and the pine boards. He took up his shovel +and began restoring the earth, stolidly tramping it down, from time to +time, with his great weight. + +When his task was completed he saw that everything was orderly and as +he had found it. Then he returned to his tethered packmule and once +more headed for the Buenavista Camp, carrying with him a discovery +which made the night air as intoxicating as wine to his weary body. + +Late that night a man might have been heard singing to the stars, +singing in the midst of the wilderness, without rhyme or reason. And +in the midst of that wilderness he remained for another long day and +another long night, as though solitude were necessary to him, that he +might adjust himself to some new order of things, that he might digest +some victory which had been too much for his shattered nerves. + +On the third day, as he limped placidly back into the town of Toluca, +his soul was torn between a great peace and a great hunger. He hugged +to his breast the fact that somewhere in the world ahead of him a man +once known as Binhart still moved and lived. He kept telling himself +that somewhere about the face of the globe that restless spirit whom he +sought still wandered. + +Day by patient day, through the drought and heat and alkali of an +Arizona summer, he sought some clue, some inkling, of the direction +which that wanderer had taken. But about Binhart and his movements, +Toluca and Phoenix and all Arizona itself seemed to know nothing. + +Nothing, Blake saw in the end, remained to be discovered there. So in +time the heavy-bodied man with the haggard hound's eyes took his leave, +passing out into the world which in turn swallowed him up as completely +as it had swallowed up his unknown enemy. + + + + +XXI + +Three of the busiest portions of New York, varying with the various +hours of the day, may safely be said to lie in that neighborhood where +Nassau Street debouches into Park Row, and also near that point where +Twenty-third Street intercepts Fourth Avenue, and still again not far +from where Broadway and Fifth Avenue meet at the southeast corner of +Madison Square. + +About these three points, at certain hours of the day and on certain +days of the week, an observant stranger might have noticed the +strangely grotesque figure of an old cement seller. So often had this +old street-peddler duly appeared at his stand, from month to month, +that the hurrying public seemed to have become inured to the +grotesqueness of his appearance. Seldom, indeed, did a face turn to +inspect him as he blinked out at the lighted street like a Pribiloff +seal blinking into an Arctic sun. Yet it was only by a second or even +a third glance that the more inquisitive might have detected anything +arresting in that forlornly ruminative figure with the pendulous and +withered throat and cheek-flaps. + +To the casual observer he was merely a picturesque old street-peddler, +standing like a time-stained statue beside a carefully arrayed exhibit +of his wares. This exhibit, which invariably proved more interesting +than his own person, consisted of a frame of gas-piping in the form of +an inverted U. From the top bar of this iron frame swung two heavy +pieces of leather cemented together. Next to this coalesced leather +dangled a large Z made up of three pieces of plate glass stuck together +at the ends, and amply demonstrating the adhesive power of the +cementing mixture to be purchased there. + +Next to the glass Z again were two rows of chipped and serrated plates +and saucers, plates and saucers of all kinds and colors, with holes +drilled in their edges, and held together like a suspended chain-gang +by small brass links. At some time in its career each one of these +cups and saucers had been broken across or even shattered into +fragments. Later, it had been ingeniously and patiently glued +together. And there it and its valiant brothers in misfortune swung +together in a double row, with a cobblestone dangling from the bottom +plate, reminding the passing world of remedial beneficences it might +too readily forget, attesting to the fact that life's worst fractures +might in some way still be made whole. + +Yet so impassively, so stolidly statuesque, did this figure stand +beside the gas-pipe that to all intents he might have been cemented to +the pavement with his own glue. He seldom moved, once his frame had +been set up and his wares laid out. When he did move it was only to +re-awaken the equally plethoric motion of his slowly oscillating links +of cemented glass and chinaware. Sometimes, it is true, he disposed of +a phial of his cement, producing his bottle and receiving payment with +the absorbed impassivity of an automaton. + +Huge as his figure must once have been, it now seemed, like his +gibbeted plates, all battered and chipped and over-written with the +marks of time. Like his plates, too, he carried some valiant sense of +being still intact, still stubbornly united, still oblivious of every +old-time fracture, still bound up into personal compactness by some +power which defied the blows of destiny. + +In all seasons, winter and summer, apparently, he wore a long and +loose-fitting overcoat. This overcoat must once have been black, but +it had faded to a green so conspicuous that it made him seem like a +bronze figure touched with the mellowing _patina_ of time. + +It was in the incredibly voluminous pockets of this overcoat that the +old peddler carried his stock in trade, paper-wrapped bottles of +different sizes, and the nickels and dimes and quarters of his daily +trafficking. And as the streams of life purled past him, like water +past a stone, he seemed to ask nothing of the world on which he looked +out with such deep-set and impassive eyes. He seemed content with his +lot. He seemed to have achieved a Nirvana-like indifferency towards +all his kind. + +Yet there were times, as he waited beside his stand, as lethargic as a +lobster in a fish-peddler's window, when his flaccid, exploring fingers +dug deeper into one of those capacious side-pockets and there came in +contact with two oddly shaped wristlets of polished steel. At such +times his intent eyes would film, as the eyes of a caged eagle +sometimes do. Sometimes, too, he would smile with the half-pensive +Castilian smile of an uncouth and corpulent Cervantes. + +But as a rule his face was expressionless. About the entire moss-green +figure seemed something faded and futile, like a street-lamp left +burning after sunrise. At other times, as the patrolman on the beat +sauntered by in his authoritative blue stippled with its metal buttons, +the old peddler's watching eyes would wander wistfully after the +nonchalant figure. At such times a meditative and melancholy +intentness would fix itself on the faded old face, and the stooping old +shoulders would even unconsciously heave with a sigh. + +As a rule, however, the great green-clad figure with its fringe of +white hair--the fringe that stood blithely out from the faded hat brim +like the halo of some medieval saint on a missal--did not permit his +gaze to wander so far afield. + +For, idle as that figure seemed, the brain behind it was forever +active, forever vigilant and alert. The deep-set eyes under their lids +that hung as loose as old parchment were always fixed on the life that +flowed past them. No face, as those eyes opened and closed like the +gills of a dying fish, escaped their inspection. Every man who came +within their range of vision was duly examined and adjudicated. Every +human atom of that forever ebbing and flowing tide of life had to pass +through an invisible screen of inspection, had in some intangible way +to justify itself as it proceeded on its unknown movement towards an +unknown end. And on the loose-skinned and haggard face, had it been +studied closely enough, could have been seen a vague and wistful note +of expectancy, a guarded and muffled sense of anticipation. + +Yet to-day, as on all other days, nobody stopped to study the old +cement-seller's face. The pink-cheeked young patrolman, swinging back +on his beat, tattooed with his ash night-stick on the gas-pipe frame +and peered indifferently down at the battered and gibbeted crockery. + +"Hello, Batty," he said as he set the exhibit oscillating with a push +of the knee. "How 's business?" + +"Pretty good," answered the patient and guttural voice. But the eyes +that seemed as calm as a cow's eyes did not look at the patrolman as he +spoke. + +He had nothing to fear. He knew that he had his license. He knew that +under the faded green of his overcoat was an oval-shaped +street-peddler's badge. He also knew, which the patrolman did not, +that under the lapel of his inner coat was a badge of another shape and +design, the badge which season by season the indulgent new head of the +Detective Bureau extended to him with his further privilege of a +special officer's license. For this empty honor "Batty" Blake--for as +"Batty" he was known to nearly all the cities of America--did an +occasional bit of "stooling" for the Central Office, a tip as to a +stray yeggman's return, a hint as to a "peterman's" activities in the +shopping crowds, a whisper that a till tapper had failed to respect the +Department's dead-lines. + +Yet nobody took Batty Blake seriously. It was said, indeed, that once, +in the old regime, he had been a big man in the Department. But that +Department had known many changes, and where life is unduly active, +memory is apt to be unduly short. + +The patrolman tapping on the gas-pipe arch with his idle night-stick +merely knew that Batty was placid and inoffensive, that he never +obstructed traffic and always carried a license-badge. He knew that in +damp weather Batty limped and confessed that his leg pained him a bit, +from an old hurt he 'd had in the East. And he had heard somewhere +that Batty was a sort of Wandering Jew, patroling the whole length of +the continent with his broken plates and his gas-pipe frame and his +glue-bottles, migrating restlessly from city to city, striking out as +far west as San Francisco, swinging round by Denver and New Orleans and +then working his way northward again up to St. Louis and Chicago and +Pittsburgh. + +Remembering these things the idle young "flatty" turned and looked at +the green-coated and sunken-shouldered figure, touched into some rough +pity by the wordless pathos of an existence which seemed without aim or +reason. + +"Batty, how long 're yuh going to peddle glue, anyway?" he suddenly +asked. + +The glue-peddler, watching the crowds that drifted by him, did not +answer. He did not even look about at his interrogator. + +"D' yuh _have_ to do this?" asked the wide-shouldered youth in uniform. + +"No," was the peddler's mild yet guttural response. + +The other prodded with his night-stick against the capacious overcoat +pockets. Then he laughed. + +"I'll bet yuh 've got about forty dollars stowed away in there," he +mocked. "Yuh have now, have n't yuh?" + +"I don' know!" listlessly answered the sunken-shouldered figure. + +"Then what 're yuh sellin' this stuff for, if it ain't for money?" +persisted the vaguely piqued youth. + +"I don' know!" was the apathetic answer. + +"Then who does?" inquired the indolent young officer, as he stood +humming and rocking on his heels and swinging his stick by its +wrist-thong. + +The man known as Batty may or may not have been about to answer him. +His lips moved, but no sound came from them. His attention, +apparently, was suddenly directed elsewhere. For approaching him from +the east his eyes had made out the familiar figure of old McCooey, the +oldest plain-clothes man who still came out from Headquarters to "pound +the pavement." + +And at almost the same time, approaching him from the west, he had +caught sight of another figure. + +It was that of a dapper and thin-faced man who might have been anywhere +from forty to sixty years of age. He walked, however, with a quick and +nervous step. Yet the most remarkable thing about him seemed to be his +eyes. They were wide-set and protuberant, like a bird's, as though +years of being hunted had equipped him with the animal-like faculty of +determining without actually looking back just who might be following +him. + +Those alert and wide-set eyes, in fact, must have sighted McCooey at +the same time that he fell under the vision of the old cement seller. +For the dapper figure wheeled quietly and quickly about and stooped +down at the very side of the humming patrolman. He stooped and +examined one of the peddler's many-fractured china plates. He squinted +down at it as though it were a thing of intense interest to him. + +As he stooped there the humming patrolman was the witness of a +remarkable and inexplicable occurrence. From the throat of the +huge-shouldered peddler, not two paces away from him, he heard come a +hoarse and brutish cry, a cry strangely like the bawl and groan of a +branded range-cow. At the same moment the gigantic green-draped figure +exploded into sudden activity. He seemed to catapult out at the +stooping dapper figure, bearing it to the sidewalk with the sheer +weight of his unprovoked assault. + +There the struggle continued. There the two strangely diverse bodies +twisted and panted and writhed. There the startlingly agile dapper +figure struggled to throw off his captor. The arch of gas-pipe went +over. Glue-bottles showered amid the shattered glass and crockery. +But that once placid-eyed old cement seller struck to the unoffending +man he had so promptly and so gratuitously attacked, stuck to him as +though he had been glued there with his own cement. And before the +patrolman could tug the combatants apart, or even wedge an arm into the +fight, the exulting green-coated figure had his enemy on his back along +the curb, and, reaching down into his capacious pocket, drew out two +oddly shaped steel wristlets. Forcing up his captive's arm, he +promptly snapped one steel wring on his own wrist, and one on the wrist +of the still prostrate man. + +"What 're yuh tryin' to do?" demanded the amazed officer, still tugging +at the great figure holding down the smaller man. In the encounter +between those two embattled enemies had lurked an intensity of passion +which he could not understand, which seemed strangely akin to insanity +itself. + +It was only when McCooey pushed his way in through the crowd and put a +hand on his shoulder that the old cement seller slowly rose to his +feet. He was still panting and blowing. But as he lifted his face up +to the sky his body rumbled with a Jove-like sound that was not +altogether a cough of lungs overtaxed nor altogether a laugh of triumph. + +"I got him!" he gasped. + +About his once placid old eyes, which the hardened tear-ducts no longer +seemed able to drain of their moisture, was a look of exultation that +made the gathering street-crowd take him for a panhandler gone mad with +hunger. + +"Yuh got _who_?" cried the indignant young officer, wheeling the bigger +man about on his feet. As the cement seller, responding to that tug, +pivoted about, it was noticeable that the man to whom his wrist was +locked by the band of steel duly duplicated the movement. He moved +when the other moved; he drew aside when the other drew aside, as +though they were now two parts of one organism. + +"I got him!" calmly repeated the old street-peddler. + +"Yuh got _who_?" demanded the still puzzled young patrolman, oblivious +of the quiescent light in the bewildered eyes of McCooey, close beside +him. + +"Binhart!" answered Never-Fail Blake, with a sob. "_I 've got +Binhart_!" + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEVER-FAIL BLAKE*** + + +******* This file should be named 18671-8.txt or 18671-8.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/6/7/18671 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: Never-Fail Blake</p> +<p>Author: Arthur Stringer</p> +<p>Release Date: June 23, 2006 [eBook #18671]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEVER-FAIL BLAKE***</p> +<br><br><center><h3>E-text pepared by Al Haines</h3></center><br><br> +<table border=0 bgcolor="ccccff" cellpadding=10> + <tr> + <td> + <b>Transcriber's note:</b><br> + <br> + The printed version of this book had two Chapter + V's. Rather than renumber all the subsequent chapters in + the book, I numbered the first "V" to "V (a)" and the + second one to "V (b)". + </td> + </tr> +</table> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<hr class="full" noshade> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<A NAME="img-front"></A> +<CENTER> +<IMG SRC="images/img-front.jpg" ALT=""Then why can't you marry me?"" BORDER="2" WIDTH="412" HEIGHT="589"> +<H3> +[Frontispiece: "Then why can't you marry me?"] +</H3> +</CENTER> + +<BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +Supertales of +</H2> + +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +MODERN MYSTERY +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +By Arthur Stringer +</H3> + +<BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +NEVER-FAIL BLAKE +</H2> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H4 ALIGN="center"> +McKINLAY, STONE & MACKENZIE +<BR> +NEW YORK +</H4> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H5 ALIGN="center"> +COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY +<BR> +THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY +</H5> + +<BR><BR> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<H2 ALIGN="center"> +TABLE OF CONTENTS +</H2> + +<BR> + +<CENTER> + +<TABLE WIDTH="80%"> +<TR ALIGN="left"> +<TD ALIGN="left" WIDTH="25%"><A HREF="#chap01">Chapter I </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" WIDTH="25%"><A HREF="#chap02">Chapter II </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" WIDTH="25%"><A HREF="#chap03">Chapter III </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" WIDTH="25%"><A HREF="#chap04">Chapter IV </A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR ALIGN="left"> +<TD ALIGN="left" WIDTH="25%"><A HREF="#chap05a">Chapter V (a) </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" WIDTH="25%"><A HREF="#chap05b">Chapter V (b) </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" WIDTH="25%"><A HREF="#chap06">Chapter VI </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" WIDTH="25%"><A HREF="#chap07">Chapter VII </A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR ALIGN="left"> +<TD ALIGN="left" WIDTH="25%"><A HREF="#chap08">Chapter VIII </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" WIDTH="25%"><A HREF="#chap09">Chapter IX </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" WIDTH="25%"><A HREF="#chap10">Chapter X </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" WIDTH="25%"><A HREF="#chap11">Chapter XI </A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR ALIGN="left"> +<TD ALIGN="left" WIDTH="25%"><A HREF="#chap12">Chapter XII </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" WIDTH="25%"><A HREF="#chap13">Chapter XIII </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" WIDTH="25%"><A HREF="#chap14">Chapter XIV </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" WIDTH="25%"><A HREF="#chap15">Chapter XV </A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR ALIGN="left"> +<TD ALIGN="left" WIDTH="25%"><A HREF="#chap16">Chapter XI </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" WIDTH="25%"><A HREF="#chap17">Chapter XII </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" WIDTH="25%"><A HREF="#chap18">Chapter XIII </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" WIDTH="25%"><A HREF="#chap19">Chapter XIX </A></TD> +</TR> + +<TR ALIGN="left"> +<TD ALIGN="left" WIDTH="25%"><A HREF="#chap20">Chapter XX </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" WIDTH="25%"><A HREF="#chap21">Chapter XXI </A></TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" WIDTH="25%"> </TD> +<TD ALIGN="left" WIDTH="25%"> </TD> +</TR> + +</TABLE> + +</CENTER> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap01"></A> +<H1 ALIGN="center"> +NEVER-FAIL BLAKE +</H1> + +<BR> + +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +I +</H3> + +<P> +Blake, the Second Deputy, raised his gloomy hound's eyes as the door +opened and a woman stepped in. Then he dropped them again. +</P> + +<P> +"Hello, Elsie!" he said, without looking at her. +</P> + +<P> +The woman stood a moment staring at him. Then she advanced +thoughtfully toward his table desk. +</P> + +<P> +"Hello, Jim!" she answered, as she sank into the empty chair at the +desk end. The rustling of silk suddenly ceased. An aphrodisiac odor +of ambergris crept through the Deputy-Commissioner's office. +</P> + +<P> +The woman looped up her veil, festooning it about the undulatory roll +of her hat brim. Blake continued his solemnly preoccupied study of the +desk top. +</P> + +<P> +"You sent for me," the woman finally said. It was more a reminder than +a question. And the voice, for all its quietness, carried no sense of +timidity. The woman's pale face, where the undulating hat brim left +the shadowy eyes still more shadowy, seemed fortified with a calm sense +of power. It was something more than a dormant consciousness of +beauty, though the knowledge that men would turn back to a face so +wistful as hers, and their judgment could be dulled by a smile so +narcotizing, had not a little to do with the woman's achieved serenity. +There was nothing outwardly sinister about her. This fact had always +left her doubly dangerous as a law-breaker. +</P> + +<P> +Blake himself, for all his dewlap and his two hundred pounds of +lethargic beefiness, felt a vague and inward stirring as he finally +lifted his head and looked at her. He looked into the shadowy eyes +under the level brows. He could see, as he had seen before, that they +were exceptional eyes, with iris rings of deep gray about the +ever-widening and ever-narrowing pupils which varied with varying +thought, as though set too close to the brain that controlled them. So +dominating was this pupil that sometimes the whole eye looked violet, +and sometimes green, according to the light. +</P> + +<P> +Then his glance strayed to the woman's mouth, where the upper lip +curved outward, from the base of the straight nose, giving her at first +glance the appearance of pouting. Yet the heavier underlip, soft and +wilful, contradicted this impression of peevishness, deepened it into +one of Ishmael-like rebellion. +</P> + +<P> +Then Blake looked at the woman's hair. It was abundant and nut-brown, +and artfully and scrupulously interwoven and twisted together. It +seemed to stand the solitary pride of a life claiming few things of +which to be proud. Blake remembered how that wealth of nut-brown hair +was daily plaited and treasured and coiled and cared for, the +meticulous attentiveness with which morning by morning its hip-reaching +abundance was braided and twisted and built up about the small head, an +intricate structure of soft wonder which midnight must ever see again +in ruins, just as the next morning would find idly laborious fingers +rebuilding its ephemeral glories. This rebuilding was done +thoughtfully and calmly, as though it were a religious rite, as though +it were a sacrificial devotion to an ideal in a life tragically forlorn +of beauty. +</P> + +<P> +He remembered, too, the day when he had first seen her. That was at +the time of "The Sick Millionaire" case, when he had first learned of +her association with Binhart. She had posed at the Waldorf as a +trained nurse, in that case, and had met him and held him off and +outwitted him at every turn. Then he had decided on his "plant." To +effect this he had whisked a young Italian with a lacerated thumb up +from the City Hospital and sent him in to her as an injured +elevator-boy looking for first-aid treatment. One glimpse of her work +on that thumb showed her to be betrayingly ignorant of both +figure-of-eight and spica bandaging, and Blake, finally satisfied as to +the imposture, carried on his investigation, showed "Doctor Callahan" +to be Connie Binhart, the con-man and bank thief, and sent the two +adventurers scurrying away to shelter. +</P> + +<P> +He remembered, too, how seven months after that first meeting Stimson +of the Central Office had brought her to Headquarters, fresh from +Paris, involved in some undecipherable way in an Aix-les-Bains diamond +robbery. The despatches had given his office very little to work on, +and she had smiled at his thunderous grillings and defied his noisy +threats. But as she sat there before him, chic and guarded, with her +girlishly frail body so arrogantly well gowned, she had in some way +touched his lethargic imagination. She showed herself to be of finer +and keener fiber than the sordid demireps with whom he had to do. +Shimmering and saucy and debonair as a polo pony, she had seemed a +departure from type, something above the meretricious termagants round +whom he so often had to weave his accusatory webs of evidence. +</P> + +<P> +Then, the following autumn, she was still again mysteriously involved +in the Sheldon wire-tapping coup. This Montreal banker named Sheldon, +from whom nearly two hundred thousand dollars had been wrested, put a +bullet through his head rather than go home disgraced, and she had +straightway been brought down to Blake, for, until the autopsy and the +production of her dupe's letters, Sheldon's death had been looked upon +as a murder. +</P> + +<P> +Blake had locked himself in with the white-faced Miss Elsie Verriner, +alias Chaddy Cravath, alias Charlotte Carruthers, and for three long +hours he had pitted his dynamic brute force against her flashing and +snake-like evasiveness. He had pounded her with the artillery of his +inhumanities. He had beleaguered her with explosive brutishness. He +had bulldozed and harried her into frantic weariness. He had +third-degreed her into cowering and trembling indignation, into hectic +mental uncertainties. Then, with the fatigue point well passed, he had +marshaled the last of his own animal strength and essayed the final +blasphemous Vesuvian onslaught that brought about the nervous +breakdown, the ultimate collapse. She had wept, then, the blubbering, +loose-lipped, abandoned weeping of hysteria. She had stumbled forward +and caught at his arm and clung to it, as though it were her last +earthly pillar of support. Her huge plaited ropes of hair had fallen +down, thick brown ropes longer than his own arms, and he, breathing +hard, had sat back and watched them as she wept. +</P> + +<P> +But Blake was neither analytical nor introspective. How it came about +he never quite knew. He felt, after his blind and inarticulate +fashion, that this scene of theirs, that this official assault and +surrender, was in some way associated with the climacteric transports +of camp-meeting evangelism, that it involved strange nerve-centers +touched on in rhapsodic religions, that it might even resemble the +final emotional surrender of reluctant love itself to the first +aggressive tides of passion. What it was based on, what it arose from, +he could not say. But in the flood-tide of his own tumultuous conquest +he had watched her abandoned weeping and her tumbled brown hair. And +as he watched, a vague and troubling tingle sped like a fuse-sputter +along his limbs, and fired something dormant and dangerous in the great +hulk of a body which had never before been stirred by its explosion of +emotion. It was not pity, he knew; for pity was something quite +foreign to his nature. Yet as she lay back, limp and forlorn against +his shoulder, sobbing weakly out that she wanted to be a good woman, +that she could be honest if they would only give her a chance, he felt +that thus to hold her, to shield her, was something desirable. +</P> + +<P> +She had stared, weary and wide-eyed, as his head had bent closer down +over hers. She had drooped back, bewildered and unresponsive, as his +heavy lips had closed on hers that were still wet and salty with tears. +When she had left the office, at the end of that strange hour, she had +gone with the promise of his protection. +</P> + +<P> +The sobering light of day, with its cynic relapse to actualities, might +have left that promise a worthless one, had not the prompt evidence of +Sheldon's suicide come to hand. This made Blake's task easier than he +had expected. The movement against Elsie Verriner was "smothered" at +Headquarters. Two days later she met Blake by appointment. That day, +for the first time in his life, he gave flowers to a woman. +</P> + +<P> +Two weeks later he startled her with the declaration that he wanted to +marry her. He did n't care about her past. She 'd been dragged into +the things she 'd done without understanding them, at first, and she 'd +kept on because there 'd been no one to help her away from them. He +knew he could do it. She had a fine streak in her, and he wanted to +bring it out! +</P> + +<P> +A little frightened, she tried to explain that she was not the marrying +kind. Then, brick-red and bull-necked, he tried to tell her in his +groping Celtic way that he wanted children, that she meant a lot to +him, that he was going to try to make her the happiest woman south of +Harlem. +</P> + +<P> +This had brought into her face a quick and dangerous light which he +found hard to explain. He could see that she was flattered by what he +had said, that his words had made her waywardly happy, that for a +moment, in fact, she had been swept off her feet. +</P> + +<P> +Then dark afterthought interposed. It crept like a cloud across her +abandoned face. It brought about a change so prompt that it disturbed +the Second Deputy. +</P> + +<P> +"You 're—you 're not tied up already, are you?" he had hesitatingly +demanded. "You 're not married?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, I 'm not tied up!" she had promptly and fiercely responded. "My +life 's my own—my own!" +</P> + +<P> +"Then why can't you marry me?" the practical-minded man had asked. +</P> + +<P> +"I could!" she had retorted, with the same fierceness as before. Then +she had stood looking at him out of wistful and unhappy eyes. "I +could—if you only understood, if you could only help me the way I want +to be helped!" +</P> + +<P> +She had clung to his arm with a tragic forlornness that seemed to leave +her very wan and helpless. And he had found it ineffably sweet to +enfold that warm mass of wan helplessness in his own virile strength. +</P> + +<P> +She asked for time, and he was glad to consent to the delay, so long as +it did not keep him from seeing her. In matters of the emotions he was +still as uninitiated as a child. He found himself a little dazed by +the seemingly accidental tenderness, by the promises of devotion, in +which she proved so lavish. Morning by jocund morning he built up his +airy dreams, as carefully as she built up her nut-brown plaits. He +grew heavily light-headed with his plans for the future. When she +pleaded with him never to leave her, never to trust her too much, he +patted her thin cheek and asked when she was going to name the day. +From that finality she still edged away, as though her happiness itself +were only experimental, as though she expected the blue sky above them +to deliver itself of a bolt. +</P> + +<P> +But by this time she had become a habit with him. He liked her even in +her moodiest moments. When, one day, she suggested that they go away +together, anywhere so long as it was away, he merely laughed at her +childishness. +</P> + +<P> +It was, in fact, Blake himself who went away. After nine weeks of +alternating suspense and happiness that seemed nine weeks of +inebriation to him, he was called out of the city to complete the +investigation on a series of iron-workers' dynamite outrages. Daily he +wrote or wired back to her. But he was kept away longer than he had +expected. When he returned to New York she was no longer there. She +had disappeared as completely as though an asphalted avenue had opened +and swallowed her up. It was not until the following winter that he +learned she was again with Connie Binhart, in southern Europe. +</P> + +<P> +He had known his one belated love affair. It had left no scar, he +claimed, because it had made no wound. Binhart, he consoled himself, +had held the woman in his power: there had been no defeat because there +had been no actual conquest. And now he could face her without an +eye-blink of conscious embarrassment. Yet it was good to remember that +Connie Binhart was going to be ground in the wheels of the law, and +ground fine, and ground to a finish. +</P> + +<P> +"What did you want me for, Jim?" the woman was again asking him. She +spoke with an intimate directness, and yet in her attitude were subtle +reservations, a consciousness of the thin ice on which they both stood. +Each saw, only too plainly, the need for great care, in every step. In +each lay the power to uncover, at a hand's turn, old mistakes that were +best unremembered. Yet there was a certain suave audacity about the +woman. She was not really afraid of Blake, and the Second Deputy had +to recognize that fact. This self-assurance of hers he attributed to +the recollection that she had once brought about his personal +subjugation, "got his goat," as he had phrased it. She, woman-like, +would never forget it. +</P> + +<P> +"There 's a man I want. And Schmittenberg tells me you know where he +is." Blake, as he spoke, continued to look heavily down at his desk +top. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes?" she answered cautiously, watching herself as carefully as an +actress with a rôle to sustain, a rôle in which she could never quite +letter-perfect. +</P> + +<P> +"It's Connie Binhart," cut out the Second Deputy. +</P> + +<P> +He could see discretion drop like a curtain across her watching face. +</P> + +<P> +"Connie Binhart!" she temporized. Blake, as his heavy side glance +slewed about to her, prided himself on the fact that he could see +through her pretenses. At any other time he would have thrown open the +flood-gates of that ever-inundating anger of his and swept away all +such obliquities. +</P> + +<P> +"I guess," he went on with slow patience "we know him best round here +as Charles Blanchard." +</P> + +<P> +"Blanchard?" she echoed. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, Blanchard, the Blanchard we 've been looking for, for seven +months now, the Blanchard who chloroformed Ezra Newcomb and carried off +a hundred and eighteen thousand dollars." +</P> + +<P> +"Newcomb?" again meditated the woman. +</P> + +<P> +"The Blanchard who shot down the bank detective in Newcomb's room when +the rest of the bank was listening to a German band playing in the side +street, a band hired for the occasion." +</P> + +<P> +"When was that?" demanded the woman. +</P> + +<P> +"That was last October," he answered with a sing-song weariness +suggestive of impatience at such supererogative explanations. +</P> + +<P> +"I was at Monte Carlo all last autumn," was the woman's quick retort. +</P> + +<P> +Blake moved his heavy body, as though to shoulder away any claim as to +her complicity. +</P> + +<P> +"I know that," he acknowledged. "And you went north to Paris on the +twenty-ninth of November. And on the third of December you went to +Cherbourg; and on the ninth you landed in New York. I know all that. +That's not what I 'm after. I want to know where Connie Binhart is, +now, to-day." +</P> + +<P> +Their glances at last came together. No move was made; no word was +spoken. But a contest took place. +</P> + +<P> +"Why ask <I>me</I>?" repeated the woman for the second time. It was only +too plain that she was fencing. +</P> + +<P> +"Because you <I>know</I>," was Blake's curt retort. He let the gray-irised +eyes drink in the full cup of his determination. Some slowly +accumulating consciousness of his power seemed to intimidate her. He +could detect a change in her hearing, in her speech itself. +</P> + +<P> +"Jim, I can't tell you," she slowly asserted. "I can't do it!" +</P> + +<P> +"But I 've got 'o know," he stubbornly maintained. "And I 'm going to." +</P> + +<P> +She sat studying him for a minute or two. Her face had lost its +earlier arrogance. It seemed troubled; almost touched with fear. She +was not altogether ignorant, he reminded himself, of the resources +which he could command. +</P> + +<P> +"I can't tell you," she repeated. "I'd rather you let me go." +</P> + +<P> +The Second Deputy's smile, scoffing and melancholy, showed how utterly +he ignored her answer. He looked at his watch. Then he looked back at +the woman. A nervous tug-of-war was taking place between her right and +left hand, with a twisted-up pair of ecru gloves for the cable. +</P> + +<P> +"You know me," he began again in his deliberate and abdominal bass. +"And I know you. I 've got 'o get this man Binhart. I 've got 'o! He +'s been out for seven months, now, and they 're going to put it up to +me, to <I>me</I>, personally. Copeland tried to get him without me. He +fell down on it. They all fell down on it. And now they're going to +throw the case back on me. They think it 'll be my Waterloo." +</P> + +<P> +He laughed. His laugh was as mirthless as the cackle of a guinea hen. +"But I 'm going to die hard, believe me! And if I go down, if they +think they can throw me on that, I 'm going to take a few of my friends +along with me." +</P> + +<P> +"Is that a threat?" was the woman's quick inquiry. Her eyes narrowed +again, for she had long since learned, and learned it to her sorrow, +that every breath he drew was a breath of self-interest. +</P> + +<P> +"No; it's just a plain statement." He slewed about in his swivel +chair, throwing one thick leg over the other as he did so. "I hate to +holler Auburn at a girl like you, Elsie; but I 'm going—" +</P> + +<P> +"Auburn?" she repeated very quietly. Then she raised her eyes to his. +"Can you say a thing like that to me, Jim?" +</P> + +<P> +He shifted a little in his chair. But he met her gaze without a wince. +</P> + +<P> +"This is business, Elsie, and you can't mix business and—and other +things," he tailed off at last, dropping his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"I 'm sorry you put it that way," she said. "I hoped we 'd be better +friends than that!" +</P> + +<P> +"I'm not counting on friendship in this!" he retorted. +</P> + +<P> +"But it might have been better, even in this!" she said. And the +artful look of pity on her face angered him. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, we 'll begin on something nearer home!" he cried. +</P> + +<P> +He reached down into his pocket and produced a small tinted oblong of +paper. He held it, face out, between his thumb and forefinger, so that +she could read it. +</P> + +<P> +"This Steinert check 'll do the trick. Take a closer look at the +signature. Do you get it?" +</P> + +<P> +"What about it?" she asked, without a tremor. +</P> + +<P> +He restored the check to his wallet and the wallet to his pocket. She +would find it impossible to outdo him in the matter of impassivity. +</P> + +<P> +"I may or I may not know who forged that check. I don't <I>want</I> to +know. And when you tell me where Binhart is, I <I>won't</I> know." +</P> + +<P> +"That check was n't forged," contended the quiet-eyed woman. +</P> + +<P> +"Steinert will swear it was," declared the Second Deputy. +</P> + +<P> +She sat without speaking, apparently in deep study. Her intent face +showed no fear, no bewilderment, no actual emotion of any kind. +</P> + +<P> +"You 've got 'o face it," said Blake, sitting back and waiting for her +to speak. His attitude was that of a physician at a bedside, awaiting +the prescribed opiate to produce its prescribed effect. +</P> + +<P> +"Will I be dragged into this case, in any way, if Binhart is rounded +up?" the woman finally asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Not once," he asserted. +</P> + +<P> +"You promise me that?" +</P> + +<P> +"Of course," answered the Second Deputy. +</P> + +<P> +"And you 'll let me alone on—on the other things?" she calmly exacted. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," he promptly acknowledged. "I 'll see that you 're let alone." +</P> + +<P> +Again she looked at him with her veiled and judicial eyes. Then she +dropped her hands into her lap. The gesture seemed one of resignation. +</P> + +<P> +"Binhart's in Montreal," she said. +</P> + +<P> +Blake, keeping his face well under control, waited for her to go on. +</P> + +<P> +"He 's been in Montreal for weeks now. You 'll find him at 381 King +Edward Avenue, in Westmount. He 's there, posing as an expert +accountant." +</P> + +<P> +She saw the quick shadow of doubt, the eye-flash of indecision. So she +reached quietly down and opened her pocket-book, rummaging through its +contents for a moment or two. Then she handed Blake a folded envelope. +</P> + +<P> +"You know his writing?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +"I 've seen enough of it," he retorted, as he examined the typewritten +envelope post-marked "Montreal, Que." Then he drew out the inner +sheet. On it, written by pen, he read the message: "Come to 381 King +Edward when the coast is clear," and below this the initials "C. B." +</P> + +<P> +Blake, with the writing still before his eyes, opened a desk drawer and +took out a large reading-glass. Through the lens of this he again +studied the inscription, word by word. Then he turned to the office +'phone on his desk. +</P> + +<P> +"Nolan," he said into the receiver, "I want to know if there 's a King +Edward Avenue in Montreal." +</P> + +<P> +He sat there waiting, still regarding the handwriting with stolidly +reproving eyes. There was no doubt of its authenticity. He would have +known it at a glance. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, sir," came the answer over the wire. "It's one of the newer +avenues in Westmount." +</P> + +<P> +Blake, still wrapped in thought, hung up the receiver. The woman +facing him did not seem to resent his possible imputation of +dishonesty. To be suspicious of all with whom he came in contact was +imposed on him by his profession. He was compelled to watch even his +associates, his operatives and underlings, his friends as well as his +enemies. Life, with him, was a concerto of skepticisms. +</P> + +<P> +She was able to watch him, without emotion, as he again bent forward, +took up the 'phone receiver, and this time spoke apparently to another +office. +</P> + +<P> +"I want you to wire Teal to get a man out to cover 381 King Edward +Avenue, in Montreal. Yes, Montreal. Tell him to get a man out there +inside of an hour, and put a night watch on until I relieve 'em." +</P> + +<P> +Then, breathing heavily, he bent over his desk, wrote a short message +on a form pad and pushed the buzzer-button with his thick finger. He +carefully folded up the piece of paper as he waited. +</P> + +<P> +"Get that off to Carpenter in Montreal right away," he said to the +attendant who answered his call. Then he swung about in his chair, +with a throaty grunt of content. He sat for a moment, staring at the +woman with unseeing eyes. Then he stood up. With his hands thrust +deep in his pockets he slowly moved his head back and forth, as though +assenting to some unuttered question. +</P> + +<P> +"Elsie, you 're all right," he acknowledged with his solemn and +unimaginative impassivity. "You 're all right." +</P> + +<P> +Her quiet gaze, with all its reservations, was a tacit question. He +was still a little puzzled by her surrender. He knew she did not +regard him as the great man that he was, that his public career had +made of him. +</P> + +<P> +"You've helped me out of a hole," he acknowledged as he faced her +interrogating eyes with his one-sided smile. "I 'm mighty glad you 've +done it, Elsie—for your sake as well as mine." +</P> + +<P> +"What hole?" asked the woman, wearily drawing on her gloves. There was +neither open contempt nor indifference on her face. Yet something in +her bearing nettled him. The quietness of her question contrasted +strangely with the gruffness of the Second Deputy's voice as he +answered her. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, they think I 'm a has-been round here," he snorted. "They 've got +the idea I 'm out o' date. And I 'm going to show 'em a thing or two +to wake 'em up." +</P> + +<P> +"How?" asked the woman. +</P> + +<P> +"By doing what their whole kid-glove gang have n't been able to do," he +avowed. And having delivered himself of that ultimatum, he promptly +relaxed into his old-time impassiveness, like a dog snapping from his +kennel and shrinking back into its shadows. At the same moment that +Blake's thick forefinger again prodded the buzzer-button at his desk +end the watching woman could see the relapse into official wariness. +It was as though he had put the shutters up in front of his soul. She +accepted the movement as a signal of dismissal. She rose from her +chair and quietly lowered and adjusted her veil. Yet through that +lowered veil she stood looking down at Never-Fail Blake for a moment or +two. She looked at him with grave yet casual curiosity, as tourists +look at a ruin that has been pointed out to them as historic. +</P> + +<P> +"You did n't give me back Connie Binhart's note," she reminded him as +she paused with her gloved finger-tips resting on the desk edge. +</P> + +<P> +"D' you want it?" he queried with simulated indifference, as he made a +final and lingering study of it. +</P> + +<P> +"I 'd like to keep it," she acknowledged. When, without meeting her +eyes, he handed it over to her, she folded it and restored it to her +pocket-book, carefully, as though vast things depended on that small +scrap of paper. +</P> + +<P> +Never-Fail Blake, alone in his office and still assailed by the vaguely +disturbing perfumes which she had left behind her, pondered her reasons +for taking back Binhart's scrap of paper. He wondered if she had at +any time actually cared for Binhart. He wondered if she was capable of +caring for anybody. And this problem took his thoughts back to the +time when so much might have depended on its answer. +</P> + +<P> +The Second Deputy dropped his reading-glass in its drawer and slammed +it shut. It made no difference, he assured himself, one way or the +other. And in the consolatory moments of a sudden new triumph +Never-Fail Blake let his thoughts wander pleasantly back over that long +life which (and of this he was now comfortably conscious) his next +official move was about to redeem. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap02"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +II +</H3> + + +<P> +It was as a Milwaukee newsboy, at the age of twelve, that "Jimmie" +Blake first found himself in any way associated with that arm of +constituted authority known as the police force. A plain-clothes man, +on that occasion, had given him a two-dollar bill to carry about an +armful of evening papers and at the same time "tail" an itinerant +pickpocket. The fortifying knowledge, two years later, that the Law +was behind him when he was pushed happy and tingling through a transom +to release the door-lock for a house-detective, was perhaps a +foreshadowing of that pride which later welled up in his bosom at the +phrase that he would always "have United Decency behind him," as the +social purifiers fell into the habit of putting it. +</P> + +<P> +At nineteen, as a "checker" at the Upper Kalumet Collieries, Blake had +learned to remember faces. Slavic or Magyar, Swedish or Calabrian, +from that daily line of over two hundred he could always pick his face +and correctly call the name. His post meant a life of indolence and +petty authority. His earlier work as a steamfitter had been more +profitable. Yet at that work he had been a menial; it involved no +transom-born thrills, no street-corner tailer's suspense. As a checker +he was at least the master of other men. +</P> + +<P> +His public career had actually begun as a strike breaker. The monotony +of night-watchman service, followed by a year as a drummer for an +Eastern firearm firm, and another year as an inspector for a +Pennsylvania powder factory, had infected him with the <I>wanderlust</I> of +his kind. It was in Chicago, on a raw day of late November, with a +lake wind whipping the street dust into his eyes, that he had seen the +huge canvas sign of a hiring agency's office, slapping in the storm. +This sign had said: +</P> + +<CENTER> +<P> +"MEN WANTED." +</P> +</CENTER> + +<P> +Being twenty-six and adventurous and out of a job, he had drifted in +with the rest of earth's undesirables and asked for work. +</P> + +<P> +After twenty minutes of private coaching in the mysteries of railway +signals, he had been "passed" by the desk examiner and sent out as one +of the "scab" train crew to move perishable freight, for the Wisconsin +Central was then in the throes of its first great strike. And he had +gone out as a green brakeman, but he had come back as a hero, with a +<I>Tribune</I> reporter posing him against a furniture car for a two-column +photo. For the strikers had stoned his train, half killed the "scab" +fireman, stalled him in the yards and cut off two thirds of his cars +and shot out the cab-windows for full measure. But in the cab with an +Irish engine-driver named O'Hagan, Blake had backed down through the +yards again, picked up his train, crept up over the tender and along +the car tops, recoupled his cars, fought his way back to the engine, +and there, with the ecstatic O'Hagan at his side, had hurled back the +last of the strikers trying to storm his engine steps. He even fell to +"firing" as the yodeling O'Hagan got his train moving again, and then, +perched on the tender coal, took pot-shots with his brand-new revolver +at a last pair of strikers who were attempting to manipulate the +hand-brakes. +</P> + +<P> +That had been the first train to get out of the yards in seven days. +Through a godlike disregard of signals, it is true, they had run into +an open switch, some twenty-eight miles up the line, but they had moved +their freight and won their point. +</P> + +<P> +Blake, two weeks later, had made himself further valuable to that +hiring agency, not above subornation of perjury, by testifying in a +court of law to the sobriety of a passenger crew who had been carried +drunk from their scab-manned train. So naïvely dogged was he in his +stand, so quick was he in his retorts, that the agency, when the strike +ended by a compromise ten days later, took him on as one of their own +operatives. +</P> + +<P> +Thus James Blake became a private detective. He was at first +disappointed in the work. It seemed, at first, little better than his +old job as watchman and checker. But the agency, after giving him a +three-week try out at picket work, submitted him to the further test of +a "shadowing" case. That first assignment of "tailing" kept him +thirty-six hours without sleep, but he stuck to his trail, stuck to it +with the blind pertinacity of a bloodhound, and at the end transcended +mere animalism by buying a tip from a friendly bartender. Then, when +the moment was ripe, he walked into the designated hop-joint and picked +his man out of an underground bunk as impassively as a grocer takes an +egg crate from a cellar shelf. +</P> + +<P> +After his initial baptism of fire in the Wisconsin Central railway +yards, however, Blake yearned for something more exciting, for +something more sensational. His hopes rose, when, a month later, he +was put on "track" work. He was at heart fond of both a good horse and +a good heat. He liked the open air and the stir and movement and color +of the grand-stand crowds. He liked the "ponies" with the sunlight on +their satin flanks, the music of the band, the gaily appareled women. +He liked, too, the off-hand deference of the men about him, from +turnstile to betting shed, once his calling was known. They were all +ready to curry favor with him, touts and rail-birds, dockers and +owners, jockeys and gamblers and bookmakers, placating him with an +occasional "sure-thing" tip from the stables, plying him with cigars +and advice as to how he should place his money. There was a tacit +understanding, of course, that in return for these courtesies his +vision was not to be too keen nor his manner too aggressive. When he +was approached by an expert "dip" with the offer of a fat reward for +immunity in working the track crowds, Blake carefully weighed the +matter, pro and con, equivocated, and decided he would gain most by a +"fall." So he planted a barber's assistant with whom he was friendly, +descended on the pickpocket in the very act of going through that +bay-rum scented youth's pocket, and secured a conviction that brought a +letter of thanks from the club stewards and a word or two of approval +from his head office. +</P> + +<P> +That head office, seeing that they had a man to be reckoned with, +transferred Blake to their Eastern division, with headquarters at New +York, where new men and new faces were at the moment badly needed. +</P> + +<P> +They worked him hard, in that new division, but he never objected. He +was sober; he was dependable; and he was dogged with the doggedness of +the unimaginative. He wanted to get on, to make good, to be more than +a mere "operative." And if his initial assignments gave him little but +"rough-neck" work to do, he did it without audible complaint. He did +bodyguard service, he handled strike breakers, he rounded up +freight-car thieves, he was given occasionally "spot" and "tailing" +work to do. Once, after a week of upholstered hotel lounging on a +divorce case he was sent out on night detail to fight river pirates +stealing from the coal-road barges. +</P> + +<P> +In the meantime, being eager and unsatisfied, he studied his city. +Laboriously and patiently he made himself acquainted with the ways of +the underworld. He saw that all his future depended upon +acquaintanceship with criminals, not only with their faces, but with +their ways and their women and their weaknesses. So he started a +gallery, a gallery of his own, a large and crowded gallery between +walls no wider than the bones of his own skull. To this jealously +guarded and ponderously sorted gallery he day by day added some new +face, some new scene, some new name. Crook by crook he stored them +away there, for future reference. He got to know the "habituals" and +the "timers," the "gangs" and their "hang outs" and "fences." He +acquired an array of confidence men and hotel beats and queer shovers +and bank sneaks and wire tappers and drum snuffers. He made a mental +record of dips and yeggs and till-tappers and keister-crackers, of +panhandlers and dummy chuckers, of sun gazers and schlaum workers. He +slowly became acquainted with their routes and their rendezvous, their +tricks and ways and records. But, what was more important, he also +grew into an acquaintanceship with ward politics, with the nameless +Power above him and its enigmatic traditions. He got to know the +Tammany heelers, the men with "pull," the lads who were to be "pounded" +and the lads who were to be let alone, the men in touch with the +"Senator," and the gangs with the fall money always at hand. +</P> + +<P> +Blake, in those days, was a good "mixer." He was not an "office" man, +and was never dubbed high-brow. He was not above his work; no one +accused him of being too refined for his calling. Through a mind such +as his the Law could best view the criminal, just as a solar eclipse is +best viewed through smoked glass. +</P> + +<P> +He could hobnob with bartenders and red-lighters, pass unnoticed +through a slum, join casually in a stuss game, or loaf unmarked about a +street corner. He was fond of pool and billiards, and many were the +unconsidered trifles he picked up with a cue in his hand. His face, +even in those early days, was heavy and inoffensive. Commonplace +seemed to be the word that fitted him. He could always mix with and +become one of the crowd. He would have laughed at any such foolish +phrase as "protective coloration." Yet seldom, he knew, men turned +back to look at him a second time. Small-eyed, beefy and well-fed, he +could have passed, under his slightly tilted black boulder, as a truck +driver with a day off. +</P> + +<P> +What others might have denominated as "dirty work" he accepted with +heavy impassivity, consoling himself with the contention that its final +end was cleanness. And one of his most valuable assets, outside his +stolid heartlessness, was his speaking acquaintanceship with the women +of the underworld. He remained aloof from them even while he mixed +with them. He never grew into a "moll-buzzer." But in his rough way +he cultivated them. He even helped some of them out of their +troubles—in consideration for "tips" which were to be delivered when +the emergency arose. They accepted his gruffness as simple-mindedness, +as blunt honesty. One or two, with their morbid imaginations touched +by his seeming generosities, made wistful amatory advances which he +promptly repelled. He could afford to have none of them with anything +"on" him. He saw the need of keeping cool headed and clean handed, +with an eye always to the main issue. +</P> + +<P> +And Blake really regarded himself as clean handed. Yet deep in his +nature was that obliquity, that adeptness at trickery, that facility in +deceit, which made him the success he was. He could always meet a +crook on his own ground. He had no extraneous sensibilities to +eliminate. He mastered a secret process of opening and reading letters +without detection. He became an adept at picking a lock. One of his +earlier successes had depended on the cool dexterity with which he had +exchanged trunk checks in a Wabash baggage car at Black Rock, allowing +the "loft" thief under suspicion to carry off a dummy trunk, while he +came into possession of another's belongings and enough evidence to +secure his victim's conviction. +</P> + +<P> +At another time, when "tailing" on a badger-game case, he equipped +himself as a theatrical "bill-sniper," followed his man about without +arousing suspicion, and made liberal use of his magnetized tack-hammer +in the final mix up when he made his haul. He did not shirk these mix +ups, for he was endowed with the bravery of the unimaginative. This +very mental heaviness, holding him down to materialities, kept his +contemplation of contingencies from becoming bewildering. He enjoyed +the limitations of the men against whom he was pitted. Yet at times he +had what he called a "coppered hunch." When, in later years, an +occasional criminal of imagination became his enemy, he was often at a +loss as to how to proceed. But imaginative criminals, he knew, were +rare, and dilemmas such as these proved infrequent. Whatever his +shift, or however unsavory his resource, he never regarded himself as +on the same basis as his opponents. He had Law on his side; he was the +instrument of that great power known as Justice. +</P> + +<P> +As Blake's knowledge of New York and his work increased he was given +less and less of the "rough-neck" work to do. He proved himself, in +fact, a stolid and painstaking "investigator." As a divorce-suit +shadower he was equally resourceful and equally successful. When his +agency took over the bankers' protective work he was advanced to this +new department, where he found himself compelled to a new term of study +and a new circle of alliances. He went laboriously through records of +forgers and check raisers and counterfeiters. He took up the study of +all such gentry, sullenly yet methodically, like a backward scholar +mastering a newly imposed branch of knowledge, thumbing frowningly +through official reports, breathing heavily over portrait files and +police records, plodding determinedly through counterfeit-detector +manuals. For this book work, as he called it, he retained a +deep-seated disgust. +</P> + +<P> +The outcome of his first case, later known as the "Todaro National Ten +Case," confirmed him in this attitude. Going doggedly over the +counterfeit ten-dollar national bank note that had been given him after +two older operatives had failed in the case, he discovered the word +"Dollars" in small lettering spelt "Ddllers." Concluding that only a +foreigner would make a mistake of that nature, and knowing the activity +of certain bands of Italians in such counterfeiting efforts, he began +his slow and scrupulous search through the purlieus of the East Side. +About that search was neither movement nor romance. It was humdrum, +dogged, disheartening labor, with the gradual elimination of +possibilities and the gradual narrowing down of his field. But across +that ever-narrowing trail the accidental little clue finally fell, and +on the night of the final raid the desired plates were captured and the +notorious and long-sought Todaro rounded up. +</P> + +<P> +So successful was Blake during the following two years that the +Washington authorities, coming in touch with him through the operations +of the Secret Service, were moved to make him an offer. This offer he +stolidly considered and at last stolidly accepted. He became an +official with the weight of the Federal authority behind him. He +became an investigator with the secrets of the Bureau of Printing and +Engraving at his beck. He found himself a cog in a machinery that +seemed limitless in its ramifications. He was the agent of a vast and +centralized authority, an authority against which there could be no +opposition. But he had to school himself to the knowledge that he was +a cog, and nothing more. And two things were expected of him, +efficiency and silence. +</P> + +<P> +He found a secret pleasure, at first, in the thought of working from +under cover, in the sense of operating always in the dark, unknown and +unseen. It gave a touch of something Olympian and godlike to his +movements. But as time went by the small cloud of discontent on his +horizon grew darker, and widened as it blackened. He was avid of +something more than power. He thirsted not only for its operation, but +also for its display. He rebelled against the idea of a continually +submerged personality. He nursed a keen hunger to leave some record of +what he did or had done. He objected to it all as a conspiracy of +obliteration, objected to it as an actor would object to playing to an +empty theater. There was no one to appreciate and applaud. And an +audience was necessary. He enjoyed the unctuous salute of the +patrolman on his beat, the deferential door-holding of "office boys," +the quick attentiveness of minor operatives. But this was not enough. +He felt the normal demand to assert himself, to be known at his true +worth by both his fellow workers and the world in general. +</P> + +<P> +It was not until the occasion when he had run down a gang of +Williamsburg counterfeiters, however, that his name was conspicuously +in print. So interesting were the details of this gang's operations, +so typical were their methods, that Wilkie or some official under +Wilkie had handed over to a monthly known as <I>The Counterfeit Detector</I> +a full account of the case. A New York paper has printed a somewhat +distorted and romanticized copy of this, having sent a woman reporter +to interview Blake—while a staff artist made a pencil drawing of the +Secret Service man during the very moments the latter was smilingly +denying them either a statement or a photograph. Blake knew that +publicity would impair his effectiveness. Some inner small voice +forewarned him that all outside recognition of his calling would take +away from his value as an agent of the Secret Service. But his hunger +for his rights as a man was stronger than his discretion as an +official. He said nothing openly; but he allowed inferences to be +drawn and the artist's pencil to put the finishing touches to the +sketch. +</P> + +<P> +It was here, too, that his slyness, his natural circuitiveness, +operated to save him. When the inevitable protest came he was able to +prove that he had said nothing and had indignantly refused a +photograph. He completely cleared himself. But the hint of an +interesting personality had been betrayed to the public, the name of a +new sleuth had gone on record, and the infection of curiosity spread +like a mulberry rash from newspaper office to newspaper office. A +representative of the press, every now and then, would drop in on +Blake, or chance to occupy the same smoking compartment with him on a +run between Washington and New York, to ply his suavest and subtlest +arts for the extraction of some final fact with which to cap an +unfinished "story." Blake, in turn, became equally subtle and suave. +His lips were sealed, but even silence, he found, could be made +illuminative. Even reticence, on occasion, could be made to serve his +personal ends. He acquired the trick of surrendering data without any +shadow of actual statement. +</P> + +<P> +These chickens, however, all came home to roost. Official recognition +was taken of Blake's tendencies, and he was assigned to those cases +where a "leak" would prove least embarrassing to the Department. He +saw this and resented it. But in the meantime he had been keeping his +eyes open and storing up in his cabinet of silence every unsavory rumor +and fact that might prove of use in the future. He found himself, in +due time, the master of an arsenal of political secrets. And when it +came to a display of power he could merit the attention if not the +respect of a startlingly wide circle of city officials. When a New +York municipal election brought a party turn over, he chose the moment +as the psychological one for a display of his power, cruising up and +down the coasts of officialdom with his grim facts in tow, for all the +world like a flagship followed by its fleet. +</P> + +<P> +It was deemed expedient for the New York authorities to "take care" of +him. A berth was made for him in the Central Office, and after a year +of laborious manipulation he found himself Third Deputy Commissioner +and a power in the land. +</P> + +<P> +If he became a figure of note, and fattened on power, he found it no +longer possible to keep as free as he wished from entangling alliances. +He had by this time learned to give and take, to choose the lesser of +two evils, to pay the ordained price for his triumphs. Occasionally +the forces of evil had to be bribed with a promise of protection. For +the surrender of dangerous plates, for example, a counterfeiter might +receive immunity, or for the turning of State's evidence a guilty man +might have to go scott free. At other times, to squeeze confession out +of a crook, a cruelty as refined as that of the Inquisition had to be +adopted. In one stubborn case the end had been achieved by depriving +the victim of sleep, this Chinese torture being kept up until the +needed nervous collapse. At another time the midnight cell of a +suspected murderer had been "set" like a stage, with all the +accessories of his crime, including even the cadaver, and when suddenly +awakened the frenzied man had shrieked out his confession. But, as a +rule, it was by imposing on his prisoner's better instincts, such as +gang-loyalty or pity for a supposedly threatened "rag," that the point +was won. In resources of this nature Blake became quite +conscienceless, salving his soul with the altogether Jesuitic claim +that illegal means were always justified by the legal end. +</P> + +<P> +By the time he had fought his way up to the office of Second Deputy he +no longer resented being known as a "rough neck" or a "flat foot." As +an official, he believed in roughness; it was his right; and one touch +of right made away with all wrong, very much as one grain of pepsin +properly disposed might digest a carload of beef. A crook was a crook. +His natural end was the cell or the chair, and the sooner he got there +the better for all concerned. So Blake believed in "hammering" his +victims. He was an advocate of "confrontation." He had faith in the +old-fashioned "third-degree" dodges. At these, in his ponderous way, +he became an adept, looking on the nervous system of his subject as a +nut, to be calmly and relentlessly gnawed at until the meat of truth +lay exposed, or to be cracked by the impact of some sudden great shock. +Nor was the Second Deputy above resorting to the use of "plants." +Sometimes he had to call in a "fixer" to manufacture evidence, that the +far-off ends of justice might not be defeated. He made frequent use of +women of a certain type, women whom he could intimidate as an officer +or buy over as a good fellow. He had his <I>aides</I> in all walks of life, +in clubs and offices, in pawnshops and saloons, in hotels and steamers +and barber shops, in pool rooms and anarchists' cellars. He also had +his visiting list, his "fences" and "stool-pigeons" and "shoo-flies." +</P> + +<P> +He preferred the "outdoor" work, both because he was more at home in it +and because it was more spectacular. He relished the bigger cases. He +liked to step in where an underling had failed, get his teeth into the +situation, shake the mystery out of it, and then obliterate the +underling with a half hour of blasphemous abuse. He had scant patience +with what he called the "high-collar cops." He consistently opposed +the new-fangled methods, such as the <I>Portrait Parle</I>, and pin-maps for +recording crime, and the graphic-system boards for marking the +movements of criminals. All anthropometric nonsense such as +Bertillon's he openly sneered at, just as he scoffed at card indexes +and finger prints and other academic innovations which were +debilitating the force. He had gathered his own data, at great pains, +he nursed his own personal knowledge as to habitual offenders and their +aliases, their methods, their convictions and records, their associates +and hang outs. He carried his own gallery under his own hat, and he +was proud of it. His memory was good, and he claimed always to know +his man. His intuitions were strong, and if he disliked a captive, +that captive was in some way guilty—and he saw to it that his man did +not escape. He was relentless, once his professional pride was +involved. Being without imagination, he was without pity. It was, at +best, a case of dog eat dog, and the Law, the Law for which he had such +reverence, happened to keep him the upper dog. +</P> + +<P> +Yet he was a comparatively stupid man, an amazingly self-satisfied +toiler who had chanced to specialize on crime. And even as he became +more and more assured of his personal ability, more and more entrenched +in his tradition of greatness, he was becoming less and less elastic, +less receptive, less adaptive. Much as he tried to blink the fact, he +was compelled to depend more and more on the office behind him. His +personal gallery, the gallery under his hat, showed a tendency to +become both obsolete and inadequate. That endless catacomb of lost +souls grew too intricate for one human mind to compass. New faces, new +names, new tricks tended to bewilder him. He had to depend more and +more on the clerical staff and the finger-print bureau records. His +position became that of a villager with a department store on his +hands, of a country shopkeeper trying to operate an urban emporium. He +was averse to deputizing his official labors. He was ignorant of +system and science. He took on the pathos of a man who is out of his +time, touched with the added poignancy of a passionate incredulity as +to his predicament. He felt, at times, that there was something wrong, +that the rest of the Department did not look on life and work as he +did. But he could not decide just where the trouble lay. And in his +uncertainty he made it a point to entrench himself by means of +"politics." It became an open secret that he had a pull, that his +position was impregnable. This in turn tended to coarsen his methods. +It lifted him beyond the domain of competitive effort. It touched his +carelessness with arrogance. It also tinged his arrogance with +occasional cruelty. +</P> + +<P> +He redoubled his efforts to sustain the myth which had grown up about +him, the myth of his vast cleverness and personal courage. He showed a +tendency for the more turbulent centers. He went among murderers +without a gun. He dropped into dives, protected by nothing more than +the tradition of his office. He pushed his way in through thugs, +picked out his man, and told him to come to Headquarters in an hour's +time—and the man usually came. His appetite for the spectacular +increased. He preferred to head his own gambling raids, ax in hand. +But more even than his authority he liked to parade his knowledge. He +liked to be able to say: "This is Sheeny Chi's coup!" or, "That's a job +that only Soup-Can Charlie could do!" When a police surgeon hit on the +idea of etherizing an obdurate "dummy chucker," to determine if the +prisoner could talk or not, Blake appropriated the suggestion as his +own. And when the "press boys" trooped in for their daily gist of +news, he asked them, as usual, not to couple his name with the +incident; and they, as usual, made him the hero of the occasion. +</P> + +<P> +For Never-Fail Blake had made it a point to be good to the press boys. +He acquired an ability to "jolly" them without too obvious loss of +dignity. He took them into his confidences, apparently, and made his +disclosures personal matters, individual favors. He kept careful note +of their names, their characteristics, their interests. He cultivated +them, keeping as careful track of them from city to city as he did of +the "big" criminals themselves. They got into the habit of going to +him for their special stories. He always exacted secrecy, pretended +reluctance, yet parceled out to one reporter and another those dicta to +which his name could be most appropriately attached. He even +surrendered a clue or two as to how his own activities and triumphs +might be worked into a given story. When he perceived that those +worldly wise young men of the press saw through the dodge, he became +more adept, more adroit, more delicate in method. But the end was the +same. +</P> + +<P> +It was about this time that he invested in his first scrap-book. Into +this secret granary went every seed of his printed personal history. +Then came the higher records of the magazines, the illustrated articles +written about "Blake, the Hamard of America," as one of them expressed +it, and "Never-Fail Blake," as another put it. He was very proud of +those magazine articles, he even made ponderous and painstaking efforts +for their repetition, at considerable loss of dignity. Yet he adopted +the pose of disclaiming responsibility, of disliking such things, of +being ready to oppose them if some effective method could only be +thought out. He even hinted to those about him at Headquarters that +this seeming garrulity was serving a good end, claiming it to be +harmless pother to "cover" more immediate trails on which he pretended +to be engaged. +</P> + +<P> +But the scrap-books grew in number and size. It became a task to keep +up with his clippings. He developed into a personage, as much a +personage as a grand-opera prima donna on tour. His successes were +talked over in clubs. His name came to be known to the men in the +street. His "camera eye" was now and then mentioned by the scientists. +His unblemished record was referred to in an occasional editorial. +When an ex-police reporter came to him, asking him to father a +macaronic volume bearing the title "Criminals of America," Blake not +only added his name to the title page, but advanced three hundred +dollars to assist towards its launching. +</P> + +<P> +The result of all this was a subtle yet unmistakable shifting of +values, an achievement of public glory at the loss of official +confidence. He excused his waning popularity among his co-workers on +the ground of envy. It was, he held, merely the inevitable penalty for +supreme success in any field. But a hint would come, now and then, +that troubled him. "You think you 're a big gun, Blake," one of his +underworld victims once had the temerity to cry out at him. "You think +you 're the king of the Hawkshaws! But if you were on <I>my</I> side of the +fence, you 'd last about as long as a snowball on a crownsheet!" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap03"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +III +</H3> + + +<P> +It was not until the advent of Copeland, the new First Deputy, that +Blake began to suspect his own position. Copeland was an out-and-out +"office" man, anything but a "flat foot." Weak looking and pallid, +with the sedentary air of a junior desk clerk, vibratingly restless +with no actual promise of being penetrating, he was of that +indeterminate type which never seems to acquire a personality of its +own. The small and bony and steel-blue face was as neutral as the +spare and reticent figure that sat before a bald table in a bald room +as inexpressive and reticent as its occupant. Copeland was not only +unknown outside the Department; he was, in a way, unknown in his own +official circles. +</P> + +<P> +And then Blake woke up to the fact that some one on the inside was +working against him, was blocking his moves, was actually using him as +a "blind." While he was given the "cold" trails, younger men went out +on the "hot" ones. There were times when the Second Deputy suspected +that his enemy was Copeland. Not that he could be sure of this, for +Copeland himself gave no inkling of his attitude. He gave no inkling +of anything, in fact, personal or impersonal. But more and more Blake +was given the talking parts, the rôle of spokesman to the press. He +was more and more posted in the background, like artillery, to +intimidate with his remote thunder and cover the advance of more agile +columns. He was encouraged to tell the public what he knew, but he was +not allowed to know too much. And, ironically enough, he bitterly +resented this rôle of "mouthpiece" for the Department. +</P> + +<P> +"You call yourself a gun!" a patrolman who had been shaken down for +insubordination broke out at him. "A gun! why, you 're only a <I>park</I> +gun! That's all you are, a broken-down bluff, an ornamental has-been, +a park gun for kids to play 'round!" +</P> + +<P> +Blake raged at that, impotently, pathetically, like an old lion with +its teeth drawn. He prowled moodily around, looking for an enemy on +whom to vent his anger. But he could find no tangible force that +opposed him. He could see nothing on which to centralize his activity. +Yet something or somebody was working against him. To fight that +opposition was like fighting a fog. It was as bad as trying to +shoulder back a shadow. +</P> + +<P> +He had his own "spots" and "finders" on the force. When he had been +tipped off that the powers above were about to send him out on the +Binhart case, he passed the word along to his underlings, without loss +of time, for he felt that he was about to be put on trial, that they +were making the Binhart capture a test case. And he had rejoiced +mightily when his dragnet had brought up the unexpected tip that Elsie +Verriner had been in recent communication with Binhart, and with +pressure from the right quarter could be made to talk. +</P> + +<P> +This tip had been a secret one. Blake, on his part, kept it well +muffled, for he intended that his capture of Binhart should be not only +a personal triumph for the Second Deputy, but a vindication of that +Second Deputy's methods. +</P> + +<P> +So when the Commissioner called him and Copeland into conference, the +day after his talk with Elsie Verriner, Blake prided himself on being +secretly prepared for any advances that might be made. +</P> + +<P> +It was the Commissioner who did the talking. Copeland, as usual, +lapsed into the background, cracking his dry knuckles and blinking his +pale-blue eyes about the room as the voices of the two larger men +boomed back and forth. +</P> + +<P> +"We 've been going over this Binhart case," began the Commissioner. +"It's seven months now—and nothing done!" +</P> + +<P> +Blake looked sideways at Copeland. There was muffled and meditative +belligerency in the look. There was also gratification, for it was the +move he had been expecting. +</P> + +<P> +"I always said McCooey was n't the man to go out on that case," said +the Second Deputy, still watching Copeland. +</P> + +<P> +"Then who <I>is</I> the man?" asked the Commissioner. +</P> + +<P> +Blake took out a cigar, bit the end off, and struck a match. It was +out of place; but it was a sign of his independence. He had long since +given up plug and fine-cut and taken to fat Havanas, which he smoked +audibly, in plethoric wheezes. Good living had left his body stout and +his breathing slightly asthmatic. He sat looking down at his massive +knees; his oblique study of Copeland, apparently, had yielded him scant +satisfaction. Copeland, in fact, was making paper fans out of the +official note-paper in front of him. +</P> + +<P> +"What's the matter with Washington and Wilkie?" inquired Blake, +attentively regarding his cigar. +</P> + +<P> +"They 're just where we are—at a standstill," acknowledged the +Commissioner. +</P> + +<P> +"And that's where we 'll stay!" heavily contended the Second Deputy. +</P> + +<P> +The entire situation was an insidiously flattering one to Blake. Every +one else had failed. They were compelled to come to him, their final +resource. +</P> + +<P> +"Why?" demanded his superior. +</P> + +<P> +"Because we have n't got a man who can turn the trick! We have n't got +a man who can go out and round up Binhart inside o' seven years!" +</P> + +<P> +"Then what is your suggestion?" It was Copeland who spoke, mild and +hesitating. +</P> + +<P> +"D'you want my suggestion?" demanded Blake, warm with the wine-like +knowledge which, he knew, made him master of the situation. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course," was the Commissioner's curt response. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, you 've got to have a man who knows Binhart, who knows him and +his tricks and his hang outs!" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, who does?" +</P> + +<P> +"I do," declared Blake. +</P> + +<P> +The Commissioner indulged in his wintry smile. +</P> + +<P> +"You mean if you were n't tied down to your Second Deputy's chair you +could go out and get him!" +</P> + +<P> +"I could!" +</P> + +<P> +"Within a reasonable length of time?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don't know about the time! But I could get him, all right." +</P> + +<P> +"If you were still on the outside work?" interposed Copeland. +</P> + +<P> +"I certainly would n't expect to dig him out o' my stamp drawer," was +Blake's heavily facetious retort. +</P> + +<P> +Copeland and the Commissioner looked at each other, for one fraction of +a second. +</P> + +<P> +"You know what <I>my</I> feeling is," resumed the latter, "on this Binhart +case." +</P> + +<P> +"I know what my feeling is," declared Blake. +</P> + +<P> +"What?" +</P> + +<P> +"That the right method would 've got him six months ago, without all +this monkey work!" +</P> + +<P> +"Then why not end the monkey work, as you call it?" +</P> + +<P> +"How?" +</P> + +<P> +"By doing what you say you can do!" was the Commissioner's retort. +</P> + +<P> +"How 'm I going to hold down a chair and hunt a crook at the same time?" +</P> + +<P> +"Then why hold down the chair? Let the chair take care of itself. It +could be arranged, you know." +</P> + +<P> +Blake had the stage-juggler's satisfaction of seeing things fall into +his hands exactly as he had manoeuvered they should. His reluctance +was merely a dissimulation, a stage wait for heightened dramatic effect. +</P> + +<P> +"How 'd you do the arranging?" he calmly inquired. +</P> + +<P> +"I could see the Mayor in the morning. There will be no Departmental +difficulty." +</P> + +<P> +"Then where 's the trouble?" +</P> + +<P> +"There is none, if you are willing to go out." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, we can't get Binhart here by pink-tea invitations. Somebody 's +got to go out and <I>get</I> him!" +</P> + +<P> +"The bank raised the reward to eight thousand this week," interposed +the ruminative Copeland. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, it 'll take money to get him," snapped back the Second Deputy, +remembering that he had a nest of his own to feather. +</P> + +<P> +"It will be worth what it costs," admitted the Commissioner. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course," said Copeland, "they 'll have to honor your drafts—in +reason." +</P> + +<P> +"There will be no difficulty on the expense side," quietly interposed +the Commissioner. "The city wants Binhart. The whole country wants +Binhart. And they will be willing to pay for it." +</P> + +<P> +Blake rose heavily to his feet. His massive bulk was momentarily +stirred by the prospect of the task before him. For one brief moment +the anticipation of that clamor of approval which would soon be his +stirred his lethargic pulse. Then his cynic calmness again came back +to him. +</P> + +<P> +"Then what 're we beefing about?" he demanded. "You want Binhart and I +'ll get him for you." +</P> + +<P> +The Commissioner, tapping the top of his desk with his gold-banded +fountain pen, smiled. It was almost a smile of indulgence. +</P> + +<P> +"You <I>know</I> you will get him?" he inquired. +</P> + +<P> +The inquiry seemed to anger Blake. He was still dimly conscious of the +operation of forces which he could not fathom. There were things, +vague and insubstantial, which he could not understand. But he nursed +to his heavy-breathing bosom the consciousness that he himself was not +without his own undivulged powers, his own private tricks, his own +inner reserves. +</P> + +<P> +"I say I 'll get him!" he calmly proclaimed. "And I guess that ought +to be enough!" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap04"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +IV +</H3> + + +<P> +The unpretentious, brownstone-fronted home of Deputy Copeland was +visited, late that night, by a woman. She was dressed in black, and +heavily veiled. She walked with the stoop of a sorrowful and +middle-aged widow. +</P> + +<P> +She came in a taxicab, which she dismissed at the corner. From the +house steps she looked first eastward and then westward, as though to +make sure she was not being followed. Then she rang the bell. +</P> + +<P> +She gave no name; yet she was at once admitted. Her visit, in fact, +seemed to be expected, for without hesitation she was ushered upstairs +and into the library of the First Deputy. +</P> + +<P> +He was waiting for her in a room more intimate, more personal, more +companionably crowded than his office, for the simple reason that it +was not a room of his own fashioning. He stood in the midst of its +warm hangings, in fact, as cold and neutral as the marble Diana behind +him. He did not even show, as he closed the door and motioned his +visitor into a chair, that he had been waiting for her. +</P> + +<P> +The woman, still standing, looked carefully about the room, from side +to side, saw that they were alone, made note of the two closed doors, +and then with a sigh lifted her black gloved hands and began to remove +the widow's cap from her head. She sighed again as she tossed the +black crepe on the dark-wooded table beside her. As she sank into the +chair the light from the electrolier fell on her shoulders and on the +carefully coiled and banded hair, so laboriously built up into a crown +that glinted nut-brown above the pale face she turned to the man +watching her. +</P> + +<P> +"Well?" she said. And from under her level brows she stared at +Copeland, serene in her consciousness of power. It was plain that she +neither liked him nor disliked him. It was equally plain that he, too, +had his ends remote from her and her being. +</P> + +<P> +"You saw Blake again?" he half asked, half challenged. +</P> + +<P> +"No," she answered. +</P> + +<P> +"Why?" +</P> + +<P> +"I was afraid to." +</P> + +<P> +"Did n't I tell you we 'd take care of your end?" +</P> + +<P> +"I 've had promises like that before. They were n't always remembered." +</P> + +<P> +"But our office never made you that promise before, Miss Verriner." +</P> + +<P> +The woman let her eyes rest on his impassive face. +</P> + +<P> +"That's true, I admit. But I must also admit I know Jim Blake. We 'd +better not come together again, Blake and me, after this week." +</P> + +<P> +She was pulling off her gloves as she spoke. She suddenly threw them +down on the table. "There 's just one thing I want to know, and know +for certain. I want to know if this is a plant to shoot Blake up?" +</P> + +<P> +The First Deputy smiled. It was not altogether at the mere calmness +with which she could suggest such an atrocity. +</P> + +<P> +"Hardly," he said. +</P> + +<P> +"Then what is it?" she demanded. +</P> + +<P> +He was both patient and painstaking with her. His tone was almost +paternal in its placativeness. +</P> + +<P> +"It's merely a phase of departmental business," he answered her. "And +we 're anxious to see Blake round up Connie Binhart." +</P> + +<P> +"That's not true," she answered with neither heat nor resentment, "or +you would never have started him off on this blind lead. You 'd never +have had me go to him with that King Edward note and had it work out to +fit a street in Montreal. You 've got a wooden decoy up there in +Canada, and when Blake gets there he 'll be told his man slipped away +the day before. Then another decoy will bob up, and Blake will go +after that. And when you 've fooled him two or three times he 'll sail +back to New York and break me for giving him a false tip." +</P> + +<P> +"Did you give it to him?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, he hammered it out of me. But you knew he was going to do that. +That was part of the plant." +</P> + +<P> +She sat studying her thin white hands for several seconds. Then she +looked up at the calm-eyed Copeland. +</P> + +<P> +"How are you going to protect me, if Blake comes back? How are you +going to keep your promise?" +</P> + +<P> +The First Deputy sat back in his chair and crossed his thin legs. +</P> + +<P> +"Blake will not come back," he announced. She slewed suddenly round on +him again. +</P> + +<P> +"Then it <I>is</I> a plant!" she proclaimed. +</P> + +<P> +"You misunderstand me, Miss Verriner. Blake will not come back as an +official. There will be changes in the Department, I imagine; changes +for the better which even he and his Tammany Hall friends can't stop, +by the time he gets back with Binhart." +</P> + +<P> +The woman gave a little hand gesture of impatience. +</P> + +<P> +"But don't you see," she protested, "supposing he gives up Binhart? +Supposing he suspects something and hurries back to hold down his +place?" +</P> + +<P> +"They call him Never-Fail Blake," commented the unmoved and dry-lipped +official. He met her wide stare with his gently satiric smile. +</P> + +<P> +"I see," she finally said, "you 're not going to shoot him up. You 're +merely going to wipe him out." +</P> + +<P> +"You are quite wrong there," began the man across the table from her. +"Administration changes may happen, and in—" +</P> + +<P> +"In other words, you 're getting Jim Blake out of the way, off on this +Binhart trail, while you work him out of the Department." +</P> + +<P> +"No competent officer is ever worked out of this Department," parried +the First Deputy. +</P> + +<P> +She sat for a silent and studious moment or two, without looking at +Copeland. Then she sighed, with mock plaintiveness. Her wistfulness +seemed to leave her doubly dangerous. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Copeland, are n't you afraid some one might find it worth while to +tip Blake off?" she softly inquired. +</P> + +<P> +"What would you gain?" was his pointed and elliptical interrogation. +</P> + +<P> +She leaned forward in the fulcrum of light, and looked at him soberly. +</P> + +<P> +"What is your idea of me?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +He looked back at the thick-lashed eyes with their iris rings of deep +gray. There was something alert and yet unparticipating in their +steady gaze. They held no trace of abashment. They were no longer +veiled. There was even something disconcerting in their lucid and +level stare. +</P> + +<P> +"I think you are a very intelligent woman," Copeland finally confessed. +</P> + +<P> +"I think I am, too," she retorted. "Although I have n't used that +intelligence in the right way. Don't smile! I 'm not going to turn +mawkish. I 'm not good. I don't know whether I want to be. But I +know one thing: I 've got to keep busy—I 've got to be active. I 've +<I>got</I> to be!" +</P> + +<P> +"And?" prompted the First Deputy, as she came to a stop. +</P> + +<P> +"We all know, now, exactly where we 're at. We all know what we want, +each one of us. We know what Blake wants. We know what you want. And +I want something more than I 'm getting, just as you want something +more than writing reports and rounding up push-cart peddlers. I want +my end, as much as you want yours." +</P> + +<P> +"And?" again prompted the First Deputy. +</P> + +<P> +"I 've got to the end of my ropes; and I want to swing around. It's no +reform bee, mind! It's not what other women like me think it is. But +I can't go on. It doesn't lead to anything. It does n't pay. I want +to be safe. I 've <I>got</I> to be safe!" +</P> + +<P> +He looked up suddenly, as though a new truth had just struck home with +him. For the first time, all that evening, his face was ingenuous. +</P> + +<P> +"I know what's behind me," went on the woman. "There 's no use digging +that up. And there 's no use digging up excuses for it. But there +<I>are</I> excuses—good excuses, or I 'd never have gone through what I +have, because I feel I was n't made for it. I 'm too big a coward to +face what it leads to. I can look ahead and see through things. I can +understand too easily." She came to a stop, and sat back, with one +white hand on either arm of the chair. "And I 'm afraid to go on. I +want to begin over. And I want to begin on the right side!" +</P> + +<P> +He sat pondering just how much of this he could believe. But she +disregarded his veiled impassivity. +</P> + +<P> +"I want you to take Picture 3,970 out of the Identification Bureau, the +picture and the Bertillon measurements. And then I want you to give me +the chance I asked for." +</P> + +<P> +"But that does not rest with me, Miss Verriner!" +</P> + +<P> +"It will rest with you. I could n't stool with my own people here. +But Wilkie knows my value. He knows what I can do for the service if I +'m on their side. He could let me begin with the Ellis Island +spotting. I could stop that Stockholm white-slave work in two months. +And when you see Wilkie to-morrow you can swing me one way or the +other!" +</P> + +<P> +Copeland, with his chin on his bony breast, looked up to smile into her +intent and staring eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"You are a very clever woman," he said. "And what is more, you know a +great deal!" +</P> + +<P> +"I know a great deal!" she slowly repeated, and her steady gaze +succeeded in taking the ironic smile out of the corners of his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Your knowledge," he said with a deliberation equal to her own, "will +prove of great value to you—as an agent with Wilkie." +</P> + +<P> +"That's as you say!" she quietly amended as she rose to her feet. +There was no actual threat in her words, just as there was no actual +mockery in his. But each was keenly conscious of the wheels that +revolved within wheels, of the intricacies through which each was +threading a way to certain remote ends. She picked up her black gloves +from the desk top. She stood there, waiting. +</P> + +<P> +"You can count on me," he finally said, as he rose from his chair. "I +'ll attend to the picture. And I 'll say the right thing to Wilkie!" +</P> + +<P> +"Then let's shake hands on it!" she quietly concluded. And as they +shook hands her gray-irised eyes gazed intently and interrogatively +into his. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap05a"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +V (a) +</H3> + + +<P> +When Never-Fail Blake alighted from his sleeper in Montreal he found +one of Teal's men awaiting him at Bonaventure Station. There had been +a hitch or a leak somewhere, this man reported. Binhart, in some way, +had slipped through their fingers. +</P> + +<P> +All they knew was that the man they were tailing had bought a ticket +for Winnipeg, that he was not in Montreal, and that, beyond the railway +ticket, they had no trace of him. +</P> + +<P> +Blake, at this news, had a moment when he saw red. He felt, during +that moment, like a drum-major who had "muffed" his baton on parade. +Then recovering himself, he promptly confirmed the Teal operative's +report by telephone, accepted its confirmation as authentic, consulted +a timetable, and made a dash for Windsor Station. There he caught the +Winnipeg express, took possession of a stateroom and indited carefully +worded telegrams to Trimble in Vancouver, that all out-going Pacific +steamers should be watched, and to Menzler in Chicago, that the +American city might be covered in case of Binhart's doubling southward +on him. Still another telegram he sent to New York, requesting the +Police Department to send on to him at once a photograph of Binhart. +</P> + +<P> +In Winnipeg, two days later, Blake found himself on a blind trail. +When he had talked with a railway detective on whom he could rely, when +he had visited certain offices and interviewed certain officials, when +he had sought out two or three women acquaintances in the city's +sequestered area, he faced the bewildering discovery that he was still +without an actual clue of the man he was supposed to be shadowing. +</P> + +<P> +It was then that something deep within his nature, something he could +never quite define, whispered its first faint doubt to him. This doubt +persisted even when late that night a Teal Agency operative wired him +from Calgary, stating that a man answering Binhart's description had +just left the Alberta Hotel for Banff. To this latter point Blake +promptly wired a fuller description of his man, had an officer posted +to inspect every alighting passenger, and early the next morning +received a telegram, asking for still more particulars. +</P> + +<P> +He peered down at this message, vaguely depressed in spirit, discarding +theory after theory, tossing aside contingency after contingency. And +up from this gloomy shower slowly emerged one of his "hunches," one of +his vague impressions, coming blindly to the surface very much like an +earthworm crawling forth after a fall of rain. There was something +wrong. Of that he felt certain. He could not place it or define it. +To continue westward would be to depend too much on an uncertainty; it +would involve the risk of wandering too far from the center of things. +He suddenly decided to double on his tracks and swing down to Chicago. +Just why he felt as he did he could not fathom. But the feeling was +there. It was an instinctive propulsion, a "hunch." These hunches +were to him, working in the dark as he was compelled to, very much what +whiskers are to a cat. They could not be called an infallible guide. +But they at least kept him from colliding with impregnabilities. +</P> + +<P> +Acting on this hunch, as he called it, he caught a Great Northern train +for Minneapolis, transferred to a Chicago, Milwaukee & St. Paul +express, and without loss of time sped southward. When, thirty hours +later, he alighted in the heart of Chicago, he found himself in an +environment more to his liking, more adaptable to his ends. He was not +disheartened by his failure. He did not believe in luck, in miracles, +or even in coincidence. But experience had taught him the bewildering +extent of the resources which he might command. So intricate and so +wide-reaching were the secret wires of his information that he knew he +could wait, like a spider at the center of its web, until the betraying +vibration awakened some far-reaching thread of that web. In every +corner of the country lurked a non-professional ally, a secluded +tipster, ready to report to Blake when the call for a report came. The +world, that great detective had found, was indeed a small one. From +its scattered four corners, into which his subterranean wires of +espionage stretched, would in time come some inkling, some hint, some +discovery. And at the converging center of those wires Blake was able +to sit and wait, like the central operator at a telephone switchboard, +knowing that the tentacles of attention were creeping and wavering +about dim territories and that in time they would render up their +awaited word. +</P> + +<P> +In the meantime, Blake himself was by no means idle. It would not be +from official circles, he knew, that his redemption would come. Time +had already proved that. For months past every police chief in the +country had held his description of Binhart. That was a fact which +Binhart himself very well knew; and knowing that, he would continue to +move as he had been moving, with the utmost secrecy, or at least +protected by some adequate disguise. +</P> + +<P> +It would be from the underworld that the echo would come. And next to +New York, Blake knew, Chicago would make as good a central exchange for +this underworld as could be desired. Knowing that city of the Middle +West, and knowing it well, he at once "went down the line," making his +rounds stolidly and systematically, first visiting a West Side +faro-room and casually interviewing the "stools" of Custom House Place +and South dark Street, and then dropping in at the Café Acropolis, in +Halsted Street, and lodging houses in even less savory quarters. He +duly canvassed every likely dive, every "melina," every gambling house +and yegg hang out. He engaged in leisurely games of pool with +stone-getters and gopher men. He visited bucket-shops and barrooms, +and dingy little Ghetto cafés. He "buzzed" tipsters and floaters and +mouthpieces. He fraternized with till tappers and single-drillers. He +always made his inquiries after Binhart seem accidental, a case +apparently subsidiary to two or three others which he kept always to +the foreground. +</P> + +<P> +He did not despair over the discovery that no one seemed to know of +Binhart or his movements. He merely waited his time, and extended new +ramifications into newer territory. His word still carried its weight +of official authority. There was still an army of obsequious +underlings compelled to respect his wishes. It was merely a matter of +time and mathematics. Then the law of averages would ordain its end; +the needed card would ultimately be turned up, the right dial-twist +would at last complete the right combination. +</P> + +<P> +The first faint glimmer of life, in all those seemingly dead wires, +came from a gambler named Mattie Sherwin, who reported that he had met +Binhart, two weeks before, in the café of the Brown Palace in Denver. +He was traveling under the name of Bannerman, wore his hair in a +pomadour, and had grown a beard. +</P> + +<P> +Blake took the first train out of Chicago for Denver. In this latter +city an Elks' Convention was supplying blue-bird weather for +underground "haymakers," busy with bunco-steering, "rushing" +street-cars and "lifting leathers." Before the stampede at the news of +his approach, he picked up Biff Edwards and Lefty Stivers, put on the +screws, and learned nothing. He went next to Glory McShane, a Market +Street acquaintance indebted for certain old favors, and from her, too, +learned nothing of moment. He continued the quest in other quarters, +and the results were equally discouraging. +</P> + +<P> +Then began the real detective work about which, Blake knew, newspaper +stories were seldom written. This work involved a laborious and +monotonous examination of hotel registers, a canvassing of ticket +agencies and cab stands and transfer companies. It was anything but +story-book sleuthing. It was a dispiriting tread-mill round, but he +was still sifting doggedly through the tailings of possibilities when a +code-wire came from St. Louis, saying Binhart had been seen the day +before at the Planters' Hotel. +</P> + +<P> +Blake was eastbound on his way to St. Louis one hour after the receipt +of this wire. And an hour after his arrival in St. Louis he was +engaged in an apparently care free and leisurely game of pool with one +Loony Ryan, an old-time "box man" who was allowed to roam with a +clipped wing in the form of a suspended indictment. Loony, for the +liberty thus doled out to him, rewarded his benefactors by an +occasional indulgence in the "pigeon-act." +</P> + +<P> +"Draw for lead?" asked Blake, lighting a cigar. +</P> + +<P> +"Sure," said Loony. +</P> + +<P> +Blake pushed his ball to the top cushion, won the draw, and broke. +</P> + +<P> +"Seen anything of Wolf Yonkholm?" he casually inquired, as he turned to +chalk his cue. But his eye, with one quick sweep, had made sure of +every face in the room. +</P> + +<P> +Loony studied the balls for a second or two. Wolf was a "dip" with an +international record. +</P> + +<P> +"Last time I saw Wolf he was out at 'Frisco, workin' the Beaches," was +Loony's reply. +</P> + +<P> +Blake ventured an inquiry or two about other worthies of the +underworld. The players went on with their game, placid, self-immured, +matter-of-fact. +</P> + +<P> +"Where's Angel McGlory these days?" asked Blake, as he reached over to +place a ball. +</P> + +<P> +"What's she been doin'?" demanded Loony, with his cue on the rail. +</P> + +<P> +"She 's traveling with a bank sneak named Blanchard or Binhart," +explained Blake. "And I want her." +</P> + +<P> +Loony Ryan made his stroke. +</P> + +<P> +"Hep Roony saw Binhart this mornin', beatin' it for N' Orleans. But he +was n't travelin' wit' any moll that Hep spoke of." +</P> + +<P> +Blake made his shot, chalked his cue again, and glanced down at his +watch. His eyes were on the green baize, but his thoughts were +elsewhere. +</P> + +<P> +"I got 'o leave you, Loony," he announced as he put his cue back in the +rack. He spoke slowly and calmly. But Loony's quick gaze circled the +room, promptly checking over every face between the four walls. +</P> + +<P> +"What's up?" he demanded. "Who 'd you spot?" +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing, Loony, nothing! But this game o' yours blamed near made me +forget an appointment o' mine!" +</P> + +<P> +Twenty minutes after he had left the bewildered Loony Ryan in the pool +parlor he was in a New Orleans sleeper, southward bound. He knew that +he was getting within striking distance of Binhart, at last. The zest +of the chase took possession of him. The trail was no longer a "cold" +one. He knew which way Binhart was headed. And he knew he was not +more than a day behind his man. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap05b"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +V (b) +</H3> + + +<P> +The moment Blake arrived in New Orleans he shut himself in a telephone +booth, called up six somewhat startled acquaintances, learned nothing +to his advantage, and went quickly but quietly to the St. Charles. +There he closeted himself with two dependable "elbows," started his +detectives on a round of the hotels, and himself repaired to the Levee +district, where he held off-handed and ponderously facetious +conversations with certain unsavory characters. Then came a visit to +certain equally unsavory wharf-rats and a call or two on South Rampart +Street. But still no inkling of Binhart or his intended movements came +to the detective's ears. +</P> + +<P> +It was not until the next morning, as he stepped into Antoine's, on St. +Louis Street just off the Rue Royal, that anything of importance +occurred. The moment he entered that bare and cloistral restaurant +where Monsieur Jules could dish up such startling uncloistral dishes, +his eyes fell on Abe Sheiner, a drum snuffer with whom he had had +previous and somewhat painful encounters. Sheiner, it was plain to +see, was in clover, for he was breakfasting regally, on squares of +toast covered with shrimp and picked crab meat creamed, with a bisque +of cray-fish and <I>papa-bottes</I> in ribbons of bacon, to say nothing of +fruit and <I>bruilleau</I>. +</P> + +<P> +Blake insisted on joining his old friend Sheiner, much to the tatter's +secret discomfiture. It was obvious that the drum snuffer, having made +a recent haul, would be amenable to persuasion. And, like all yeggs, +he was an upholder of the "moccasin telegraph," a wanderer and a +carrier of stray tidings as to the movements of others along the +undergrooves of the world. So while Blake breakfasted on shrimp and +crab meat and French artichokes stuffed with caviar and anchovies, he +intimated to the uneasy-minded Sheiner certain knowledge as to a +certain recent coup. In the face of this charge Sheiner indignantly +claimed that he had only been playing the ponies and having a run of +greenhorn's luck. +</P> + +<P> +"Abe, I 've come down to gather you in," announced the calmly +mendacious detective. He continued to sip his <I>bruilleau</I> with +fraternal unconcern. +</P> + +<P> +"You got nothing <I>on</I> me, Jim," protested the other, losing his taste +for the delicacies arrayed about him. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, we got 'o go down to Headquarters and talk that over," calmly +persisted Blake. +</P> + +<P> +"What's the use of pounding me, when I 'm on the square again?" +persisted the ex-drum snuffer. +</P> + +<P> +"That's the line o' talk they all hand out. That's what Connie Binhart +said when we had it out up in St. Louis." +</P> + +<P> +"Did you bump into Binhart in St. Louis?" +</P> + +<P> +"We had a talk, three days ago." +</P> + +<P> +"Then why 'd he blow through this town as though he had a regiment o' +bulls and singed cats behind him!" +</P> + +<P> +Blake's heart went down like an elevator with a broken cable. But he +gave no outward sign of this inward commotion. +</P> + +<P> +"Because he wants to get down to Colon before the Hamburg-American boat +hits the port," ventured Blake. "His moll's aboard!" +</P> + +<P> +"But he blew out for 'Frisco this morning," contended the puzzled +Sheiner. "Shot through as though he 'd just had a rumble!" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, he <I>said</I> that, but he went south, all right." +</P> + +<P> +"Then he went in an oyster sloop. There 's nothing sailing from this +port to-day." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, what's Binhart got to do with our trouble anyway? What I want—" +</P> + +<P> +"But I saw him start," persisted the other. "He ducked for a day coach +and said he was traveling for his health. And he sure looked like a +man in a hurry!" +</P> + +<P> +Blake sipped his bruilleau, glanced casually at his watch, and took out +a cigar and lighted it. He blinked contentedly across the table at the +man he was "buzzing." The trick had been turned. The word had been +given. He knew that Binhart was headed westward again. He also knew +that Binhart had awakened to the fact that he was being followed, that +his feverish movements were born of a stampeding fear of capture. +</P> + +<P> +Yet Binhart was not a coward. Flight, in fact, was his only resource. +It was only the low-brow criminal, Blake knew, who ran for a hole and +hid in it until he was dragged out. The more intellectual type of +offender preferred the open. And Binhart was of this type. He was +suave and artful; he was active bodied and experienced in the ways of +the world. What counted still more, he was well heeled with money. +Just how much he had planted away after the Newcomb coup no one knew. +But no one denied that it was a fortune. It was ten to one that +Binhart would now try to get out of the country. He would make his way +to some territory without an extradition treaty. He would look for a +land where he could live in peace, where his ill-gotten wealth would +make exile endurable. +</P> + +<P> +Blake, as he smoked his cigar and turned these thoughts over in his +mind, could afford to smile. There would be no peace and no rest for +Connie Binhart; he himself would see to that. And he would "get" his +man; whether it was in a week's time or a month's time, he would "get" +his man and take him back in triumph to New York. He would show +Copeland and the Commissioner and the world in general that there was +still a little life in the old dog, that there was still a haul or two +he could make. +</P> + +<P> +So engrossing were these thoughts that Blake scarcely heard the drum +snuffer across the table from him, protesting the innocence of his ways +and the purity of his intentions. Then for the second time that +morning Blake completely bewildered him, by suddenly accepting those +protestations and agreeing to let everything drop. It was necessary, +of course, to warn Sheiner, to exact a promise of better living. But +Blake's interest in the man had already departed. He dropped him from +his scheme of things, once he had yielded up his data. He tossed him +aside like a sucked orange, a smoked cigar, a burnt-out match. +Binhart, in all the movements of all the stellar system, was the one +name and the one man that interested him. +</P> + +<P> +Loony Sheiner was still sitting at that table in Antoine's when Blake, +having wired his messages to San Pedro and San Francisco, caught the +first train out of New Orleans. As he sped across the face of the +world, crawling nearer and nearer the Pacific Coast, no thought of the +magnitude of that journey oppressed him. His imagination remained +untouched. He neither fretted nor fumed at the time this travel was +taking. In spite of the electric fans at each end of his Pullman, it +is true, he suffered greatly from the heat, especially during the ride +across the Arizona Desert. He accepted it without complaint, stolidly +thanking his lucky stars that men were n't still traveling across +America's deserts by ox-team. He was glad when he reached the Colorado +River and wound up into California, leaving the alkali and sage brush +and yucca palms of the Mojave well behind him. He was glad in his +placid way when he reached his hotel in San Francisco and washed the +grit and grime from his heat-nettled body. +</P> + +<P> +But once that body had been bathed and fed, he started on his rounds of +the underworld, seined the entire harbor-front without effect, and then +set out his night-lines as cautiously as a fisherman in forbidden +waters. He did not overlook the shipping offices and railway stations, +neither did he neglect the hotels and ferries. Then he quietly lunched +at Martenelli's with the much-honored but most-uncomfortable Wolf +Yonkholm, who promptly suspended his "dip" operations at the Beaches +out of respect to Blake's sudden call. +</P> + +<P> +Nothing of moment, however, was learned from the startled Wolf, and at +Coppa's six hours later, Blake dined with a Chink-smuggler named Goldie +Hopper. Goldie, after his fifth glass of wine and an adroit decoying +of the talk along the channels which most interested his portly host, +casually announced that an Eastern crook named Blanchard had got away, +the day before, on the Pacific mail steamer <I>Manchuria</I>. He was clean +shaven and traveled as a clergyman. That struck Goldie as the height +of humor, a bank sneak having the nerve to deck himself out as a +gospel-spieler. +</P> + +<P> +His elucidation of it, however, brought no answering smile from the +diffident-eyed Blake, who confessed that he was rounding up a couple of +nickel-coiners and would be going East in a day or two. +</P> + +<P> +Instead of going East, however, he hurriedly consulted maps and +timetables, found a train that would land him in Portland in twenty-six +hours, and started north. He could eventually save time, he found, by +hastening on to Seattle and catching a Great Northern steamer from that +port. When a hot-box held his train up for over half an hour, Blake +stood with his timepiece in his hand, watching the train crew in their +efforts to "freeze the hub." They continued to lose time, during the +night. At Seattle, when he reached the Great Northern docks, he found +that his steamer had sailed two hours before he stepped from his +sleeper. +</P> + +<P> +His one remaining resource was a Canadian Pacific steamer from +Victoria. This, he figured out, would get him to Hong Kong even +earlier than the steamer which he had already missed. He had a hunch +that Hong Kong was the port he wanted. Just why, he could not explain. +But he felt sure that Binhart would not drop off at Manila. Once on +the run, he would keep out of American quarters. It was a gamble; it +was a rough guess. But then all life was that. And Blake had a dogged +and inarticulate faith in his "hunches." +</P> + +<P> +Crossing the Sound, he reached Victoria in time to see the <I>Empress of +China</I> under way, and heading out to sea. Blake hired a tug and +overtook her. He reached the steamer's deck by means of a Jacob's +ladder that swung along her side plates like a mason's plumbline along +a factory wall. +</P> + +<P> +Binhart, he told himself, was by this time in mid-Pacific, untold miles +away, heading for that vast and mysterious East into which a man could +so easily disappear. He was approaching gloomy and tangled waterways +that threaded between islands which could not even be counted. He was +fleeing towards dark rivers which led off through barbaric and +mysterious silence, into the heart of darkness. He was drawing nearer +and nearer to those regions of mystery where a white man might be +swallowed up as easily as a rice grain is lost in a shore lagoon. He +would soon be in those teeming alien cities as under-burrowed as a +gopher village. +</P> + +<P> +But Blake did not despair. Their whole barbaric East, he told himself, +was only a Chinatown slum on a large scale. And he had never yet seen +the slum that remained forever impervious to the right dragnet. He did +not know how or where the end would be. But he knew there would be an +end. He still hugged to his bosom the placid conviction that the world +was small, that somewhere along the frontiers of watchfulness the +impact would be recorded and the alarm would be given. A man of +Binhart's type, with the money Binhart had, would never divorce himself +completely from civilization. He would always crave a white man's +world; he would always hunger for what that world stood for and +represented. He would always creep back to it. He might hide in his +heathen burrow, for a time; but there would be a limit to that exile. +A power stronger than his own will would drive him back to his own +land, back to civilization. And civilization, to Blake, was merely a +rather large and rambling house equipped with a rather efficient +burglar-alarm system, so that each time it was entered, early or late, +the tell-tale summons would eventually go to the right quarter. And +when the summons came Blake would be waiting for it. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap06"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +VI +</H3> + + +<P> +It was by wireless that Blake made what efforts he could to confirm his +suspicions that Binhart had not dropped off at any port of call between +San Francisco and Hong Kong. In due time the reply came back to +"Bishop MacKishnie," on board the westbound <I>Empress of China</I> that the +Reverend Caleb Simpson had safely landed from the <I>Manchuria</I> at Hong +Kong, and was about to leave for the mission field in the interior. +</P> + +<P> +The so-called bishop, sitting in the wireless-room of the <I>Empress of +China</I>, with a lacerated black cigar between his teeth, received this +much relayed message with mixed feelings. He proceeded to send out +three Secret Service code-despatches to Shanghai, Amoy and Hong Kong, +which, being picked up by a German cruiser, were worried over and +argued over and finally referred back to an intelligence bureau for +explanation. +</P> + +<P> +But at Yokohama, Blake hurried ashore in a sampan, met an agent who +seemed to be awaiting him, and caught a train for Kobe. He hurried on, +indifferent to the beauties of the country through which he wound, +unimpressed by the oddities of the civilization with which he found +himself confronted. His mind, intent on one thing, seemed unable to +react to the stimuli of side-issues. From Kobe he caught a <I>Toyo Kisen +Kaisha</I> steamer for Nagasaki and Shanghai. This steamer, he found, lay +over at the former port for thirteen hours, so he shifted again to an +outbound boat headed for Woosung. +</P> + +<P> +It was not until he was on the tender, making the hour-long run from +Woosung up the Whangpoo to Shanghai itself, that he seemed to emerge +from his half-cataleptic indifference to his environment. He began to +realize that he was at last in the Orient. +</P> + +<P> +As they wound up the river past sharp-nosed and round-hooded sampans, +and archaic Chinese battle-ships and sea-going junks and gunboats +flying their unknown foreign flags, Blake at last began to realize that +he was in a new world. The very air smelt exotic; the very colors, the +tints of the sails, the hues of clothing, the forms of things, land and +sky itself—all were different. This depressed him only vaguely. He +was too intent on the future, on the task before him, to give his +surroundings much thought. +</P> + +<P> +Blake had entirely shaken off this vague uneasiness, in fact, when +twenty minutes after landing he found himself in a red-brick hotel +known as The Astor, and guardedly shaking hands with an incredulously +thin and sallow-faced man of about forty. Although this man spoke with +an English accent and exile seemed to have foreigneered him in both +appearance and outlook, his knowledge of America was active and +intimate. He passed over to the detective two despatches in cipher, +handed him a confidential list of Hong Kong addresses, gave him certain +information as to Macao, and an hour later conducted him down the river +to the steamer which started that night for Hong Kong. +</P> + +<P> +As Blake trod that steamer's deck and plowed on through strange seas, +surrounded by strange faces, intent on his strange chase, no sense of +vast adventure entered his soul. No appreciation of a great hazard +bewildered his emotions. The kingdom of romance dwells in the heart, +in the heart roomy enough to house it. And Blake's heart was taken up +with more material things. He was preoccupied with his new list of +addresses, with his new lines of procedure, with the men he must +interview and the dives and clubs and bazars he must visit. He had his +day's work to do, and he intended to do it. +</P> + +<P> +The result was that of Hong Kong he carried away no immediate personal +impression, beyond a vague jumble, in the background of consciousness, +of Buddhist temples and British red-jackets, of stately parks and +granite buildings, of mixed nationalities and native theaters, of +anchored warships and a floating city of houseboats. For it was the +same hour that he landed in this orderly and strangely English city +that the discovery he was drawing close to Binhart again swept clean +the slate of his emotions. The response had come from a consulate +secretary. One wire in all his sentinel network had proved a live one. +Binhart was not in Hong Kong, but he had been seen in Macao; he was +known to be still there. And beyond that there was little that +Never-Fail Blake cared to know. +</P> + +<P> +His one side-movement in Hong Kong was to purchase an American +revolver, for it began to percolate even through his indurated +sensibilities that he was at last in a land where his name might not be +sufficiently respected and his office sufficiently honored. For the +first time in seven long years he packed a gun, he condescended to go +heeled. Yet no minutest tingle of excitement spread through his +lethargic body as he examined this gun, carefully loaded it, and stowed +it away in his wallet-pocket. It meant no more to him than the stowing +away of a sandwich against the emergency of a possible lost meal. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap07"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +VII +</H3> + + +<P> +By the time he was on the noon boat that left for Macao, Blake had +quite forgotten about the revolver. As he steamed southward over +smooth seas, threading a way through boulder-strewn islands and +skirting mountainous cliffs, his movements seemed to take on a sense of +finality. He stood at the rail, watching the hazy blue islands, the +forests of fishing-boats and high-pooped junks floating lazily at +anchor, the indolent figures which he could catch glimpses of on deck, +the green waters of the China Sea. He watched them with intent, yet +abstracted, eyes. Some echo of the witchery of those Eastern waters at +times penetrated his own preoccupied soul. A vague sense of his +remoteness from his old life at last crept in to him. +</P> + +<P> +He thought of the watching green lights that were flaring up, dusk by +dusk, in the shrill New York night, the lamps of the precinct stations, +the lamps of Headquarters, where the great building was full of moving +feet and shifting faces, where telephones were ringing and detectives +were coming and going, and policemen in uniform were passing up and +down the great stone steps, clean-cut, ruddy-faced, strong-limbed +policemen, talking and laughing as they started out on their night +details. He could follow them as they went, those confident-striding +"flatties" with their ash night-sticks at their side, soldiers without +bugles or banner, going out to do the goodly tasks of the Law, soldiers +of whom he was once the leader, the pride, the man to whom they pointed +as the Vidoc of America. +</P> + +<P> +And he would go back to them as great as ever. He would again compel +their admiration. The newspaper boys would again come filing into his +office and shake hands with him and smoke his cigars and ask how much +he could tell them about his last haul. And he would recount to them +how he shadowed Binhart half way round the world, and gathered him in, +and brought him back to Justice. +</P> + +<P> +It was three o'clock in the afternoon when Blake's steamer drew near +Macao. Against a background of dim blue hills he could make out the +green and blue and white of the houses in the Portuguese quarters, +guarded on one side by a lighthouse and on the other by a stolid square +fort. Swinging around a sharp point, the boat entered the inner +harbor, crowded with Chinese craft and coasters and dingy tramps of the +sea. +</P> + +<P> +Blake seemed in no hurry to disembark. The sampan into which he +stepped, in fact, did not creep up to the shore until evening. There, +ignoring the rickshaw coolies who awaited him as he passed an +obnoxiously officious trio of customs officers, he disappeared up one +of the narrow and slippery side streets of the Chinese quarter. +</P> + +<P> +He followed this street for some distance, assailed by the smell of its +mud and rotting sewerage, twisting and turning deeper into the +darkness, past dogs and chattering coolies and oil lamps and +gaming-house doors. Into one of these gaming houses he turned, passing +through the blackwood sliding door and climbing the narrow stairway to +the floor above. There, from a small quadrangular gallery, he could +look down on the "well" of the fan-tan lay out below. +</P> + +<P> +He made his way to a seat at the rail, took out a cigar, lighted it, +and let his veiled gaze wander about the place, point by point, until +he had inspected and weighed and appraised every man in the building. +He continued to smoke, listlessly, like a sightseer with time on his +hands and in no mood for movement. The brim of his black boulder +shadowed his eyes. His thumbs rested carelessly in the arm-holes of +his waistcoat. He lounged back torpidly, listening to the drone and +clatter of voices below, lazily inspecting each newcomer, pretending to +drop off into a doze of ennui. But all the while he was most acutely +awake. +</P> + +<P> +For somewhere in that gathering, he knew, there was a messenger +awaiting him. Whether he was English or Portuguese, white or yellow, +Blake could not say. But from some one there some word or signal was +to come. +</P> + +<P> +He peered down at the few white men in the pit below. He watched the +man at the head of the carved blackwood table, beside his heap of brass +"cash," watched him again and again as he took up his handful of coins, +covered them with a brass hat while the betting began, removed the hat, +and seemed to be dividing the pile, with the wand in his hand, into +fours. The last number of the last four, apparently, was the object of +the wagers. +</P> + +<P> +Blake could not understand the game. It puzzled him, just as the +yellow men so stoically playing it puzzled him, just as the entire +country puzzled him. Yet, obtuse as he was, he felt the gulf of +centuries that divided the two races. These yellow men about him +seemed as far away from his humanity, as detached from his manner of +life and thought, as were the animals he sometimes stared at through +the bars of the Bronx Zoo cages. +</P> + +<P> +A white man would have to be pretty far gone, Blake decided, to fall +into their ways, to be satisfied with the life of those yellow men. He +would have to be a terrible failure, or he would have to be hounded by +a terrible fear, to live out his life so far away from his own kind. +And he felt now that Binhart could never do it, that a life sentence +there would be worse than a life sentence to "stir." So he took +another cigar, lighted it, and sat back watching the faces about him. +</P> + +<P> +For no apparent reason, and at no decipherable sign, one of the yellow +faces across the smoke-filled room detached itself from its fellows. +This face showed no curiosity, no haste. Blake watched it as it calmly +approached him. He watched until he felt a finger against his arm. +</P> + +<P> +"You clum b'long me," was the enigmatic message uttered in the +detective's ear. +</P> + +<P> +"Why should I go along with you?" Blake calmly inquired. +</P> + +<P> +"You clum b'long me," reiterated the Chinaman. The finger again +touched the detective's arm. "Clismas!" +</P> + +<P> +Blake rose, at once. He recognized the code word of "Christmas." This +was the messenger he had been awaiting. +</P> + +<P> +He followed the figure down the narrow stairway, through the sliding +door, out into the many-odored street, foul with refuse, bisected by +its open sewer of filth, took a turning into a still narrower street, +climbed a precipitous hill cobbled with stone, turned still again, +always overshadowed and hemmed in by tall houses close together, with +black-beamed lattice doors through which he could catch glimpses of +gloomy interiors. He turned again down a wooden-walled hallway that +reminded him of a Mott Street burrow. When the Chinaman touched him on +the sleeve he came to a stop. +</P> + +<P> +His guide was pointing to a closed door in front of them. +</P> + +<P> +"You sabby?" he demanded. +</P> + +<P> +Blake hesitated. He had no idea of what was behind that door, but he +gathered from the Chinaman's motion that he was to enter. Before he +could turn to make further inquiry the Chinaman had slipped away like a +shadow. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap08"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +VIII +</H3> + + +<P> +Blake stood regarding the door. The he lifted his revolver from his +breast pocket and dropped it into his side pocket, with his hand on the +butt. Then with his left hand he quietly opened the door, pushed it +back, and as quietly stepped into the room. +</P> + +<P> +On the floor, in the center of a square of orange-colored matting, he +saw a white woman sitting. She was drinking tea out of an egg-shell of +a cup, and after putting down the cup she would carefully massage her +lips with the point of her little finger. This movement puzzled the +newcomer until he suddenly realized that it was merely to redistribute +the rouge on them. +</P> + +<P> +She was dressed in a silk petticoat of almost lemon yellow and an +azure-colored silk bodice that left her arms and shoulders bare to the +light that played on them from three small oil lamps above her. Her +feet and ankles were also bare, except for the matting sandals into +which her toes were thrust. On one thin arm glimmered an +extraordinarily heavy bracelet of gold. Her skin, which was very +white, was further albificated by a coat of rice powder. She was +startlingly slight. Blake, as he watched her, could see the oval +shadows under her collar bones and the almost girlish meagerness of +breast half-covered by the azure silk bodice. +</P> + +<P> +She looked up slowly as Blake stepped into the room. Her eyes widened, +and she continued to look, with parted lips, as she contemplated the +intruder's heavy figure. There was no touch of fear on her face. It +was more curiosity, the wilful, wide-eyed curiosity of the child. She +even laughed a little as she stared at the intruder. Her rouged lips +were tinted a carmine so bright that they looked like a wound across +her white face. That gash of color became almost clown-like as it +crescented upward with its wayward mirth. Her eyebrows were heavily +penciled and the lids of the eyes elongated by a widening point of blue +paint. Her bare heel, which she caressed from time to time with +fingers whereon the nails were stained pink with henna, was small and +clean cut, as clean cut, Blake noticed, as the heel of a razor, while +the white calf above it was as thin and flat as a boy's. +</P> + +<P> +"Hello, New York," she said with her foolish and inconsequential little +laugh. Her voice took on an oddly exotic intonation, as she spoke. +Her teeth were small and white; they reminded Blake of rice, while she +repeated the "New York," bubblingly, as though she were a child with a +newly learned word. +</P> + +<P> +"Hello!" responded the detective, wondering how or where to begin. She +made him think of a painted marionette, so maintained were her poses, +so unreal was her make up. +</P> + +<P> +"You 're the party who 's on the man hunt," she announced. +</P> + +<P> +"Am I?" equivocated Blake. She had risen to her feet by this time, +with monkey-like agility, and showed herself to be much taller than he +had imagined. He noticed a knife scar on her forearm. +</P> + +<P> +"You 're after this man called Binhart," she declared. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, no, I 'm not," was Blake's sagacious response. "I don't want +Binhart!" +</P> + +<P> +"Then what do you want?" +</P> + +<P> +"I want the money he 's got." +</P> + +<P> +The little painted face grew serious; then it became veiled. +</P> + +<P> +"How much money has he?" +</P> + +<P> +"That's what I want to find out!" +</P> + +<P> +She squatted ruminatively down on the edge of her divan. It was low +and wide and covered with orange-colored silk. +</P> + +<P> +"Then you'll have to find Binhart!" was her next announcement. +</P> + +<P> +"Maybe!" acknowledged Blake. +</P> + +<P> +"I can show you where he is!" +</P> + +<P> +"All right," was the unperturbed response. The blue-painted eyes were +studying him. +</P> + +<P> +"It will be worth four thousand pounds, in English gold," she announced. +</P> + +<P> +Blake took a step or two nearer her. +</P> + +<P> +"Is that the message Ottenheim told you to give me?" he demanded. His +face was red with anger. +</P> + +<P> +"Then three thousand pounds," she calmly suggested, wriggling her toes +into a fallen sandal. +</P> + +<P> +Blake did not deign to speak. His inarticulate grunt was one of +disgust. +</P> + +<P> +"Then a thousand, in gold," she coyly intimated. She twisted about to +pull the strap of her bodice up over her white shoulder-blades. "Or I +will kill him for you for two thousand pounds in gold!" +</P> + +<P> +Her eyes were as tranquil as a child's. Blake remembered that he was +in a world not his own. +</P> + +<P> +"Why should I want him killed?" he inquired. He looked about for some +place to sit. There was not a chair in the room. +</P> + +<P> +"Because he intends to kill <I>you</I>," answered the woman, squatting on +the orange-covered divan. +</P> + +<P> +"I wish he 'd come and try," Blake devoutly retorted. +</P> + +<P> +"He will not come," she told him. "It will be done from the dark. <I>I</I> +could have done it. But Ottenheim said no." +</P> + +<P> +"And Ottenheim said you were to work with me in this," declared Blake, +putting two and two together. +</P> + +<P> +The woman shrugged a white shoulder. +</P> + +<P> +"Have you any money?" she asked. She put the question with the +artlessness of a child. +</P> + +<P> +"Mighty little," retorted Blake, still studying the woman from where he +stood. He was wondering if Ottenheim had the same hold on her that the +authorities had on Ottenheim, the ex-forger who enjoyed his parole only +on condition that he remain a stool-pigeon of the high seas. He +pondered what force he could bring to bear on her, what power could +squeeze from those carmine and childish lips the information he must +have. +</P> + +<P> +He knew that he could break that slim body of hers across his knee. +But he also knew that he had no way of crushing out of it the truth he +sought, the truth he must in some way obtain. The woman still squatted +on the divan, peering down at the knife scar on her arm from time to +time, studying it, as though it were an inscription. +</P> + +<P> +Blake was still watching the woman when the door behind him was slowly +opened; a head was thrust in, and as quietly withdrawn again. Blake +dropped his right hand to his coat pocket and moved further along the +wall, facing the woman. There was nothing of which he stood afraid: he +merely wished to be on the safe side. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, what word 'll I take back to Ottenheim?" he demanded. +</P> + +<P> +The woman grew serious. Then she showed her rice-like row of teeth as +she laughed. +</P> + +<P> +"That means there 's nothing in it for me," she complained with +pouting-lipped moroseness. Her venality, he began to see, was merely +the instinctive acquisitiveness of the savage, the greed of the petted +child. +</P> + +<P> +"No more than there is for me," Blake acknowledged. She turned and +caught up a heavily flowered mandarin coat of plaited cream and gold. +She was thrusting one arm into it when a figure drifted into the room +from the matting-hung doorway on Blake's left. As she saw this figure +she suddenly flung off the coat and stooped to the tea tray in the +middle of the floor. +</P> + +<P> +Blake saw that the newcomer was a Chinaman. This newcomer, he also +saw, ignored him as though he were a door post, confronting the woman +and assailing her with a quick volley of words, of incomprehensible +words in the native tongue. She answered with the same clutter and +clack of unknown syllables, growing more and more excited as the +dialogue continued. Her thin face darkened and changed, her white arms +gyrated, the fires of anger burned in the baby-like eyes. She seemed +expostulating, arguing, denouncing, and each wordy sally was met by an +equally wordy sally from the Chinaman. She challenged and rebuked with +her passionately pointed finger; she threatened with angry eyes; she +stormed after the newcomer as he passed like a shadow out of the room; +she met him with a renewed storm when he returned a moment later. +</P> + +<P> +The Chinaman now stood watching her, impassive and immobile, as though +he had taken his stand and intended to stick to it. Blake studied him +with calm and patient eyes. That huge-limbed detective in his day had +"pounded" too many Christy Street Chinks to be in any way intimidated +by a queue and a yellow face. He was not disturbed. He was merely +puzzled. +</P> + +<P> +Then the woman turned to the mandarin coat, and caught it up, shook it +out, and for one brief moment stood thoughtfully regarding it. Then +she suddenly turned about on the Chinaman. +</P> + +<P> +Blake, as he stood watching that renewed angry onslaught, paid little +attention to the actual words that she was calling out. But as he +stood there he began to realize that she was not speaking in Chinese, +but in English. +</P> + +<P> +"Do you hear me, white man? Do you hear me?" she cried out, over and +over again. Yet the words seemed foolish, for all the time as she +uttered them, she was facing the placid-eyed Chinaman and gesticulating +in his face. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't you see," Blake at last heard her crying, "he doesn't know what +I'm saying! He doesn't understand a word of English!" And then, and +then only, it dawned on Blake that every word the woman was uttering +was intended for his own ears. She was warning him, and all the while +pretending that her words were the impetuous words of anger. +</P> + +<P> +"Watch this man!" he heard her cry. "Don't let him know you 're +listening. But remember what I say, remember it. And God help you if +you haven't got a gun." +</P> + +<P> +Blake could see her, as in a dream, assailing the Chinaman with her +gestures, advancing on him, threatening him, expostulating with him, +but all in pantomime. There was something absurd about it, as absurd +as a moving-picture film which carries the wrong text. +</P> + +<P> +"He 'll pretend to take you to the man you want," the woman was +panting. "That's what he will say. But it's a lie. He 'll take you +out to a sampan, to put you aboard Binhart's boat. But the three of +them will cut your throat, cut your throat, and then drop you +overboard. He 's to get so much in gold. Get out of here with him. +Let him think you 're going. But drop away, somewhere, before you get +to the beach. And watch them all the way." +</P> + +<P> +Blake stared at the immobile Chinaman, as though to make sure that the +other man had not understood. He was still staring at that impassive +yellow face, he was still absorbing the shock of his news, when the +outer door opened and a second Chinaman stepped into the room. The +newcomer cluttered a quick sentence or two to his countryman, and was +still talking when a third figure sidled in. +</P> + +<P> +Those spoken words, whatever they were, seemed to have little effect on +any one in the room except the woman. She suddenly sprang about and +exploded into an angry shower of denials. +</P> + +<P> +"It's a lie!" she cried in English, storming about the impassive trio. +"You never heard me peach! You never heard me say a word! It's a lie!" +</P> + +<P> +Blake strode to the middle of the room, towering above the other +figures, dwarfing them by his great bulk, as assured of his mastery as +he would have been in a Chatham Square gang fight. +</P> + +<P> +"What's the row here?" he thundered, knowing from the past that power +promptly won its own respect. "What 're you talking about, you two?" +He turned from one intruder to another. "And you? And you? What do +you want, anyway?" +</P> + +<P> +The three contending figures, however, ignored him as though he were a +tobacconist's dummy. They went on with their exotic cackle, as though +he was no longer in their midst. They did not so much as turn an eye +in his direction. And still Blake felt reasonably sure of his position. +</P> + +<P> +It was not until the woman squeaked, like a frightened mouse, and ran +whimpering into the corner of the room, that he realized what was +happening. He was not familiar with the wrist movement by which the +smallest bodied of the three men was producing a knife from his sleeve. +The woman, however, had understood from the first. +</P> + +<P> +"White man, look out!" she half sobbed from her corner. "Oh, white +man!" she repeated in a shriller note as the Chinaman, bending low, +scuttled across the room to the corner where she cowered. +</P> + +<P> +Blake saw the knife by this time. It was thin and long, for all the +world like an icicle, a shaft of cutting steel ground incredibly thin, +so thin, in fact, that at first sight it looked more like a point for +stabbing than a blade for cutting. +</P> + +<P> +The mere glitter of that knife electrified the staring white man into +sudden action. He swung about and tried to catch at the arm that held +the steel icicle. He was too late for that, but his fingers closed on +the braided queue. By means of this queue he brought the Chinaman up +short, swinging him sharply about so that he collided flat faced with +the room wall. +</P> + +<P> +Then, for the first time, Blake grew into a comprehension of what +surrounded him. He wheeled about, stooped and caught up the +papier-mâché tea-tray from the floor and once more stood with his back +to the wall. He stood there, on guard, for a second figure with a +second steel icicle was sidling up to him. He swung viciously out and +brought the tea-tray down on the hand that held this knife, crippling +the fingers and sending the steel spinning across the room. Then with +his free hand he tugged the revolver from his coat pocket, holding it +by the barrel and bringing the metal butt down on the queue-wound head +of the third man, who had no knife, but was struggling with the woman +for the metal icicle she had caught up from the floor. +</P> + +<P> +Then the five seemed to close in together, and the fight became +general. It became a mêlée. With his swinging right arm Blake +battered and pounded with his revolver butt. With his left hand he +made cutting strokes with the heavy papier-mâché tea-tray, keeping +their steel, by those fierce sweeps, away from his body. One Chinaman +he sent sprawling, leaving him huddled and motionless against the +orange-covered divan. The second, stunned by a blow of the tea-tray +across the eyes, could offer no resistance when Blake's smashing right +dealt its blow, the metal gun butt falling like a trip hammer on the +shaved and polished skull. +</P> + +<P> +As the white man swung about he saw the third Chinaman with his hand on +the woman's throat, holding her flat against the wall, placing her +there as a butcher might place a fowl on his block ready for the blow +of his carver. Blake stared at the movement, panting for breath, +overcome by that momentary indifference wherein a winded athlete +permits without protest an adversary to gain his momentary advantage. +Then will triumphed over the weakness of the body. But before Blake +could get to the woman's side he saw the Chinaman's loose-sleeved right +hand slowly and deliberately ascend. As it reached the meridian of its +circular upsweep he could see the woman rise on her toes, rise as +though with some quick effort, yet some effort which Blake could not +understand. +</P> + +<P> +At the same moment that she did so a look of pained expostulation crept +into the staring slant eyes on a level with her own. The yellow jaw +gaped, filled with blood, and the poised knife fell at his side, +sticking point down in the flooring. The azure and lemon-yellow that +covered the woman's body flamed into sudden scarlet. It was only as +the figure with the expostulating yellow face sank to the ground, +crumpling up on itself as it fell, that Blake comprehended. That quick +sweep of scarlet, effacing the azure and lemon, had come from the +sudden deluge of blood that burst over the woman's body. She had made +use of the upstroke, Mexican style. Her knife had cut the full length +of the man's abdominal cavity, clean and straight to the breastbone. +He had been ripped up like a herring. +</P> + +<P> +Blake panted and wheezed, not at the sight of the blood, but at the +exertion to which his flabby muscles had been put. His body was moist +with sweat. His asthmatic throat seemed stifling his lungs. A faint +nausea crept through him, a dim ventral revolt at the thought that such +things could take place so easily, and with so little warning. +</P> + +<P> +His breast still heaved and panted and he was still fighting for breath +when he saw the woman stoop and wipe the knife on one of the fallen +Chinaman's sleeves. +</P> + +<P> +"We 've got to get out of here!" she whimpered, as she caught up the +mandarin coat and flung it over her shoulders, for in the struggle her +body had been bared almost to the waist. Blake saw the crimson that +dripped on her matting slippers and maculated the cream white of the +mandarin coat. +</P> + +<P> +"But where's Binhart?" he demanded, as he looked stolidly about for his +black boulder. +</P> + +<P> +"Never mind Binhart," she cried, touching the eviscerated body at her +feet with one slipper toe, "or we 'll get what <I>he</I> got!" +</P> + +<P> +"I want that man Binhart!" persisted the detective. +</P> + +<P> +"Not here! Not here!" she cried, folding the loose folds of the cloak +closer about her body. +</P> + +<P> +She ran to the matting curtain, looked out, and called back, "Quick! +Come quick!" Then she ran back, slipped the bolt in the outer door and +rejoined the waiting detective. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, white man!" she gasped, as the matting fell between them and the +room incarnadined by their struggle. Blake was not sure, but he +thought he heard her giggle, hysterically, in the darkness. They were +groping their way along a narrow passage. They slipped through a +second door, closed and locked it after them, and once more groped on +through the darkness. +</P> + +<P> +How many turns they took, Blake could not remember. She stopped and +whispered to him to go softly, as they came to a stairway, as steep and +dark as a cistern. Blake, at the top, could smell opium smoke, and +once or twice he thought he heard voices. The woman stopped him, with +outstretched arms, at the stair head, and together they stood and +listened. +</P> + +<P> +Blake, with nerves taut, waited for some sign from her to go on again. +He thought she was giving it, when he felt a hand caress his side. He +felt it move upward, exploringly. At the same time that he heard her +little groan of alarm he knew that the hand was not hers. +</P> + +<P> +He could not tell what the darkness held, but his movement was almost +instinctive. He swung out with his great arm, countered on the +crouching form in front of him, caught at a writhing shoulder, and +tightening his grip, sent the body catapulting down the stairway at his +side. He could hear a revolver go off as the body went tumbling and +rolling down—Blake knew that it was a gun not his own. +</P> + +<P> +"Come on, white man!" the girl in front of him was crying, as she +tugged at his coat. And they went on, now at a run, taking a turn to +the right, making a second descent, and then another to the left. They +came to still another door, which they locked behind them. Then they +scrambled up a ladder, and he could hear her quick hands padding about +in the dark. A moment later she had thrust up a hatch. He saw it led +to the open air, for the stars were above them. +</P> + +<P> +He felt grateful for that open air, for the coolness, for the sense of +deliverance which came with even that comparative freedom. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't stop!" she whispered. And he followed her across the slant of +the uneven roof. He was weak for want of breath. The girl had to +catch him and hold him for a moment. +</P> + +<P> +"On the next roof you must take off your shoes," she warned him. "You +can rest then. But hurry—hurry!" +</P> + +<P> +He gulped down the fresh air as he tore at his shoe laces, thrusting +each shoe in a side pocket as he started after her. For by this time +she was scrambling across the broken sloping roofs, as quick and agile +as a cat, dropping over ledges, climbing up barriers and across coping +tiles. Where she was leading him he had no remotest idea. She +reminded him of a cream-tinted monkey in the maddest of steeplechases. +He was glad when she came to a stop. +</P> + +<P> +The town seemed to lay to their right. Before them were the scattered +lights of the harbor and the mild crescent of the outer bay. They +could see the white wheeling finger of some foreign gunboat as its +searchlight played back and forth in the darkness. +</P> + +<P> +She sighed with weariness and dropped cross-legged down on the coping +tiles against which he leaned, regaining his breath. She squatted +there, cooingly, like a child exhausted with its evening games. +</P> + +<P> +"I 'm dished!" she murmured, as she sat there breathing audibly through +the darkness. "I 'm dished for this coast!" +</P> + +<P> +He sat down beside her, staring at the search-light. There seemed +something reassuring, something authoritative and comforting, in the +thought of it watching there in the darkness. +</P> + +<P> +The girl touched him on the knee and then shifted her position on the +coping tiles, without rising to her feet. +</P> + +<P> +"Come here!" she commanded. And when he was close beside her she +pointed with her thin white arm. "That's Saint Poalo there—you can +just make it out, up high, see. And those lights are the Boundary +Gate. And this sweep of lights below here is the <I>Praya</I>. Now look +where I 'm pointing. That's the Luiz Camoes lodging-house. You see +the second window with the light in it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I see it." +</P> + +<P> +"Well, Binhart 's inside that window." +</P> + +<P> +"You know it?" +</P> + +<P> +"I know it." +</P> + +<P> +"So he 's there?" said Blake, staring at the vague square of light. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, he's there, all right. He's posing as a buyer for a tea house, +and calls himself Bradley. Lee Fu told me; and Lee Fu is always right." +</P> + +<P> +She stood up and pulled the mandarin coat closer about her thin body. +The coolness of the night air had already chilled her. Then she +squinted carefully about in the darkness. +</P> + +<P> +"What are you going to do?" she asked. +</P> + +<P> +"I 'm going to get Binhart," was Blake's answer. +</P> + +<P> +He could hear her little childlike murmur of laughter. +</P> + +<P> +"You 're brave, white man," she said, with a hand on his arm. She was +silent for a moment, before she added; "And I think you 'll get him." +</P> + +<P> +"Of course I 'll get him," retorted Blake, buttoning his coat. The +fires had been relighted on the cold hearth of his resolution. It came +to him only as an accidental after-thought that he had met an unknown +woman and had passed through strange adventures with her and was now +about to pass out of her life again, forever. +</P> + +<P> +"What 'll you do?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +Again he heard the careless little laugh. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I 'll slip down through the Quarter and cop some clothes +somewhere. Then I 'll have a sampan take me out to the German boat. +It 'll start for Canton at daylight." +</P> + +<P> +"And then?" asked Blake, watching the window of the Luiz Camoes +lodging-house below him. +</P> + +<P> +"Then I 'll work my way up to Port Arthur, I suppose. There 's a navy +man there who 'll help me!" +</P> + +<P> +"Have n't you any money?" Blake put the question a little uneasily. +</P> + +<P> +Again he felt the careless coo of laughter. +</P> + +<P> +"Feel!" she said. She caught his huge hand between hers and pressed it +against her waist line. She rubbed his fingers along what he accepted +as a tightly packed coin-belt. He was relieved to think that he would +not have to offer her money. Then he peered over the coping tiles to +make sure of his means of descent. +</P> + +<P> +"You had better go first," she said, as she leaned out and looked down +at his side. "Crawl down this next roof to the end there. At the +corner, see, is the end of the ladder." +</P> + +<P> +He stooped and slipped his feet into his shoes. Then he let himself +cautiously down to the adjoining roof, steeper even than the one on +which they had stood. She bent low over the tiles, so that her face +was very close to his as he found his footing and stood there. +</P> + +<P> +"Good-by, white man," she whispered. +</P> + +<P> +"Good-by!" he whispered back, as he worked his way cautiously and +ponderously along that perilous slope. +</P> + +<P> +She leaned there, watching him as he gained the ladder-end. He did not +look back as he lowered himself, rung by rung. All thought of her, in +fact, had passed from his preoccupied mind. He was once more intent on +his own grim ends. He was debating with himself just how he was to get +in through that lodging-house window and what his final move would be +for the round up of his enemy. He had made use of too many "molls" in +his time to waste useless thought on what they might say or do or +desire. When he had got Binhart, he remembered, he would have to look +about for something to eat, for he was as hungry as a wolf. And he did +not even hear the girl's second soft whisper of "Good-by." +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap09"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +IX +</H3> + + +<P> +That stolid practicality which had made Blake a successful operative +asserted itself in the matter of his approach to the Luiz Camoes house, +the house which had been pointed out to him as holding Binhart. +</P> + +<P> +He circled promptly about to the front of that house, pressed a gold +coin in the hand of the half-caste Portuguese servant who opened the +door, and asked to be shown to the room of the English tea merchant. +</P> + +<P> +That servant, had he objected, would have been promptly taken +possession of by the detective, and as promptly put in a condition +where he could do no harm, for Blake felt that he was too near the end +of his trail to be put off by any mere side issue. But the coin and +the curt explanation that the merchant must be seen at once admitted +Blake to the house. +</P> + +<P> +The servant was leading him down the length of the half-lit hall when +Blake caught him by the sleeve. +</P> + +<P> +"You tell my rickshaw boy to wait! Quick, before he gets away!" +</P> + +<P> +Blake knew that the last door would be the one leading to Binhart's +room. The moment he was alone in the hall he tiptoed to this door and +pressed an ear against its panel. Then with his left hand, he slowly +turned the knob, caressing it with his fingers that it might not click +when the latch was released. As he had feared, it was locked. +</P> + +<P> +He stood for a second or two, thinking. Then with the knuckle of one +finger he tapped on the door, lightly, almost timidly. +</P> + +<P> +A man's voice from within, cried out, "Wait a minute! Wait a minute!" +But Blake, who had been examining the woodwork of the door-frame, did +not choose to wait a minute. Any such wait, he felt, would involve too +much risk. In one minute, he knew, a fugitive could either be off and +away, or could at least prepare himself for any one intercepting that +flight. So Blake took two quick steps back, and brought his massive +shoulder against the door. It swung back, as though nothing more than +a parlor match had held it shut. Blake, as he stepped into the room, +dropped his right hand to his coat pocket. +</P> + +<P> +Facing him, at the far side of the room, he saw Binhart. +</P> + +<P> +The fugitive sat in a short-legged reed chair, with a grip-sack open on +his knees. His coat and vest were off, and the light from the oil lamp +at his side made his linen shirt a blotch of white. +</P> + +<P> +He had thrown his head up, at the sound of the opening door, and he +still sat, leaning forward in the low chair in an attitude of startled +expectancy. There was no outward and apparent change on his face as +his eyes fell on Blake's figure. He showed neither fear nor +bewilderment. His career had equipped him with histrionic powers that +were exceptional. As a bank-sneak and confidence-man he had long since +learned perfect control of his features, perfect composure even under +the most discomforting circumstances. +</P> + +<P> +"Hello, Connie!" said the detective facing him. He spoke quietly, and +his attitude seemed one of unconcern. Yet a careful observer might +have noticed that the pulse of his beefy neck was beating faster than +usual. And over that great body, under its clothing, were rippling +tremors strangely like those that shake the body of a leashed bulldog +at the sight of a street cat. +</P> + +<P> +"Hello, Jim!" answered Binhart, with equal composure. He had aged +since Blake had last seen him, aged incredibly. His face was thin now, +with plum-colored circles under the faded eyes. +</P> + +<P> +He made a move as though to lift down the valise that rested on his +knees. But Blake stopped him with a sharp movement of his right hand. +</P> + +<P> +"That's all right," he said. "Don't get up!" +</P> + +<P> +Binhart eyed him. During that few seconds of silent tableau each man +was appraising, weighing, estimating the strength of the other. +</P> + +<P> +"What do you want, Jim?" asked Binhart, almost querulously. +</P> + +<P> +"I want that gun you 've got up there under your liver pad," was +Blake's impassive answer. +</P> + +<P> +"Is that all?" asked Binhart. But he made no move to produce the gun. +</P> + +<P> +"Then I want you," calmly announced Blake. +</P> + +<P> +A look of gentle expostulation crept over Binhart's gaunt face. +</P> + +<P> +"You can't do it, Jim," he announced. "You can't take me away from +here." +</P> + +<P> +"But I'm going to," retorted Blake. +</P> + +<P> +"How?" +</P> + +<P> +"I 'm just going to take you." +</P> + +<P> +He crossed the room as he spoke. +</P> + +<P> +"Give me the gun," he commanded. +</P> + +<P> +Binhart still sat in the low reed chair. He made no movement in +response to Blake's command. +</P> + +<P> +"What's the good of getting rough-house," he complained. +</P> + +<P> +"Gi' me the gun," repeated Blake. +</P> + +<P> +"Jim, I hate to see you act this way," but as Binhart spoke he slowly +drew the revolver from its flapped pocket. Blake's revolver barrel was +touching the white shirt-front as the movement was made. It remained +there until he had possession of Binhart's gun. Then he backed away, +putting his own revolver back in his pocket. +</P> + +<P> +"Now, get your clothes on," commanded Blake. +</P> + +<P> +"What for?" temporized Binhart. +</P> + +<P> +"You 're coming with me!" +</P> + +<P> +"You can't do it, Jim," persisted the other. "You could n't get me +down to the waterfront, in this town. They 'd get you before you were +two hundred yards away from that door." +</P> + +<P> +"I 'll risk it," announced the detective. +</P> + +<P> +"And I 'd fight you myself, every move. This ain't Manhattan Borough, +you know, Jim; you can't kidnap a white man. I 'd have you in irons +for abduction the first ship we struck. And at the first port of call +I 'd have the best law sharps money could get. You can't do it, Jim. +It ain't law!" +</P> + +<P> +"What t' hell do I care for law," was Blake's retort. "I want you and +you 're going to come with me." +</P> + +<P> +"Where am I going?" +</P> + +<P> +"Back to New York." +</P> + +<P> +Binhart laughed. It was a laugh without any mirth in it. +</P> + +<P> +"Jim, you 're foolish. You could n't get me back to New York alive, +any more than you could take Victoria Peak to New York!" +</P> + +<P> +"All right, then, I 'll take you along the other way, if I ain't going +to take you alive. I 've followed you a good many thousand miles, +Connie, and a little loose talk ain't going to make me lie down at this +stage of the game." +</P> + +<P> +Binhart sat studying the other man for a moment or two. +</P> + +<P> +"Then how about a little real talk, the kind of talk that money makes?" +</P> + +<P> +"Nothing doing!" declared Blake, folding his arms. +</P> + +<P> +Binhart flickered a glance at him as he thrust his own right hand down +into the hand-bag on his knees. +</P> + +<P> +"I want to show you what you could get out of this," he said, leaning +forward a little as he looked up at Blake. +</P> + +<P> +When his exploring right hand was lifted again above the top of the bag +Blake firmly expected to see papers of some sort between its fingers. +He was astonished to see something metallic, something which glittered +bright in the light from the wall lamp. The record of this discovery +had scarcely been carried back to his brain, when the silence of the +room seemed to explode into a white sting, a puff of noise that felt +like a whip lash curling about Blake's leg. It seemed to roll off in a +shifting and drifting cloud of smoke. +</P> + +<P> +It so amazed Blake that he fell back against the wall, trying to +comprehend it, to decipher the source and meaning of it all. He was +still huddled back against the wall when a second surprise came to him. +It was the discovery that Binhart had caught up a hat and a coat, and +was running away, running out through the door while his captor stared +after him. +</P> + +<P> +It was only then Blake realized that his huddled position was not a +thing of his own volition. Some impact had thrown him against the wall +like a toppled nine-pin. The truth came to him, in a sudden flash; +Binhart had shot at him. There had been a second revolver hidden away +in the hand bag, and Binhart had attempted to make use of it. +</P> + +<P> +A great rage against Binhart swept through him. A still greater rage +at the thought that his enemy was running away brought Blake lurching +and scrambling to his feet. He was a little startled to find that it +hurt him to run. But it hurt him more to think of losing Binhart. +</P> + +<P> +He dove for the door, hurling his great bulk through it, tossing aside +the startled Portuguese servant who stood at the outer entrance. He +ran frenziedly out into the night, knowing by the staring faces of the +street-corner group that Binhart had made the first turning and was +running towards the water-front. He could see the fugitive, as he came +to the corner; and like an unpenned bull he swung about and made after +him. His one thought was to capture his man. His one obsession was to +haul down Binhart. +</P> + +<P> +Then, as he ran, a small trouble insinuated itself into his mind. He +could not understand the swishing of his right boot, at every hurrying +stride. But he did not stop, for he could already smell the odorous +coolness of the waterfront and he knew he must close in on his man +before that forest of floating sampans and native house-boats swallowed +him up. +</P> + +<P> +A lightheadedness crept over him as he came panting down to the water's +edge. The faces of the coolies about him, as he bargained for a +sampan, seemed far away and misty. The voices, as the flat-bottomed +little skiff was pushed off in pursuit of the boat which was hurrying +Binhart out into the night, seemed remote and thin, as though coming +from across foggy water. He was bewildered by a sense of dampness in +his right leg. He patted it with his hand, inquisitively, and found it +wet. +</P> + +<P> +He stooped down and felt his boot. It was full of blood. It was +overrunning with blood. He remembered then. Binhart had shot him, +after all. +</P> + +<P> +He could never say whether it was this discovery, or the actual loss of +blood, that filled him with a sudden giddiness. He fell forward on his +face, on the bottom of the rocking sampan. +</P> + +<P> +He must have been unconscious for some time, for when he awakened he +was dimly aware that he was being carried up the landing-ladder of a +steamer. He heard English voices about him. A very youthful-looking +ship's surgeon came and bent over him, cut away his trouser-leg, and +whistled. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, he 's been bleeding like a stuck pig!" he heard a startled voice, +very close to him, suddenly exclaim. And a few minutes later, after +being moved again, he opened his eyes to find himself in a berth and +the boyish-looking surgeon assuring him it was all right. +</P> + +<P> +"Where's Binhart?" asked Blake. +</P> + +<P> +"That's all right, old chap, you just rest up a bit," said the +placatory youth. +</P> + +<P> +At nine the next morning Blake was taken ashore at Hong Kong. +</P> + +<P> +After eleven days in the English hospital he was on his feet again. He +was quite strong by that time. But for several weeks after that his +leg was painfully stiff. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap10"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +X +</H3> + + +<P> +Twelve days later Blake began just where he had left off. He sent out +his feelers, he canvassed the offices from which some echo might come, +he had Macao searched and all westbound steamers which he could reach +by wireless were duly warned. But more than ever, now, he found, he +had to depend on his own initiative, his own personal efforts. The +more official the quarters to which he looked for coöperation, the less +response he seemed to elicit. In some circles, he saw, his story was +even doubted. It was listened to with indifference; it was dismissed +with shrugs. There were times when he himself was smiled at, pityingly. +</P> + +<P> +He concluded, after much thought on the matter, that Binhart would +continue to work his way westward. That the fugitive would strike +inland and try to reach Europe by means of the Trans-Siberian Railway +seemed out of the question. On that route he would be too easily +traced. The carefully guarded frontiers of Russia, too, would offer +obstacles which he dare not meet. He would stick to the ragged and +restless sea-fringes, concluded the detective. But before acting on +that conclusion he caught a <I>Toyo Kisen Kaisha</I> steamer for Shanghai, +and went over that city from the Bund and the Maloo to the narrowest +street in the native quarter. In all this second search, however, he +found nothing to reward his efforts. So he started doggedly southward +again, stopping at Saigon and Bangkok and Singapore. +</P> + +<P> +At each of these ports he went through the same rounds, canvassed the +same set of officials, and made the same inquiries. Then he would go +to the native quarters, to the gambling houses, to the water-front and +the rickshaw coolies and half-naked Malay wharf-rats, holding the +departmental photograph of Binhart in his hand and inquiring of +stranger after stranger: "You know? You savvy him?" And time after +time the curious yellow faces would bend over the picture, the +inscrutable slant eyes would study the face, sometimes silently, +sometimes with a disheartening jabber of heathen tongues. But not one +trace of Binhart could he pick up. +</P> + +<P> +Then he went on to Penang. There he went doggedly through the same +manoeuvers, canvassing the same rounds and putting the same questions. +And it was at Penang that a sharp-eyed young water-front coolie +squinted at the well-thumbed photograph, squinted back at Blake, and +shook his head in affirmation. A tip of a few English shillings +loosened his tongue, but as Blake understood neither Malay nor Chinese +he was in the dark until he led his coolie to a Cook's agent, who in +turn called in the local officers, who in turn consulted with the +booking-agents of the P. & O. Line. It was then Blake discovered that +Binhart had booked passage under the name of Blaisdell, twelve days +before, for Brindisi. +</P> + +<P> +Blake studied the map, cashed a draft, and waited for the next steamer. +While marking time he purchased copies of "French Self-Taught" and +"Italian Self-Taught," hoping to school himself in a speaking knowledge +of these two tongues. But the effort was futile. Pore as he might +over those small volumes, he could glean nothing from their laboriously +pondered pages. His mind was no longer receptive. It seemed +indurated, hard-shelled. He had to acknowledge to his own soul that it +was beyond him. He was too old a dog to learn new tricks. +</P> + +<P> +The trip to Brindisi seemed an endless one. He seemed to have lost his +earlier tendency to be a "mixer." He became more morose, more +self-immured. He found himself without the desire to make new friends, +and his Celtic ancestry equipped him with a mute and sullen antipathy +for his aggressively English fellow travelers. He spent much of his +time in the smoking-room, playing solitaire. When they stopped at +Madras and Bombay he merely emerged from his shell to make sure if no +trace of Binhart were about. He was no more interested in these +heathen cities of a heathen East than in an ash-pile through which he +might have to rake for a hidden coin. +</P> + +<P> +By the time he reached Brindisi he had recovered his lost weight, and +added to it, by many pounds. He had also returned to his earlier habit +of chewing "fine-cut." He gave less thought to his personal +appearance, becoming more and more indifferent as to the impression he +made on those about him. His face, for all his increase in flesh, lost +its ruddiness. It was plain that during the last few months he had +aged, that his hound-like eye had grown more haggard, that his always +ponderous step had lost the last of its resilience. +</P> + +<P> +Yet one hour after he had landed at Brindisi his listlessness seemed a +thing of the past. For there he was able to pick up the trail again, +with clear proof that a man answering to Binhart's description had +sailed for Corfu. From Corfu the scent was followed northward to +Ragusa, and from Ragusa, on to Trieste, where it was lost again. +</P> + +<P> +Two days of hard work, however, convinced Blake that Binhart had sailed +from Fiume to Naples. He started southward by train, at once, vaguely +surprised at the length of Italy, vaguely disconcerted by the unknown +tongue and the unknown country which he had to face. +</P> + +<P> +It was not until he arrived at Naples that he seemed to touch solid +ground again. That city, he felt, stood much nearer home. In it were +many persons not averse to curry favor with a New York official, and +many persons indirectly in touch with the home Department. These +persons he assiduously sought out, one by one, and in twelve hours' +time his net had been woven completely about the city. And, so far as +he could learn, Binhart was still somewhere in that city. +</P> + +<P> +Two days later, when least expecting it, he stepped into the wine-room +of an obscure little pension hotel on the Via Margellina and saw +Binhart before him. Binhart left the room as the other man stepped +into it. He left by way of the window, carrying the casement with him. +Blake followed, but the lighter and younger man out-ran him and was +swallowed up by one of the unknown streets of an unknown quarter. An +hour later Blake had his hired agents raking that quarter from cellar +to garret. It was not until the evening of the following day that +these agents learned Binhart had made his way to the Marina, bribed a +water-front boatman to row him across the bay, and had been put aboard +a freighter weighing anchor for Marseilles. +</P> + +<P> +For the second time Blake traversed Italy by train, hurrying +self-immured and preoccupied through Rome and Florence and Genoa, and +then on along the Riviera to Marseilles. +</P> + +<P> +In that brawling and turbulent French port, after the usual rounds and +the usual inquiries down in the midst of the harbor-front forestry of +masts, he found a boatman who claimed to have knowledge of Binhart's +whereabouts. This piratical-looking boatman promptly took Blake +several miles down the coast, parleyed in the <I>lingua Franca</I> of the +Mediterranean, argued in broken English, and insisted on going further. +Blake, scenting imposture, demanded to be put ashore. This the boatman +refused to do. It was then and only then that the detective suspected +he was the victim of a "plant," of a carefully planned shanghaing +movement, the object of which, apparently, was to gain time for the +fugitive. +</P> + +<P> +It was only at the point of a revolver that Blake brought the boat +ashore, and there he was promptly arrested and accused of attempted +murder. He found it expedient to call in the aid of the American +Consul, who, in turn, suggested the retaining of a local advocate. +Everything, it is true, was at last made clear and in the end Blake was +honorably released. +</P> + +<P> +But Binhart, in the meantime, had caught a Lloyd Brazileiro steamer for +Rio de Janeiro, and was once more on the high seas. +</P> + +<P> +Blake, when he learned of this, sat staring about him, like a man +facing news which he could not assimilate. He shut himself up in his +hotel room, for an hour, communing with his own dark soul. He emerged +from that self-communion freshly shaved and smoking a cigar. He found +that he could catch a steamer for Barcelona, and from that port take a +Campania Transatlantic boat for Kingston, Jamaica. +</P> + +<P> +From the American consulate he carried away with him a bundle of New +York newspapers. When out on the Atlantic he arranged these according +to date and went over them diligently, page by page. They seemed like +echoes out of another life. He read listlessly on, going over the +belated news from his old-time home with the melancholy indifference of +the alien, with the poignant impersonality of the exile. He read of +fires and crimes and calamities, of investigations and elections. He +read of a rumored Police Department shake up, and he could afford to +smile at the vitality of that hellbender-like report. Then, as he +turned the worn pages, the smile died from his heavy lips, for his own +name leaped up like a snake from the text and seemed to strike him in +the face. He spelled through the paragraphs carefully, word by word, +as though it were in a language with which he was only half familiar. +He even went back and read the entire column for a second time. For +there it told of his removal from the Police Department. The +Commissioner and Copeland had saved their necks, but Blake was no +longer Second Deputy. They spoke of him as being somewhere in the +Philippines, on the trail of the bank-robber Binhart. They went on to +describe him as a sleuth of the older school, as an advocate of the now +obsolete "third-degree" methods, and as a product of the "machine" +which had so long and so flagrantly placed politics before efficiency. +</P> + +<P> +Blake put down the papers, lighted a cigar, sat back, and let the truth +of what he had read percolate into his actual consciousness. He was +startled, at first, that no great outburst of rage swept through him. +All he felt, in fact, was a slow and dull resentment, a resentment +which he could not articulate. Yet dull as it was, hour by hour and +day by idle day it grew more virulent. About him stood nothing against +which this resentment could be marshaled. His pride lay as helpless as +a whale washed ashore, too massive to turn and face the tides of +treachery that had wrecked it. All he asked for was time. Let them +wait, he kept telling himself; let them wait until he got back with +Binhart! Then they would all eat crow, every last man of them! +</P> + +<P> +For Blake did not intend to give up the trail. To do so would have +been beyond him. His mental fangs were already fixed in Binhart. To +withdraw them was not in his power. He could no more surrender his +quarry than the python's head, having once closed on the rabbit, could +release its meal. With Blake, every instinct sloped inward, just as +every python-fang sloped backward. The actual reason for the chase was +no longer clear to his own vision. It was something no longer to be +reckoned with. The only thing that counted was the fact that he had +decided to "get" Binhart, that he was the pursuer and Binhart was the +fugitive. It had long since resolved itself into a personal issue +between him and his enemy. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap11"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XI +</H3> + + +<P> +Three hours after he had disembarked from his steamer at Rio, Blake was +breakfasting at the Café Britto in the Ovidor. At the same table with +him sat a lean-jawed and rat-eyed little gambler by the name of Passos. +</P> + +<P> +Two hours after this breakfast Passos might have been seen on the +Avenida Central, in deep talk with a peddler of artificial diamonds. +Still later in the day he held converse with a fellow gambler at the +Paineiras, half-way up Mount Corcovado; and the same afternoon he was +interrogating a certain discredited concession-hunter on the Petropolis +boat. +</P> + +<P> +By evening he was able to return to Blake with the information that +Binhart had duly landed at Rio, had hidden for three days in the +outskirts of the city, and had gone aboard a German cargo-boat bound +for Colon. Two days later Blake himself was aboard a British freighter +northward bound for Kingston. Once again he beheld a tropical sun +shimmer on hot brass-work and pitch boil up between bone-white +deck-boards sluiced and resluiced by a half-naked crew. Once again he +had to face an enervating equatorial heat that vitiated both mind and +body. But he neither fretted nor complained. Some fixed inner purpose +seemed to sustain him through every discomfort. Deep in that soul, +merely filmed with its fixed equatorial calm, burned some dormant and +crusader-like propulsion. And an existence so centered on one great +issue found scant time to worry over the trivialities of the moment. +</P> + +<P> +After a three-day wait at Jamaica Blake caught an Atlas liner for +Colon. And at Colon he found himself once more among his own kind. +Scattered up and down the Isthmus he found an occasional Northerner to +whom he was not unknown, engineers and construction men who could talk +of things that were comprehensible to him, gamblers and adventurers who +took him poignantly back to the life he had left so far behind him. +Along that crowded and shifting half-way house for the tropic-loving +American he found more than one passing friend to whom he talked +hungrily and put many wistful questions. Sometimes it was a rock +contractor tanned the color of a Mexican saddle. Sometimes it was a +new arrival in Stetson and riding-breeches and unstained leather +leggings. Sometimes it was a coatless dump-boss blaspheming his +toiling army of spick-a-dees. +</P> + +<P> +Sometimes he talked with graders and car-men and track-layers in +Chinese saloons along Bottle Alley. Sometimes it was with a +bridge-builder or a lottery capper in the barroom of the Hotel Central, +where he would sit without coat or vest, calmly giving an eye to his +game of "draw" or stolidly "rolling the bones" as he talked—but always +with his ears open for one particular thing, and that thing had to do +with the movements or the whereabouts of Connie Binhart. +</P> + +<P> +One night, as he sat placidly playing his game of "cut-throat" in his +shirt-sleeves, he looked up and saw a russet-faced figure as stolid as +his own. This figure, he perceived, was discreetly studying him as he +sat under the glare of the light. Blake went on with his game. In a +quarter of an hour, however, he got up from the table and bought a +fresh supply of "green" Havana cigars. Then he sauntered out to where +the russet-faced stranger stood watching the street crowds. +</P> + +<P> +"Pip, what 're you doing down in these parts?" he casually inquired. +He had recognized the man as Pip Tankred, with whom he had come in +contact five long years before. Pip, on that occasion, was engaged in +loading an East River banana-boat with an odd ton or two of cartridges +designed for Castro's opponents in Venezuela. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I 'm freightin' bridge equipment down the West Coast," he solemnly +announced. "And transshippin' a few cases o' phonograph-records as a +side-line!" +</P> + +<P> +"Have a smoke?" asked Blake. +</P> + +<P> +"Sure," responded the russet-faced bucaneer. And as they stood smoking +together Blake tenderly and cautiously put out the usual feelers, +plying the familiar questions and meeting with the too-familiar lack of +response. Like all the rest of them, he soon saw, Pip Tankred knew +nothing of Binhart or his whereabouts. And with that discovery his +interest in Pip Tankred ceased. +</P> + +<P> +So the next day Blake moved inland, working his interrogative way along +the Big Ditch to Panama. He even slipped back over the line to San +Cristobel and Ancon, found nothing of moment awaiting him there, and +drifted back into Panamanian territory. It was not until the end of +the week that the first glimmer of hope came to him. +</P> + +<P> +It came in the form of an incredibly thin gringo in an incredibly +soiled suit of duck. Blake had been sitting on the wide veranda of the +Hotel Angelini, sipping his "swizzle" and studiously watching the +Saturday evening crowds that passed back and forth through Panama's +bustling railway station. He had watched the long line of rickety cabs +backed up against the curb, the two honking auto-busses, the shifting +army of pleasure-seekers along the sidewalks, the noisy saloons round +which the crowds eddied like bees about a hive, and he was once more +appraising the groups closer about him, when through that seething and +bustling mass of humanity he saw Dusty McGlade pushing his way, a Dusty +McGlade on whom the rum of Jamaica and the <I>mezcal</I> of Guatemala and +the <I>anisado</I> of Ecuador had combined with the <I>pulque</I> of Mexico to +set their unmistakable seal. +</P> + +<P> +But three minutes later the two men were seated together above their +"swizzles" and Blake was exploring Dusty's faded memories as busily as +a leather-dip might explore an inebriate's pockets. +</P> + +<P> +"Who 're you looking for, Jim?" suddenly and peevishly demanded the man +in the soiled white duck, as though impatient of the other's +indirections. +</P> + +<P> +Blake smoked for a moment or two before answering. +</P> + +<P> +"I 'm looking for a man called Connie Binhart," he finally confessed, +as he continued to study that ruinous figure in front of him. It +startled him to see what idleness and alcohol and the heat of the +tropics could do to a man once as astute as Dusty McGlade. +</P> + +<P> +"Then why didn't you say so?" complained McGlade, as though impatient +of obliquities that had been altogether too apparent. He had once been +afraid of this man called Blake, he remembered. But time had changed +things, as time has the habit of doing. And most of all, time had +changed Blake himself, had left the old-time Headquarters man oddly +heavy of movement and strangely slow of thought. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I'm saying it now!" Blake's guttural voice was reminding him. +</P> + +<P> +"Then why did n't you say it an hour ago?" contested McGlade, with his +alcoholic peevish obstinacy. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, let's have it now," placated the patient-eyed Blake. He waited, +with a show of indifference. He even overlooked Dusty's curt laugh of +contempt. +</P> + +<P> +"I can tell you all right, all right—but it won't do you much good!" +</P> + +<P> +"Why not?" And still Blake was bland and patient. +</P> + +<P> +"Because," retorted McGlade, fixing the other man with a lean finger +that was both unclean and unsteady, "<I>you can't get at him</I>!" +</P> + +<P> +"You tell me where he is," said Blake, striking a match. "I 'll attend +to the rest of it!" +</P> + +<P> +McGlade slowly and deliberately drank the last of his swizzle. Then he +put down his empty glass and stared pensively and pregnantly into it. +</P> + +<P> +"What's there in it for me?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +Blake, studying him across the small table, Weighed both the man and +the situation. +</P> + +<P> +"Two hundred dollars in American green-backs," he announced as he drew +out his wallet. He could see McGlade moisten his flaccid lips. He +could see the faded eyes fasten on the bills as they were counted out. +He knew where the money would go, how little good it would do. But +that, he knew, was not his funeral. All he wanted was Binhart. +</P> + +<P> +"Binhart's in Guayaquil," McGlade suddenly announced. +</P> + +<P> +"How d' you know that?" promptly demanded Blake. +</P> + +<P> +"I know the man who sneaked him out from Balboa. He got sixty dollars +for it. I can take you to him. Binhart 'd picked up a medicine-chest +and a bag of instruments from a broken-down doctor at Colon. He went +aboard a Pacific liner as a doctor himself. +</P> + +<P> +"What liner?" +</P> + +<P> +"He went aboard the <I>Trunella</I>. He thought he 'd get down to Callao. +But they tied the <I>Trunella</I> up at Guayaquil." +</P> + +<P> +"And you say he 's there now?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes!" +</P> + +<P> +"And aboard the <I>Trunella</I>?" +</P> + +<P> +"Sure! He's got to be aboard the <I>Trunella</I>!" +</P> + +<P> +"Then why d' you say I can't get at him?" +</P> + +<P> +"Because Guayaquil and the <I>Trunella</I> and the whole coast down there is +tied up in quarantine. That whole harbor's rotten with yellow-jack. +It's tied up as tight as a drum. You could n't get a boat on all the +Pacific to touch that port these days!" +</P> + +<P> +"But there's got to be <I>something</I> going there!" contended Blake. +</P> + +<P> +"They daren't do it! They couldn't get clearance—they couldn't even +get <I>pratique</I>! Once they got in there they 'd be held and given the +blood-test and picketed with a gunboat for a month! And what's more, +they 've got that Alfaro revolution on down there! They 've got +boat-patrols up and down the coast, keeping a lookout for gun-runners!" +</P> + +<P> +Blake, at this last word, raised his ponderous head. +</P> + +<P> +"The boat-patrols wouldn't phase me," he announced. His thoughts, in +fact, were already far ahead, marshaling themselves about other things. +</P> + +<P> +"You 've a weakness for yellow fever?" inquired the ironic McGlade. +</P> + +<P> +"I guess it 'd take more than a few fever germs to throw me off that +trail," was the detective's abstracted retort. He was recalling +certain things that the russet-faced Pip Tankred had told him. And +before everything else he felt that it would be well to get in touch +with that distributor of bridge equipment and phonograph records. +</P> + +<P> +"You don't mean you 're going to try to get into Guayaquil?" demanded +McGlade. +</P> + +<P> +"If Connie Binhart 's down there I 've got to go and get him," was +Never-Fail Blake's answer. +</P> + +<BR> +<HR WIDTH="60%" ALIGN="center"> +<BR> + +<P> +The following morning Blake, having made sure of his ground, began one +of his old-time "investigations" of that unsuspecting worthy known as +Pip Tankred. +</P> + +<P> +This investigation involved a hurried journey back to Colon, the +expenditure of much money in cable tolls, the examination of records +that were both official and unofficial, the asking of many questions +and the turning up of dimly remembered things on which the dust of time +had long since settled. +</P> + +<P> +It was followed by a return to Panama, a secret trip several miles up +the coast to look over a freighter placidly anchored there, a +dolorous-appearing coast-tramp with unpainted upperworks and a rusty +red hull. The side-plates of this red hull, Blake observed, were as +pitted and scarred as the face of an Egyptian obelisk. Her ventilators +were askew and her funnel was scrofulous and many of her rivet-heads +seemed to be eaten away. But this was not once a source of +apprehension to the studious-eyed detective. +</P> + +<P> +The following evening he encountered Tankred himself, as though by +accident, on the veranda of the Hotel Angelini. The latter, at Blake's +invitation, sat down for a cocktail and a quiet smoke. +</P> + +<P> +They sat in silence for some time, watching the rain that deluged the +city, the warm devitalizing rain that unedged even the fieriest of +Signer Angelini's stimulants. +</P> + +<P> +"Pip," Blake very quietly announced, "you 're going to sail for +Guayaquil to-morrow!" +</P> + +<P> +"Am I?" queried the unmoved Pip. +</P> + +<P> +"You 're going to start for Guayaquil tomorrow," repeated Blake, "and +you 're going to take me along with you!" +</P> + +<P> +"My friend," retorted Pip, emitting a curling geyser of smoke as long +and thin as a pool-que, "you 're sure laborin' under the +misapprehension this steamer o' mine is a Pacific mailer! But she +ain't, Blake!" +</P> + +<P> +"I admit that," quietly acknowledged the other man. "I saw her +yesterday!" +</P> + +<P> +"And she don't carry no passengers—she ain't allowed to," announced +her master. +</P> + +<P> +"But she 's going to carry me," asserted Blake, lighting a fresh cigar. +</P> + +<P> +"What as?" demanded Tankred. And he fixed Blake with a belligerent eye +as he put the question. +</P> + +<P> +"As an old friend of yours!" +</P> + +<P> +"And then what?" still challenged the other. +</P> + +<P> +"As a man who knows your record, in the next place. And on the next +count, as the man who 's wise to those phony bills of lading of yours, +and those doped-up clearance papers, and those cases of carbines you +'ve got down your hold labeled bridge equipment, and that nitro and +giant-caps, and that hundred thousand rounds of smokeless you 're +running down there as phonograph records!" +</P> + +<P> +Tankred continued to smoke. +</P> + +<P> +"You ever stop to wonder," he finally inquired, "if it ain't kind o' +flirtin' with danger knowin' so much about me and my freightin' +business?" +</P> + +<P> +"No, you 're doing the coquetting in this case, I guess!" +</P> + +<P> +"Then I ain't standin' for no rivals—not on this coast!" +</P> + +<P> +The two men, so dissimilar in aspect and yet so alike in their +accidental attitudes of an uncouth belligerency, sat staring at each +other. +</P> + +<P> +"You 're going to take me to Guayaquil," repeated Blake. +</P> + +<P> +"That's where you 're dead wrong," was the calmly insolent rejoinder. +"I ain't even <I>goin'</I> to Guayaquil." +</P> + +<P> +"I say you are." +</P> + +<P> +Tankred's smile translated his earlier deliberateness into open +contempt. +</P> + +<P> +"You seem to forget that this here town you 're heefin' about lies a +good thirty-five miles up the Guayas River. And if I 'm gun-runnin' +for Alfaro, as you say, I naturally ain't navigatin' streams where they +'d be able to pick me off the bridge-deck with a fishin'-pole!" +</P> + +<P> +"But you 're going to get as close to Guayaquil as you can, and you +know it." +</P> + +<P> +"Do I?" said the man with the up-tilted cigar. +</P> + +<P> +"Look here, Pip," said Blake, leaning closer over the table towards +him. "I don't give a tinker's dam about Alfaro and his two-cent +revolution. I 'm not sitting up worrying over him or his junta or how +he gets his ammunition. But I want to get into Guayaquil, and this is +the only way I can do it!" +</P> + +<P> +For the first time Tankred turned and studied him. +</P> + +<P> +"What d' you want to get into Guayaquil for?" he finally demanded. +Blake knew that nothing was to be gained by beating about the bush. +</P> + +<P> +"There's a man I want down there, and I 'm going down to get him!" +</P> + +<P> +"Who is he?" +</P> + +<P> +"That's my business," retorted Blake. +</P> + +<P> +"And gettin' into Guayaquil's your business!" Tankred snorted back. +</P> + +<P> +"All I 'm going to say is he 's a man from up North—and he 's not in +your line of business, and never was and never will be!" +</P> + +<P> +"How do I know that?" +</P> + +<P> +"You 'll have my word for it!" +</P> + +<P> +Tankred swung round on him. +</P> + +<P> +"D' you realize you 'll have to sneak ashore in a <I>lancha</I> and pass a +double line o' patrol? And then crawl into a town that's reekin' with +yellow-jack, a town you 're not likely to crawl out of again inside o' +three months?" +</P> + +<P> +"I know all that!" acknowledged Blake. +</P> + +<P> +For the second time Tankred turned and studied the other man. +</P> + +<P> +"And you're still goin' after your gen'leman friend from up North?" he +inquired. +</P> + +<P> +"Pip, I 've got to get that man!" +</P> + +<P> +"You've got 'o?" +</P> + +<P> +"I 've got to, and I 'm going to!" +</P> + +<P> +Tankred threw his cigar-end away and laughed leisurely and quietly. +</P> + +<P> +"Then what're we sittin' here arguin' about, anyway? If it's settled, +it's settled, ain't it?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, I think it's settled!" +</P> + +<P> +Again Tankred laughed. +</P> + +<P> +"But take it from me, my friend, you'll sure see some rough goin' this +next few days!" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap12"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XII +</H3> + + +<P> +As Tankred had intimated, Blake's journey southward from Panama was +anything but comfortable traveling. The vessel was verminous, the food +was bad, and the heat was oppressive. It was a heat that took the life +out of the saturated body, a thick and burdening heat that hung like a +heavy gray blanket on a gray sea which no rainfall seemed able to cool. +</P> + +<P> +But Blake uttered no complaint. By day he smoked under a sodden +awning, rained on by funnel cinders. By night he stood at the rail. +He stood there, by the hour together, watching with wistful and haggard +eyes the Alpha of Argo and the slowly rising Southern Cross. Whatever +his thoughts, as he watched those lonely Southern skies, he kept them +to himself. +</P> + +<P> +It was the night after they had swung about and were steaming up the +Gulf of Guayaquil under a clear sky that Tankred stepped down to +Blake's sultry little cabin and wakened him from a sound sleep. +</P> + +<P> +"It's time you were gettin' your clothes on," he announced. +</P> + +<P> +"Getting my clothes on?" queried Blake through the darkness. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, you can't tell what we 'll bump into, any time now!" +</P> + +<P> +The wakened sleeper heard the other man moving about in the velvety +black gloom. +</P> + +<P> +"What 're you doing there?" was his sharp question as he heard the +squeak and slam of a shutter. +</P> + +<P> +"Closin' this dead-light, of course," explained Tankred. A moment +later he switched on the electric globe at the bunkhead. "We 're +gettin' in pretty close now and we 're goin' with our lights doused!" +</P> + +<P> +He stood for a moment, staring down at the sweat-dewed white body on +the bunk, heaving for breath in the closeness of the little cabin. His +mind was still touched into mystery by the spirit housed in that +uncouth and undulatory flesh. He was still piqued by the vast sense of +purpose which Blake carried somewhere deep within his seemingly +tepid-willed carcass, like the calcinated pearl at the center of an +oyster. +</P> + +<P> +"You 'd better turn out!" he called back as he stepped into the +engulfing gloom of the gangway. +</P> + +<P> +Blake rolled out of his berth and dressed without haste or excitement. +Already, overhead, he could hear the continuous tramping of feet, with +now and then a quiet-noted order from Tankred himself. He could hear +other noises along the ship's side, as though a landing-ladder were +being bolted and lowered along the rusty plates. +</P> + +<P> +When he went up on deck he found the boat in utter darkness. To that +slowly moving mass, for she was now drifting ahead under quarter-speed, +this obliteration of light imparted a sense of stealthiness. This note +of suspense, of watchfulness, of illicit adventure was reflected in the +very tones of the motley deckhands who brushed past him in the humid +velvety blackness. +</P> + +<P> +As he stood at the rail, staring ahead through this blackness, Blake +could see a light here and there along the horizon. These lights +increased in number as the boat steamed slowly on. Then, far away in +the roadstead ahead of them, he made out an entire cluster of lights, +like those of a liner at anchor. Then he heard the tinkle of a bell +below deck, and he realized that the engines had stopped. +</P> + +<P> +In the lull of the quieted ship's screw he could hear the wash of +distant surf, faint and phantasmal above the material little near-by +boat-noises. Then came a call, faint and muffled, like the complaining +note of a harbor gull. A moment later the slow creak of oars crept up +to Blake's straining ears. Then out of the heart of the darkness that +surrounded him, not fifty feet away, he saw emerge one faint point of +light, rising and falling with a rhythm as sleepy as the slow creak of +the oars. On each side of it other small lights sprang up. They were +close beside the ship, by this time, a flotilla of lights, and each +light, Blake finally saw, came from a lantern that stood deep in the +bottom of a boat, a lantern that had been covered with a square of +matting or sail-cloth, until some prearranged signal from the drifting +steamer elicited its answering flicker of light. Then they swarmed +about the oily water, shifting and swaying on their course like a +cluster of fireflies, alternately dark and luminous in the dip and rise +of the ground-swell. Within each small aura of radiance the watcher at +the rail could see a dusky and quietly moving figure, the faded blue of +a denim garment, the brown of bare arms, or the sinews of a straining +neck. Once he caught the whites of a pair of eyes turned up towards +the ship's deck. He could also see the running and wavering lines of +fire as the oars puddled and backed in the phosphorescent water under +the gloomy steel hull. Then he heard a low-toned argument in Spanish. +A moment later the flotilla of small boats had fastened to the ship's +side, like a litter of suckling pigs to a sow's breast. Every light +went out again, every light except a faint glow as a guide to the first +boat at the foot of the landing-ladder. Along this ladder Blake could +hear barefooted figures padding and grunting as cases and bales were +cautiously carried down and passed from boat to boat. +</P> + +<P> +He swung nervously about as he felt a hand clutch his arm. He found +Tankred speaking quietly into his ear. +</P> + +<P> +"There 'll be one boat over," that worthy was explaining. "One +boat—you take that—the last one! And you 'd better give the +<I>guinney</I> a ten-dollar bill for his trouble!" +</P> + +<P> +"All right! I 'm ready!" was Blake's low-toned reply as he started to +move forward with the other man. +</P> + +<P> +"Not yet! Not yet!" was the other's irritable warning, as Blake felt +himself pushed back. "You stay where you are! We 've got a +half-hour's hard work ahead of us yet!" +</P> + +<P> +As Blake leaned over the rail again, watching and listening, he began +to realize that the work was indeed hard, that there was some excuse +for Tankred's ill-temper. Most men, he acknowledged, would feel the +strain, where one misstep or one small mistake might undo the work of +months. Beyond that, however, Blake found little about which to +concern himself. Whether it was legal or illegal did not enter his +mind. That a few thousand tin-sworded soldiers should go armed or +unarmed was to him a matter of indifference. It was something not of +his world. It did not impinge on his own jealously guarded circle of +activity, on his own task of bringing a fugitive to justice. And as +his eyes strained through the gloom at the cluster of lights far ahead +in the roadstead he told himself that it was there that his true goal +lay, for it was there that the <I>Trunella</I> must ride at anchor and +Binhart must be. +</P> + +<P> +Then he looked wonderingly back at the flotilla under the rail, for he +realized that every movement and murmur of life there had come to a +sudden stop. It was a cessation of all sound, a silence as ominously +complete as that of a summer woodland when a hawk soars overhead. Even +the small light deep in the bottom of the first <I>lancha</I> tied to the +landing-ladder had been suddenly quenched. +</P> + +<P> +Blake, staring apprehensively out into the gloom, caught the sound of a +soft and feverish throbbing. His disturbed mind had just registered +the conclusion that this sound must be the throbbing of a passing +marine-engine, when the thought was annihilated by a second and more +startling occurrence. +</P> + +<P> +Out across the blackness in front of him suddenly flashed a white saber +of light. For one moment it circled and wavered restlessly about, +feeling like a great finger along the gray surface of the water. Then +it smote full on Blake and the deck where he stood, blinding him with +its glare, picking out every object and every listening figure as +plainly as a calcium picks out a scene on the stage. +</P> + +<P> +Without conscious thought Blake dropped lower behind the ship's rail. +He sank still lower, until he found himself down on his hands and knees +beside a rope coil. As he did so he heard the call of a challenging +Spanish voice, a murmur of voices, and then a repeated command. +</P> + +<P> +There was no answer to this challenge. Then came another command and +then silence again. Then a faint thrill arrowed through Blake's +crouching body, for from somewhere close behind him a gun-shot rang out +and was repeated again and again. Blake knew, at that sound, that +Tankred or one of his men was firing straight into the dial of the +searchlight, that Tankred himself intended to defy what must surely be +an Ecuadorean gunboat. The detective was oppressed by the thought that +his own jealously nursed plan might at any moment get a knock on the +head. +</P> + +<P> +At almost the same time the peevishly indignant Blake could hear the +tinkle of the engine-room bell below him and then the thrash of the +screw wings. The boat began to move forward, dangling the knocking and +rocking flotilla of <I>lanchas</I> and surf-boats at her side, like a +deer-mouse making off with its young. Then came sharp cries of +protest, in Spanish, and more cries and curses in harbor-English, and a +second engine-room signal and a cessation of the screw thrashings. +This was followed by a shower of carbine-shots and the plaintive whine +of bullets above the upper-works, the crack and thud of lead against +the side-plates. At the same time Blake heard the scream of a +denim-clad figure that suddenly pitched from the landing-ladder into +the sea. Then came an answering volley, from somewhere close below +Blake. He could not tell whether it was from the boat-flotilla or from +the port-holes above it. But he knew that Tankred and his men were +returning the gunboat's fire. +</P> + +<P> +Blake, by this time, was once more thinking lucidly. Some of the cases +in those surf-boats, he remembered, held giant-caps and dynamite, and +he knew what was likely to happen if a bullet struck them. He also +remembered that he was still exposed to the carbine fire from behind +the searchlight. +</P> + +<P> +He stretched out, flat on the deck-boards, and wormed his way slowly +and ludicrously aft. He did not bring those uncouth vermiculations to +a stop until he was well back in the shelter of a rusty capstan, cut +off from the light by a lifeboat swinging on its davits. As he +clambered to his feet again he saw this light suddenly go out and then +reappear. As it did so he could make out a patrol-boat, gray and +low-bodied, slinking forward through the gloom. He could see that boat +crowded with men, men in uniform, and he could see that each man +carried a carbine. He could also see that it would surely cut across +the bow of his own steamer. A moment later he knew that Tankred +himself had seen this, for high above the crack and whine of the +shooting and the tumult of voices he could now hear Tankred's +blasphemous shouts. +</P> + +<P> +"Cut loose those boats!" bellowed the frantic gun-runner. Then he +repeated the command, apparently in Spanish. And to this came an +answering babel of cries and expostulations and counter-cries. But +still the firing from behind the searchlight kept up. Blake could see +a half-naked seaman with a carpenter's ax skip monkey-like down the +landing-ladder. He saw the naked arm strike with the ax, the two hands +suddenly catch at the bare throat, and the figure fall back in a huddle +against the red-stained wooden steps. +</P> + +<P> +Blake also saw, to his growing unrest, that the firing was increasing +in volume, that at the front of the ship sharp volley and +counter-volley was making a pandemonium of the very deck on which he +knelt. For by this time the patrol-boat with the carbineers had +reached the steamer's side and a boarding-ladder had been thrown across +her quarter. And Blake began to comprehend that he was in the most +undesirable of situations. He could hear the repeated clang of the +engine-room telegraph and Tankred's frenzied and ineffectual bellow of +"Full steam ahead! For the love o' Christ, full ahead down there!" +</P> + +<P> +Through all that bedlam Blake remained resentfully cool, angrily +clear-thoughted. He saw that the steamer did not move forward. He +concluded the engine-room to be deserted. And he saw both the futility +and the danger of remaining where he was. +</P> + +<P> +He crawled back to where he remembered the rope-coil lay, dragging the +loose end of it back after him, and then lowering it over the ship's +side until it touched the water. Then he shifted this rope along the +rail until it swung over the last of the line of surf-boats that bobbed +and thudded against the side-plates of the gently rolling steamer. +About him, all the while, he could hear the shouts of men and the +staccato crack of the rifles. But he saw to it that his rope was well +tied to the rail-stanchion. Then he clambered over the rail itself, +and with a double twist of the rope about his great leg let himself +ponderously down over the side. +</P> + +<P> +He swayed there, for a moment, until the roll of the ship brought him +thumping against the rusty plates again. At the same moment the +shifting surf-boat swung in under him. Releasing his hold, he went +tumbling down between the cartridge-cases and the boat-thwarts. +</P> + +<P> +This boat, he saw, was still securely tied to its mate, one of the +larger-bodied <I>lanchas</I>, and he had nothing with which to sever the +rope. His first impulse was to reach for his revolver and cut through +the manilla strands by means of a half-dozen quick shots. But this, he +knew, would too noisily announce his presence there. So he fell on his +knees and peered and prodded about the boat bottom. There, to his +surprise, he saw the huddled body of a dead man, face down. This body +he turned over, running an exploring hand along the belt-line. As he +had hoped, he found a heavy nine-inch knife there. +</P> + +<P> +He was dodging back to the bow of the surf-boat when a uniformed figure +carrying a rifle came scuttling and shouting down the landing-ladder. +Blake's spirits sank as he saw that figure. He knew now that his +movement had been seen and understood. He knew, too, as he saw the +figure come scrambling out over the rocking boats, what capture would +mean. +</P> + +<P> +He had the last strand of the rope severed before the Ecuadorean with +the carbine reached the <I>lancha</I> next to him. He still felt, once he +was free, that he could use his revolver and get away. But before +Blake could push off a sinewy brown hand reached out and clutched the +gunwale of the liberated boat. Blake ignored the clutching hand. But, +relying on his own sheer strength, he startled the owning of the hand +by suddenly flinging himself forward, seizing the carbine barrel, and +wresting it free. A second later it disappeared beneath the surface of +the water. +</P> + +<P> +That impassioned brown hand, however, still clung to the boat's +gunwale. It clung there determinedly, blindly—and Blake knew there +was no time for a struggle. He brought the heavy-bladed knife down on +the clinging fingers. It was a stroke like that of a cleaver on a +butcher's block. In the strong white light that still played on them +he could see the flash of teeth in the man's opened mouth, the upturn +of the staring eye-balls as the severed fingers fell away and he +screamed aloud with pain. +</P> + +<P> +But with one quick motion of his gorilla-like arms Blake pushed his +boat free, telling himself there was still time, warning himself to +keep cool and make the most of every chance. Yet as he turned to take +up the oars he saw that he had been discovered by the Ecuadoreans on +the freighter's deck, that his flight was not to be as simple as he had +expected. He saw the lean brown face, picked out by the white light, +as a carbineer swung his short-barreled rifle out over the rail—and +the man in the surf-boat knew by that face what was coming. +</P> + +<P> +His first impulse was to reach into his pocket for his revolver. But +that, he knew, was already too late, for a second man had joined the +first and a second rifle was already swinging round on him. His next +thought was to dive over the boat's side. This thought had scarcely +formulated itself, however, before he heard the bark of the rifle and +saw the puff of smoke. +</P> + +<P> +At the same moment he felt the rip and tug of the bullet through the +loose side-folds of his coat. And with that rip and tug came a third +thought, over which he did not waver. He threw up his hands, sharply, +and flung himself headlong across the body of the dead man in the +bottom of the surf-boat. +</P> + +<P> +He fell heavily, with a blow that shook the wind from his body. But as +he lay there he knew better than to move. He lay there, scarcely +daring to breathe, dreading that the rise and fall of his breast would +betray his ruse, praying that his boat would veer about so his body +would be in the shadow. For he knew the two waiting carbines were +still pointed at him. +</P> + +<P> +He lay there, counting the seconds, knowing that he and his slowly +drifting surf-boat were still in the full white fulgor of the wavering +searchlight. He lay there as a second shot came whistling overhead, +spitting into the water within three feet of him. Then a third bullet +came, this time tearing through the wood of the boat bottom beside him. +And he still waited, without moving, wondering what the next shot would +do. He still waited, his passive body horripilating with a vast +indignation at the thought of the injustice of it all, at the thought +that he must lie there and let half-baked dagoes shower his +unprotesting back with lead. But he lay there, still counting the +seconds, as the boat drifted slowly out on the quietly moving tide. +</P> + +<P> +Then a new discovery disturbed him. It obliterated his momentary joy +at the thought that they were no longer targeting down at him. He +could feel the water slowly rising about his prostrate body. He +realized that the boat in which he lay was filling. He calmly figured +out that with the body of the dead man and the cartridge-cases about +him it was carrying a dead weight of nearly half a ton. And through +the bullet hole in its bottom the water was rushing in. +</P> + +<P> +Yet he could do nothing. He could make no move. For at the slightest +betrayal of life, he knew, still another volley would come from that +ever-menacing steamer's deck. He counted the minutes, painfully, +methodically, feeling the water rise higher and higher about his body. +The thought of this rising water and what it meant did not fill him +with panic. He seemed more the prey of a deep and sullen resentment +that his plans should be so gratuitously interfered with, that his +approach to the <I>Trunella</I> should be so foolishly delayed, that so many +cross-purposes should postpone and imperil his quest of Binhart. +</P> + +<P> +He knew, by the slowly diminishing sounds, that he was drifting further +and further away from Tankred and his crowded fore-deck. But he was +still within the area of that ever-betraying searchlight. Some time, +he knew, he must drift beyond it. But until that moment came he dare +make no move to keep himself afloat. +</P> + +<P> +By slowly turning his head an inch or two he was able to measure the +height of the gunwale above the water. Then he made note of where an +oar lay, asking himself how long he could keep afloat on a timber so +small, wondering how far he could be from land. Then he suddenly fell +to questioning if the waters of that coast were shark infested. +</P> + +<P> +He was still debating the problem when he became conscious of a change +about him. A sudden pall of black fell like balm on his startled face. +The light was no longer there. He found himself engulfed in a +relieving, fortifying darkness, a darkness that brought him to his feet +in the slowly moving boat. He was no longer visible to the rest of the +world. At a breath, almost, he had passed into eclipse. +</P> + +<P> +His first frantic move was to tug and drag the floating body at his +feet to the back of the boat and roll it overboard. Then he waded +forward and one by one carefully lifted the cases of ammunition and +tumbled them over the side. One only he saved, a smaller wooden box +which he feverishly pried open with his knife and emptied into the sea. +Then he flung away the top boards, placing the empty box on the seat in +front of him. Then he fell on his hands and knees, fingering along the +boat bottom until he found the bullet-hole through which the water was +boiling up. +</P> + +<P> +Once he had found it he began tearing at his clothes like a madman, for +the water was now alarmingly high. These rags and shreds of clothing +he twisted together and forced into the hole, tamping them firmly into +place with his revolver-barrel. +</P> + +<P> +Then he caught up the empty wooden box from the boat seat and began to +bale. He baled solemnly, as though his very soul were in it. He was +oblivious of the strange scene silhouetted against the night behind +him, standing out as distinctly as though it were a picture thrown on a +sheet from a magic-lantern slide—a circle of light surrounding a +drifting and rusty-sided ship on which tumult had turned into sudden +silence. He was oblivious of his own wet clothing and his bruised body +and the dull ache in his leg wound of many months ago. He was intent +only on the fact that he was lowering the water in his surf-boat, that +he was slowly drifting further and further away from the enemies who +had interfered with his movements, and that under the faint spangle of +lights which he could still see in the offing on his right lay an +anchored liner, and that somewhere on that liner lay a man for whom he +was looking. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap13"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XIII +</H3> + + +<P> +Once assured that his surf-boat would keep afloat, Blake took the oars +and began to row. But even as he swung the boat lumberingly about he +realized that he could make no headway with such a load, for almost a +foot of water still surged along its bottom. So he put down the oars +and began to bale again. He did not stop until the boat was emptied. +Then he carefully replugged the bullet-hole, took up the oars again, +and once more began to row. +</P> + +<P> +He rowed, always keeping his bow towards the far-off spangle of lights +which showed where the <I>Trunella</I> lay at anchor. +</P> + +<P> +He rowed doggedly, determinedly. He rowed until his arms were tired +and his back ached. But still he did not stop. It occurred to him, +suddenly, that there might be a tide running against him, that with all +his labor he might be making no actual headway. Disturbed by this +thought, he fixed his attention on two almost convergent lights on +shore, rowing with renewed energy as he watched them. He had the +satisfaction of seeing these two lights slowly come together, and he +knew he was making some progress. +</P> + +<P> +Still another thought came to him as he rowed doggedly on. And that +was the fear that at any moment, now, the quick equatorial morning +might dawn. He had no means of judging the time. To strike a light +was impossible, for his matches were water-soaked. Even his watch, he +found, had been stopped by its bath in sea-water. But he felt that +long hours had passed since midnight, that it must be close to the +break of morning. And the fear of being overtaken by daylight filled +him with a new and more frantic energy. +</P> + +<P> +He rowed feverishly on, until the lights of the <I>Trunella</I> stood high +above him and he could hear the lonely sound of her bells as the watch +was struck. Then he turned and studied the dark hull of the steamer as +she loomed up closer in front of him. He could see her only in +outline, at first, picked out here and there by a light. But there +seemed something disheartening, something intimidating, in her very +quietness, something suggestive of a plague-ship deserted by crew and +passengers alike. That dark and silent hull at which he stared seemed +to house untold possibilities of evil. +</P> + +<P> +Yet Blake remembered that it also housed Binhart. And with that +thought in his mind he no longer cared to hesitate. He rowed in under +the shadowy counter, bumping about the rudder-post. Then he worked his +way forward, feeling quietly along her side-plates, foot by foot. +</P> + +<P> +He had more than half circled the ship before he came to her +landing-ladder. The grilled platform at the bottom of this row of +steps stood nearly as high as his shoulders, as though the ladder-end +had been hauled up for the night. +</P> + +<P> +Blake balanced himself on the bow of his surf-boat and tugged and +strained until he gained the ladder-bottom. He stood there, recovering +his breath, for a moment or two, peering up towards the inhospitable +silence above him. But still he saw no sign of life. No word or +challenge was flung down at him. Then, after a moment's thought, he +lay flat on the grill and deliberately pushed the surf-boat off into +the darkness. He wanted no more of it. He knew, now, there could be +no going back. +</P> + +<P> +He climbed cautiously up the slowly swaying steps, standing for a +puzzled moment at the top and peering about him. Then he crept along +the deserted deck, where a month of utter idleness, apparently, had +left discipline relaxed. He shied away from the lights, here and +there, that dazzled his eyes after his long hours of darkness. With an +instinct not unlike that which drives the hiding wharf-rat into the +deepest corner at hand, he made his way down through the body of the +ship. He shambled and skulked his way down, a hatless and ragged and +uncouth figure, wandering on along gloomy gangways and corridors until +he found himself on the threshold of the engine-room itself. +</P> + +<P> +He was about to back out of this entrance and strike still deeper when +he found himself confronted by an engineer smoking a short brier-root +pipe. The pale blue eyes of this sandy-headed engineer were wide with +wonder, startled and incredulous wonder, as they stared at the ragged +figure in the doorway. +</P> + +<P> +"Where in the name o' God did <I>you</I> come from?" demanded the man with +the brier-root pipe. +</P> + +<P> +"I came out from Guayaquil," answered Blake, reaching searchingly down +in his wet pocket. "And I can't go back." +</P> + +<P> +The sandy-headed man backed away. +</P> + +<P> +"From the fever camps?" +</P> + +<P> +Blake could afford to smile at the movement. +</P> + +<P> +"Don't worry—there 's no fever 'round me. <I>That 's</I> what I 've been +through!" And he showed the bullet-holes through his tattered +coat-cloth. +</P> + +<P> +"How'd you get here?" +</P> + +<P> +"Rowed out in a surf-boat—and I can't go back!" +</P> + +<P> +The sandy-headed engineer continued to stare at the uncouth figure in +front of him, to stare at it with vague and impersonal wonder. And in +facing that sandy-headed stranger, Blake knew, he was facing a judge +whose decision was to be of vast moment in his future destiny, whose +word, perhaps, was to decide on the success or failure of much +wandering about the earth. +</P> + +<P> +"I can't go back!" repeated Blake, as he reached out and dropped a +clutter of gold into the palm of the other man. The pale blue eyes +looked at the gold, looked out along the gangway, and then looked back +at the waiting stranger. +</P> + +<P> +"That Alfaro gang after you?" he inquired. +</P> + +<P> +"They 're <I>all</I> after me!" answered the swaying figure in rags. They +were talking together, by this time, almost in whispers, like two +conspirators. The young engineer seemed puzzled. But a wave of relief +swept through Blake when in the pale blue eyes he saw almost a look of +pity. +</P> + +<P> +"What d' you want me to do?" he finally asked. +</P> + +<P> +Blake, instead of answering that question, asked another. +</P> + +<P> +"When do you move out of here?" +</P> + +<P> +The engineer put the coins in his pocket. +</P> + +<P> +"Before noon to-morrow, thank God! The <I>Yorktown</I> ought to be here by +morning—she 's to give us our release!" +</P> + +<P> +"Then you'll sail by noon?" +</P> + +<P> +"We 've <I>got</I> to! They 've tied us up here over a month, without +reason. They worked that old yellow-jack gag—and not a touch of fever +aboard all that time!" +</P> + +<P> +A great wave of contentment surged through Blake's weary body. He put +his hand up on the smaller man's shoulder. +</P> + +<P> +"Then you just get me out o' sight until we 're off, and I 'll fix +things so you 'll never be sorry for it!" +</P> + +<P> +The pale-eyed engineer studied the problem. Then he studied the figure +in front of him. +</P> + +<P> +"There's nothing crooked behind this?" +</P> + +<P> +Blake forced a laugh from his weary lungs. "I 'll prove that in two +days by wireless—and pay first-class passage to the next port of call!" +</P> + +<P> +"I 'm fourth engineer on board here, and the Old Man would sure fire +me, if—" +</P> + +<P> +"But you needn't even know about me," contended Blake. "Just let me +crawl in somewhere where I can sleep!" +</P> + +<P> +"You need it, all right, by that face of yours!" +</P> + +<P> +"I sure do," acknowledged the other as he stood awaiting his judge's +decision. +</P> + +<P> +"Then I 'd better get you down to my bunk. But remember, I can only +stow you there until we get under way—perhaps not that long!" +</P> + +<P> +He stepped cautiously out and looked along the gangway. "This is your +funeral, mind, when the row comes. You 've got to face that, yourself!" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I 'll face it, all right!" was Blake's calmly contented answer. +"All I want now is about nine hours' sleep!" +</P> + +<P> +"Come on, then," said the fourth engineer. And Blake followed after as +he started deeper down into the body of the ship. And already, deep +below him, he could hear the stokers at work in their hole. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap14"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XIV +</H3> + + +<P> +After seven cataleptic hours of unbroken sleep Blake awakened to find +his shoulder being prodded and shaken by the pale-eyed fourth engineer. +The stowaway's tired body, during that sleep, had soaked in renewed +strength as a squeezed sponge soaks up water. He could afford to blink +with impassive eyes up at the troubled face of the young man wearing +the oil-stained cap. +</P> + +<P> +"What's wrong?" he demanded, awakening to a luxurious comprehension of +where he was and what he had escaped. Then he sat up in the narrow +berth, for it began to dawn on him that the engines of the <I>Trunella</I> +were not in motion. "Why are n't we under way?" +</P> + +<P> +"They 're having trouble up there, with the <I>Commandante</I>. We can't +get off inside of an hour—and anything's likely to happen in that +time. That's why I 've got to get you out of here!" +</P> + +<P> +"Where 'll you get me?" asked Blake. He was on his feet by this time, +arraying himself in his wet and ragged clothing. +</P> + +<P> +"That's what I 've been talking over with the Chief," began the young +engineer. Blake wheeled about and fixed him with his eye. +</P> + +<P> +"Did you let your Chief in on this?" he demanded, and he found it hard +to keep his anger in check. +</P> + +<P> +"I had to let him in on it," complained the other. "If it came to a +hue up or a searching party through here, they 'd spot you first thing. +You 're not a passenger; you 're not signed; you're not anything!" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, supposing I 'm not?" +</P> + +<P> +"Then they 'd haul you back and give you a half year in that +<I>Lazaretto</I> o' theirs!" +</P> + +<P> +"Well, what do I have to do to keep from being hauled back?" +</P> + +<P> +"You 'll have to be one o' the workin' crew, until we get off. The +Chief says that, and I think he's right!" +</P> + +<P> +A vague foreboding filled Blake's soul. He had imagined that the +ignominy and agony of physical labor was a thing of the past with him. +And he was still sore in every sinew and muscle of his huge body. +</P> + +<P> +"You don't mean stoke-hole work?" he demanded. +</P> + +<P> +The fourth engineer continued to look worried. +</P> + +<P> +"You don't happen to know anything about machinery, do you?" he began. +</P> + +<P> +"Of course I do," retorted Blake, thinking gratefully of his early days +as a steamfitter. +</P> + +<P> +"Then why could n't I put you in a cap and jumper and work you in as +one of the greasers?" +</P> + +<P> +"What do you mean by greasers?" +</P> + +<P> +"That's an oiler in the engine-room. It—it may not be the coolest +place on earth, in this latitude, but it sure beats the stoke-hole!" +</P> + +<P> +And it was in this way, thirty minutes later, that Blake became a +greaser in the engine-room of the <I>Trunella</I>. +</P> + +<P> +Already, far above him, he could hear the rattle and shriek of +winch-engines and the far-off muffled roar of the whistle, rumbling its +triumph of returning life. Already the great propeller engines +themselves had been tested, after their weeks of idleness, languidly +stretching and moving like an awakening sleeper, slowly swinging their +solemn tons forward through their projected cycles and then as solemnly +back again. +</P> + +<P> +About this vast pyramid-shaped machinery, galleried like a Latin +house-court, tremulous with the breath of life that sang and hissed +through its veins, the new greaser could see his fellow workers with +their dripping oil-cans, groping gallery by gallery up towards the +square of daylight that sifted down into the oil-scented pit where he +stood. He could see his pale-eyed friend, the fourth engineer, spanner +in hand, clinging to a moving network of steel like a spider to its +tremulous web—and in his breast, for the first time, a latent respect +for that youth awakened. He could see other greasers wriggling about +between intricate shafts and wheels, crawling cat-like along narrow +steel ledges, mounting steep metal ladders guarded by hot hand rails, +peering into oil boxes, "worrying" the vacuum pump, squatting and +kneeling about iron floors where oil-pits pooled and pump-valves +clacked and electric machines whirred and the antiphonal song of the +mounting steam roared like music in the ears of the listening Blake, +aching as he was for the first relieving throb of the screws. Stolidly +and calmly the men about him worked, threatened by flailing steel, +hissed at by venomously quiescent powers, beleaguered by mysteriously +moving shafts, surrounded by countless valves and an inexplicable +tangle of pipes, hemmed in by an incomprehensible labyrinth of copper +wires, menaced by the very shimmering joints and rods over which they +could run such carelessly affectionate fingers. +</P> + +<P> +Blake could see the assistant engineers, with their eyes on the +pointers that stood out against two white dials. He could see the +Chief, the Chief whom he would so soon have to buy over and placate, +moving about nervous and alert. Then he heard the tinkle of the +telegraph bell, and the repeated gasp of energy as the engineers threw +the levers. He could hear the vicious hum of the reversing-engines, +and then the great muffled cough of power as the ponderous valve-gear +was thrown into position and the vaster machinery above him was coerced +into a motion that seemed languid yet relentless. +</P> + +<P> +He could see the slow rise and fall of the great cranks. He could hear +the renewed signals and bells tinkles, the more insistent clack of +pumps, the more resolute rise and fall of the ponderous cranks. And he +knew that they were at last under way. He gave no thought to the heat +of the oil-dripping pit in which he stood. He was oblivious of the +perilous steel that whirred and throbbed about him. He was unconscious +of the hot hand rails and the greasy foot-ways and the mingling odor of +steam and parching lubricant and ammonia-gas from a leaking "beef +engine." He quite forgot the fact that his dungaree jumper was wet +with sweat, that his cap was already fouled with oil. All he knew was +that he and Binhart were at last under way. +</P> + +<P> +He was filled with a new lightness of spirit as he felt the throb of +"full speed ahead" shake the steel hull about which he so contentedly +climbed and crawled. He found something fortifying in the thought that +this vast hull was swinging out to her appointed sea lanes, that she +was now intent on a way from which no caprice could turn her. There +seemed something appeasingly ordered and implacable in the mere +revolutions of the engines. And as those engines settled down to their +labors the intent-eyed men about him fell almost as automatically into +the routines of toil as did the steel mechanism itself. +</P> + +<P> +When at the end of the first four-houred watch a gong sounded and the +next crew filed cluttering in from the half-lighted between-deck +gangways and came sliding down the polished steel stair rails, Blake +felt that his greatest danger was over. +</P> + +<P> +There would still be an occasional palm to grease, he told himself, an +occasional bit of pad money to be paid out. But he could meet those +emergencies with the fortitude of a man already inured to the exactions +of venal accomplices. +</P> + +<P> +Then a new discovery came to him. It came as he approached the chief +engineer, with the object in view of throwing a little light on his +presence there. And as he looked into that officer's coldly indignant +eye he awakened to the fact that he was no longer on land, but afloat +on a tiny world with an autocracy and an authority of its own. He was +in a tiny world, he saw, where his career and his traditions were not +to be reckoned with, where he ranked no higher than conch-niggers and +beach-combers and <I>cargadores</I>. He was a <I>dungaree</I>-clad greaser in an +engine-room, and he was promptly ordered back with the rest of his +crew. He was not even allowed to talk. +</P> + +<P> +When his watch came round he went on duty again. He saw the futility +of revolt, until the time was ripe. He went through his appointed +tasks with the solemn precision of an apprentice. He did what he was +commanded to do. Yet sometimes the heat would grow so intense that the +great sweating body would have to shamble to a ventilator and there +drink in long drafts of the cooler air. The pressure of invisible +hoops about the great heaving chest would then release itself, the +haggard face would regain some touch of color, and the new greaser +would go back to his work again. One or two of the more observant +toilers about him, experienced in engine-room life, marveled at the +newcomer and the sense of mystery which hung over him. One or two of +them fell to wondering what inner spirit could stay him through those +four-houred ordeals of heat and labor. +</P> + +<P> +Yet they looked after him with even more inquisitive eyes when, on the +second day out, he was peremptorily summoned to the Captain's room. +What took place in that room no one in the ship ever actually knew. +</P> + +<P> +But the large-bodied stowaway returned below-decks, white of face and +grim of jaw. He went back to his work in silence, in dogged and +unbroken silence which those about him knew enough to respect. +</P> + +<P> +It was whispered about, it is true, that among other things a large and +ugly-looking revolver had been taken from his clothing, and that he had +been denied the use of the ship's wireless service. A steward outside +the Captain's door, it was also whispered, had overheard the +shipmaster's angry threat to put the stowaway in irons for the rest of +the voyage and return him to the Ecuadorean authorities. It was +rumored, too, that late in the afternoon of the same day, when the new +greaser had complained of faintness and was seeking a breath of fresh +air at the foot of a midships deck-ladder, he had chanced to turn and +look up at a man standing on the promenade deck above him. +</P> + +<P> +The two men stood staring at each other for several moments, and for +all the balmy air about him the great body of the stranger just up from +the engine-room had shivered and shaken, as though with a malarial +chill. +</P> + +<P> +What it meant, no one quite knew. Nor could anything be added to that +rumor, beyond the fact that the first-class passenger, who was known to +be a doctor and who had stared so intently down at the quiet-eyed +greaser, had turned the color of ashes and without a word had slipped +away. And the bewilderment of the entire situation was further +increased when the <I>Trunella</I> swung in at Callao and the large-bodied +man of mystery was peremptorily and none too gently put ashore. It was +noted, however, that the first-class passenger who had stared down at +him from the promenade-deck remained aboard the vessel as she started +southward again. It was further remarked that he seemed more at ease +when Callao was left well behind, although he sat smoking side by side +with the operator in the wireless room until the <I>Trunella</I> had steamed +many miles southward on her long journey towards the Straits of +Magellan. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap15"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XV +</H3> + + +<P> +Seven days after the <I>Trunella</I> swung southward from Callao Never-Fail +Blake, renewed as to habiliments and replenished as to pocket, embarked +on a steamer bound for Rio de Janeiro. +</P> + +<P> +He watched the plunging bow as it crept southward. He saw the heat and +the gray sea-shimmer left behind him. He saw the days grow longer and +the nights grow colder. He saw the Straits passed and the northward +journey again begun. But he neither fretted nor complained of his fate. +</P> + +<P> +After communicating by wireless with both Montevideo and Buenos Ayres +and verifying certain facts of which he seemed already assured, he +continued on his way to Rio. And over Rio he once more cast and pursed +up his gently interrogative net, gathering in the discomforting +information that Binhart had already relayed, from that city to a +Lloyd-Brazileiro steamer. This steamer, he learned, was bound for +Ignitos, ten thousand dreary miles up the Amazon. +</P> + +<P> +Five days later Blake followed in a Clyde-built freighter. When well +up the river he transferred to a rotten-timbered sidewheeler that had +once done duty on the Mississippi, and still again relayed from river +boat to river boat, move by move falling more and more behind his +quarry. +</P> + +<P> +The days merged into weeks, and the weeks into months. He suffered +much from the heat, but more from the bad food and the bad water. For +the first time in his life he found his body shaken with fever and was +compelled to use quinin in great quantities. The attacks of insects, +of insects that flew, that crawled, that tunneled beneath the skin, +turned life into a torment. His huge triple-terraced neck became raw +with countless wounds. But he did not stop by the way. His eyes +became oblivious of the tangled and overcrowded life about him, of the +hectic orchids and huge butterflies and the flaming birds-of-paradise, +of the echoing aisle ways between interwoven jungle growths, of the +arching aerial roofs of verdure and the shadowy hanging-gardens from +which by day parakeets chattered and monkeys screamed and by night +ghostly armies of fireflies glowed. He was no longer impressed by that +world of fierce appetites and fierce conflicts. He seemed to have +attained to a secret inner calm, to an obsessional impassivity across +which the passing calamities of existence only echoed. He merely +recalled that he had been compelled to eat of disagreeable things and +face undesirable emergencies, to drink of the severed Water-vine, to +partake of monkey-steak and broiled parrot, to sleep in poisonous +swamplands. His spirit, even with the mournful cry of night birds in +his ears, had been schooled into the acceptance of a loneliness that to +another might have seemed eternal and unendurable. +</P> + +<P> +By the time he had reached the Pacific coast his haggard hound's eyes +were more haggard than ever. His skin hung loose on his great body, as +though a vampire bat had drained it of its blood. But to his own +appearance he gave scant thought. For new life came to him when he +found definite traces of Binhart. These traces he followed up, one by +one, until he found himself circling back eastward along the valley of +the Magdalena. And down the Magdalena he went, still sure of his +quarry, following him to Bogota, and on again from Bogota to +Barranquilla, and on to Savanilla, where he embarked on a +Hamburg-American steamer for Limon. +</P> + +<P> +At Limon it was not hard to pick up the lost trail. But Binhart's +movements, after leaving that port, became a puzzle to the man who had +begun to pride himself on growing into knowledge of his adversary's +inmost nature. For once Blake found himself uncertain as to the +other's intentions. The fugitive now seemed possessed with an idea to +get away from the sea, to strike inland at any cost, as though water +had grown a thing of horror to him. He zigzagged from obscure village +to village, as though determined to keep away from all main-traveled +avenues of traffic. Yet, move as he might, it was merely a matter of +time and care to follow up the steps of a white man as distinctly +individualized as Binhart. +</P> + +<P> +This white man, it seemed, was at last giving way to the terror that +must have been haunting him for months past. His movements became +feverish, erratic, irrational. He traveled in strange directions and +by strange means, by bullock-cart, by burro, by dug-out, sometimes on +foot and sometimes on horseback. Sometimes he stayed over night at a +rubber-gatherers' camp, sometimes he visited a banana plantation, +bought a fresh horse, and pushed on again. When he reached the +Province of Alajuela he made use of the narrow cattle passes, pressing +on in a northwesterly direction along the valleys of the San Juan and +the San Carlos River. A madness seemed to have seized him, a madness +to make his way northward, ever northward. +</P> + +<P> +Over heartbreaking mountainous paths, through miasmic jungles, across +sun-baked plateaus, chilled by night and scorched by day, chafed and +sore, tortured by <I>niguas</I> and <I>coloradillas</I>, mosquitoes and +<I>chigoes</I>, sleeping in verminous hay-thatched huts of bamboo bound +together with bejuco-vine, mislead by lying natives and stolen from by +peons, Blake day by day and week by week fought his way after his +enemy. When worn to lightheadedness he drank <I>guaro</I> and great +quantities of black coffee; when ill he ate quinin. +</P> + +<P> +The mere act of pursuit had become automatic with him. He no longer +remembered why he was seeking out this man. He no longer remembered +the crime that lay at the root of that flight and pursuit. It was not +often, in fact, that his thoughts strayed back to his old life. When +he did think of it, it seemed only something too far away to remember, +something phantasmal, something belonging to another world. There were +times when all his journeying through steaming swamplands and forests +of teak and satin-wood and over indigo lagoons and mountain-passes of +moonlit desolation seemed utterly and unfathomably foolish. But he +fought back such moods, as though they were a weakness. He let nothing +deter him. He stuck to his trail, instinctively, doggedly, +relentlessly. +</P> + +<P> +It was at Chalavia that a peon named Tico Viquez came to Blake with the +news of a white man lying ill of black-water fever in a native hut. +For so much gold, Tico Viquez intimated, he would lead the señor to the +hut in question. +</P> + +<P> +Blake, who had no gold to spare, covered the startled peon with his +revolver and commanded Viquez to take him to that hut. There was that +in the white man's face which caused the peon to remember that life was +sweet. He led the way through a reptilious swamp and into the fringe +of a nispero forest, where they came upon a hut with a roof of +corrugated iron and walls of wattled bamboo. +</P> + +<P> +Blake, with his revolver in his hand and his guide held before him as a +human shield, cautiously approached the door of this hut, for he feared +treachery. Then, with equal caution, he peered through the narrow +doorway. He stood there for several moments, without moving. +</P> + +<P> +Then he slipped his revolver back into his pocket and stepped into the +hut. For there, in one corner of it, lay Binhart. He lay on a bed +made of bull-hide stretched across a rough-timbered frame. Yet what +Blake looked down on seemed more a shriveled mummy of Binhart than the +man himself. A vague trouble took possession of the detective as he +blinked calmly down at the glazed and sunken eyes, the gaunt neck, the +childishly helpless body. He stood there, waiting until the man on the +sagging bull-skin saw him. +</P> + +<P> +"Hello, Jim!" said the sick man, in little more than a whisper. +</P> + +<P> +"Hello, Connie!" was the other's answer. He picked up a palmetto frond +and fought away the flies. The uncleanness of the place turned his +stomach. +</P> + +<P> +"What's up, Connie?" he asked, sitting calmly down beside the narrow +bed. +</P> + +<P> +The sick man moved a hand, weakly, as though it were the yellow flapper +of some wounded amphibian. +</P> + +<P> +"The jig's up!" he said. The faint mockery of a smile wavered across +the painfully gaunt face. It reminded the other man of heat-lightning +on a dark skyline. "You got me, Jim. But it won't do much good. I 'm +going to cash in." +</P> + +<P> +"What makes you say that?" argued Blake, studying the lean figure. +There was a look of mild regret on his own sodden and haggard face. +"What's wrong with you, anyway?" +</P> + +<P> +The man on the bed did not answer for some time. When he spoke, he +spoke without looking at the other man. +</P> + +<P> +"They said it was black-water fever. Then they said it was +yellow-jack. But I know it's not. I think it's typhoid, or swamp +fever. It's worse than malaria. I dam' near burn up every night. I +get out of my head. I 've done that three nights. That's why the +niggers won't come near me now!" +</P> + +<P> +Blake leaned forward and fought away the flies again. +</P> + +<P> +"Then it's a good thing I got up with you." +</P> + +<P> +The sick man rolled his eyes in their sockets, so as to bring his enemy +into his line of vision. +</P> + +<P> +"Why?" he asked. +</P> + +<P> +"Because I 'm not going to let you die," was Blake's answer. +</P> + +<P> +"You can't help it, Jim! The jig 's up!" +</P> + +<P> +"I 'm going to get a litter and get you up out o' this hell-hole of a +swamp," announced Blake. "I 'm going to have you carried up to the +hills. Then I 'm going back to Chalavia to get a doctor o' some kind. +Then I 'm going to put you on your feet again!" +</P> + +<P> +Binhart slowly moved his head from side to side. Then the +heat-lightning smile played about the hollow face again. +</P> + +<P> +"It was some chase, Jim, was n't it?" he said, without looking at his +old-time enemy. +</P> + +<P> +Blake stared down at him with his haggard hound's eyes; there was no +answering smile on his heavy lips, now furzed with their grizzled +growth of hair. There seemed something ignominious in such an end, +something futile and self-frustrating. It was unjust. It left +everything so hideously incomplete. He revolted against it with a +sullen and senseless rage. +</P> + +<P> +"By God, you 're not going to die!" declared the staring and +sinewy-necked man at the bedside. "I say you 're not going to die. I +'m going to get you out o' here alive!" +</P> + +<P> +A sweat of weakness stood out on Binhart's white face. +</P> + +<P> +"Where to?" he asked, as he had asked one before. And his eyes +remained closed as put the question. +</P> + +<P> +"To the pen," was the answer which rose Blake's lips. But he did not +utter the words. Instead, he rose impatiently to his feet. But the +man on the bed must have sensed that unspoken response, for he opened +his eyes and stared long and mournfully at his heavy-bodied enemy. +</P> + +<P> +"You 'll never get me there!" he said, in little more than a whisper. +"Never!" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap16"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XVI +</H3> + + +<P> +Binhart was moved that night up into the hills. There he was installed +in a bungalow of an abandoned banana plantation and a doctor was +brought to his bedside. He was delirious by the time this doctor +arrived, and his ravings through the night were a source of vague worry +to his enemy. On the second day the sick man showed signs of +improvement. +</P> + +<P> +For three weeks Blake watched over Binhart, saw to his wants, journeyed +to Chalavia for his food and medicines. When the fever was broken and +Binhart began to gain strength the detective no longer made the trip to +Chalavia in person. He preferred to remain with the sick man. +</P> + +<P> +He watched that sick man carefully, jealously, hour by hour and day by +day. A peon servant was paid to keep up the vigil when Blake slept, as +sleep he must. +</P> + +<P> +But the strain was beginning to tell on him. He walked heavily. The +asthmatic wheeze of his breathing became more audible. His earlier +touch of malaria returned to him, and he suffered from intermittent +chills and fever. The day came when Blake suggested it was about time +for them to move on. +</P> + +<P> +"Where to?" asked Binhart. Little had passed between the two men, but +during all those silent nights and days each had been secretly yet +assiduously studying the other. +</P> + +<P> +"Back to New York," was Blake's indifferent-noted answer. Yet this +indifference was a pretense, for no soul had ever hungered more for a +white man's country than did the travel-worn and fever-racked Blake. +But he had his part to play, and he did not intend to shirk it. They +went about their preparations quietly, like two fellow excursionists +making ready for a journey with which they were already over-familiar. +It was while they sat waiting for the guides and mules that Blake +addressed himself to the prisoner. +</P> + +<P> +"Connie," he said, "I 'm taking you back. It does n't make much +difference whether I take you back dead or alive. But I 'm going to +take you back." +</P> + +<P> +The other man said nothing, but his slight head-movement was one of +comprehension. +</P> + +<P> +"So I just wanted to say there's no side-stepping, no four-flushing, at +this end of the trip!" +</P> + +<P> +"I understand," was Binhart's listless response. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm glad you do," Blake went on in his dully monotonous voice. +"Because I got where I can't stand any more breaks." +</P> + +<P> +"All right, Jim," answered Binhart. They sat staring at each other. +It was not hate that existed between them. It was something more +dormant, more innate. It was something that had grown ineradicable; as +fixed as the relationship between the hound and the hare. Each wore an +air of careless listlessness, yet each watched the other, every move, +every moment. +</P> + +<P> +It was as they made their way slowly down to the coast that Blake put +an unexpected question to Binhart. +</P> + +<P> +"Connie, where in hell did you plant that haul o' yours?" +</P> + +<P> +This thing had been worrying Blake. Weeks before he had gone through +every nook and corner, every pocket and crevice in Binhart's belongings. +</P> + +<P> +The bank thief laughed a little. He had been growing stronger, day by +day, and as his spirits had risen Blake's had seemed to recede. +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, I left that up in the States, where it 'd be safe," he answered. +</P> + +<P> +"What 'll you do about it?" Blake casually inquired. +</P> + +<P> +"I can't tell, just yet," was Binhart's retort. +</P> + +<P> +He rode on silent and thoughtful for several minutes. "Jim," he said +at last, "we 're both about done for. There 's not much left for +either of us. We 're going at this thing wrong. There's a lot o' +money up there, for somebody. And <I>you</I> ought to get it!" +</P> + +<P> +"What do you mean?" asked Blake. He resented the bodily weakness that +was making burro-riding a torture. +</P> + +<P> +"I mean it's worth a hundred and fifty thousand dollars to you just to +let me drop out. I 'd hand you over that much to quit the chase." +</P> + +<P> +"It ain't me that's chasing you, Connie. It's the Law!" was Blake's +quiet-toned response. And the other man knew he believed it. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, you quit, and I 'll stand for the Law!" +</P> + +<P> +"But, can't you see, they 'd never stand for you!" +</P> + +<P> +"Oh, yes they would. I 'd just drop out, and they 'd forget about me. +And you 'd have that pile to enjoy life with!" +</P> + +<P> +Blake thought it over, ponderously, point by point. For not one +fraction of a second could he countenance the thought of surrendering +Binhart. Yet he wanted both his prisoner and his prisoner's haul; he +wanted his final accomplishment to be complete. +</P> + +<P> +"But how 'd we ever handle the deal?" prompted the tired-bodied man on +the burro. +</P> + +<P> +"You remember a woman called Elsie Verriner?" +</P> + +<P> +"Yes," acknowledged Blake, with a pang of regret which he could not +fathom, at the mention of the name. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, we could fix it through her." +</P> + +<P> +"Does Elsie Verriner know where that pile is?" the detective inquired. +His withered hulk of a body was warmed by a slow glow of anticipation. +There was a woman, he remembered, whom he could count on swinging to +his own ends. +</P> + +<P> +"No, but she could get it," was Binhart's response. +</P> + +<P> +"And what good would that do <I>me</I>?" +</P> + +<P> +"The two of us could go up to New Orleans. We could slip in there +without any one being the wiser. She could meet us. She 'd bring the +stuff with her. Then, when you had the pile in your hand, I could just +fade off the map." +</P> + +<P> +Blake rode on again in silence. +</P> + +<P> +"All right," he said at last. "I 'm willing." +</P> + +<P> +"Then how 'll you prove it? How 'd I know you 'd make good?" demanded +Binhart. +</P> + +<P> +"That's not up to me! You're the man that's got to make good!" was +Blake's retort. +</P> + +<P> +"But you 'll give me the chance?" half pleaded his prisoner. +</P> + +<P> +"Sure!" replied Blake, as they rode on again. He was wondering how +many more miles of hell he would have to ride through before he could +rest. He felt that he would like to sleep for days, for weeks, without +any thought of where to-morrow would find him or the next day would +bring him. +</P> + +<P> +It was late that day as they climbed up out of a steaming valley into +higher ground that Binhart pulled up and studied Blake's face. +</P> + +<P> +"Jim, you look like a sick man to me!" he declared. He said it without +exultation; but there was a new and less passive timber to his voice. +</P> + +<P> +"I 've been feeling kind o' mean this last day or two," confessed +Blake. His own once guttural voice was plaintive, as he spoke. It was +almost a quavering whine. +</P> + +<P> +"Had n't we better lay up for a few days?" suggested Binhart. +</P> + +<P> +"Lay up nothing!" cried Blake, and he clenched that determination by an +outburst of blasphemous anger. But he secretly took great doses of +quinin and drank much native liquor. He fought against a mental +lassitude which he could not comprehend. Never before had that ample +machinery of the body failed him in an emergency. Never before had he +known an illness that a swallow or two of brandy and a night's rest +could not scatter to the four winds. It bewildered him to find his +once capable frame rebelling against its tasks. It left him dazed, as +though he had been confronted by the sudden and gratuitous treachery of +a life-long servant. +</P> + +<P> +He grew more irritable, more fanciful. He changed guides at the next +native village, fearing that Binhart might have grown too intimate with +the old ones. He was swayed by an ever-increasing fear of intrigues. +He coerced his flagging will into a feverish watchfulness. He became +more arbitrary in his movements and exactions. When the chance came, +he purchased a repeating Lee-Enfield rifle, which he packed across his +sweating back on the trail and slept with under his arm at night. When +a morning came when he was too weak and ill to get up, he lay back on +his grass couch, with his rifle across his knees, watching Binhart, +always watching Binhart. +</P> + +<P> +He seemed to realize that his power was slipping away, and he brooded +on some plan for holding his prisoner, on any plan, no matter what it +might cost. +</P> + +<P> +He even pretended to sleep, to the end that Binhart might make an +effort to break away—and be brought down with a bullet. He prayed +that Binhart would try to go, would give him an excuse for the last +move would leave the two of them lying there together. Even to perish +there side by side, foolishly, uselessly, seemed more desirable than +the thought that Binhart might in the end get away. He seemed +satisfied that the two of them should lie there, for all time, each +holding the other down, like two embattled stags with their horns +inextricably locked. And he waited there, nursing his rifle, watching +out of sullenly feverish eyes, marking each movement of the +passive-faced Binhart. +</P> + +<P> +But Binhart, knowing what he knew, was content to wait. +</P> + +<P> +He was content to wait until the fever grew, and the poisons of the +blood narcotized the dulled brain into indifference, and then goaded it +into delirium. Then, calmly equipping himself for his journey, he +buried the repeating rifle and slipped away in the night, carrying with +him Blake's quinin and revolver and pocket-filter. He traveled +hurriedly, bearing southeast towards the San Juan. Four days later he +reached the coast, journeyed by boat to Bluefields, and from that port +passed on into the outer world, where time and distance swallowed him +up, and no sign of his whereabouts was left behind. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap17"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XVII +</H3> + + +<P> +It was six weeks later that a slender-bodied young Nicaraguan known as +Doctor Alfonso Sedeno (his right to that title resulting from four +years of medical study in Paris) escorted into Bluefields the flaccid +and attenuated shadow of Never-Fail Blake. Doctor Sedeno explained to +the English shipping firm to whom he handed over his patient that the +Señor Americano had been found in a dying condition, ten miles from the +camp of the rubber company for which he acted as surgeon. The Señor +Americano was apparently a prospector who had been deserted by his +partner. He had been very ill. But a few days of complete rest would +restore him. The sea voyage would also help. In the meantime, if the +shipping company would arrange for credit from the hotel, the matter +would assuredly be put right, later on, when the necessary despatches +had been returned from New York. +</P> + +<P> +For three weeks of torpor Blake sat in the shadowy hotel, watching the +torrential rains that deluged the coast. Then, with the help of a +cane, he hobbled from point to point about the town, quaveringly +inquiring for any word of his lost partner. He wandered listlessly +back and forth, mumbling out a description of the man he sought, +holding up strangers with his tremulous-noted inquiries, peering with +weak and watery eyes into any quarter that might house a fugitive. But +no hint or word of Binhart was to be gleaned from those wanderings, and +at the end of a week he boarded a fruit steamer bound for Kingston. +</P> + +<P> +His strength came back to him slowly during that voyage, and when he +landed at Kingston he was able to walk without a stick. At Kingston, +too, his draft on New York was finally honored. He was able to creep +out to Constant Spring, to buy new clothes, to ride in a carriage when +he chose, to eat a white man's food again. The shrunken body under the +flaccid skin slowly took on some semblance of its former ponderosity, +the watery eyes slowly lost their dead and vapid stare. +</P> + +<P> +And with increase of strength came a corresponding increase of mental +activity. All day long he kept turning things over in his tired brain. +Hour by silent hour he would ponder the problem before him. It was +more rumination than active thought. Yet up from the stagnating depths +of his brooding would come an occasional bubble of inspiration. +</P> + +<P> +Binhart, he finally concluded, had gone north. It was the natural +thing to do. He would go where his haul was hidden away. Sick of +unrest, he would seek peace. He would fall a prey to man's consuming +hunger to speak with his own kind again. Convinced that his enemy was +not at his heels, he would hide away somewhere in his own country. And +once reasonably assured that this enemy had died as he had left him to +die, Binhart would surely remain in his own land, among his own people. +</P> + +<P> +Blake had no proof of this. He could not explain why he accepted it as +fact. He merely wrote it down as one of his hunches. And with his +old-time faith in the result of that subliminal reasoning, he counted +what remained of his money, paid his bills, and sailed from Kingston +northward as a steerage passenger in a United Fruit steamer bound for +Boston. +</P> + +<P> +As he had expected, he landed at this New England port without +detection, without recognition. Six hours later he stepped off a train +in New York. +</P> + +<P> +He passed out into the streets of his native city like a ghost emerging +from its tomb. There seemed something spectral in the very chill of +the thin northern sunlight, after the opulent and oppressive heat of +the tropics. A gulf of years seemed to lie between him and the +actualities so close to him. A desolating sense of loneliness kept +driving him into the city's noisier and more crowded drinking-places, +where, under the lash of alcohol, he was able to wear down his hot ache +of deprivation into a dim and dreary regretfulness. Yet the very faces +about him still remained phantasmal. The commonplaces of street life +continued to take on an alien aspect. They seemed vague and far away, +as though viewed through a veil. He felt that the world had gone on, +and in going on had forgotten him. Even the scraps of talk, the talk +of his own people, fell on his ear with a strange sound. +</P> + +<P> +He found nothing companionable in that cañon of life and movement known +as Broadway. He stopped to stare with haggard and wistful eyes at a +theater front buoyed with countless electric bulbs, remembering the +proud moment when he had been cheered in a box there, for in his +curtain-speech the author of the melodrama of crime being presented had +confessed that the inspiration and plot of his play had come from that +great detective, Never-Fail Blake. +</P> + +<P> +He drifted on down past the cafés and restaurants where he had once +dined and supped so well, past the familiar haunts where the appetite +of the spirit for privilege had once been as amply fed as the appetite +of the body for food. He sought out the darker purlieus of the lower +city, where he had once walked as a king and dictated dead-lines and +distributed patronage. He drifted into the underworld haunts where his +name had at one time been a terror. But now, he could see, his +approach no longer resulted in that discreet scurry to cover, that +feverish scuttling away for safety, which marks the blacksnake's +progress through a gopher-village. +</P> + +<P> +When he came to Center Street, at the corner of Broome, he stopped and +blinked up at the great gray building wherein he had once held sway. +He stood, stoop-shouldered and silent, staring at the green lamps, the +green lamps of vigilance that burned as a sign to the sleeping city. +</P> + +<P> +He stood there for some time, unrecognized, unnoticed, watching the +platoons of broad-chested "flatties" as they swung out and off to their +midnight patrols, marking the plainly clad "elbows" as they passed +quietly up and down the great stone steps. He thought of Copeland, and +the Commissioner, and of his own last hour at Headquarters. And then +his thoughts went on to Binhart, and the trail that had been lost, and +the task that stood still ahead of him. And with that memory awakened +the old sullen fires, the old dogged and implacable determination. +</P> + +<P> +In the midst of those reviving fires a new thought was fixed; the +thought that Binhart's career was in some way still involved with that +of Elsie Verriner. If any one knew of Binhart's whereabouts, he +remembered, it would surely be this woman, this woman on whom, he +contended, he could still hold the iron hand of incrimination. The +first move would be to find her. And then, at any cost, the truth must +be wrung from her. +</P> + +<P> +Never-Fail Blake, from the obscure down-town hotel, into which he crept +like a sick hound shunning the light, sent out his call for Elsie +Verriner. He sent his messages to many and varied quarters, feeling +sure that some groping tentacle of inquiry would eventually come in +touch with her. +</P> + +<P> +Yet the days dragged by, and no answer came back to him. He chafed +anew at this fresh evidence that his power was a thing of the past, +that his word was no longer law. He burned with a sullen and +self-consuming anger, an anger that could be neither expressed in +action nor relieved in words. +</P> + +<P> +Then, at the end of a week's time, a note came from Elsie Verriner. It +was dated and postmarked "Washington," and in it she briefly explained +that she had been engaged in Departmental business, but that she +expected to be in New York on the following Monday. Blake found +himself unreasonably irritated by a certain crisp assurance about this +note, a certain absence of timorousness, a certain unfamiliar tone of +independence. But he could afford to wait, he told himself. His hour +would come, later on. And when that hour came, he would take a crimp +out of this calm-eyed woman, or the heavens themselves would fall! And +finding further idleness unbearable, he made his way to a +drinking-place not far from that juncture of First Street and the +Bowery, known as Suicide Corner. In this new-world <I>Cabaret de Neant</I> +he drowned his impatience of soul in a Walpurgis Night of five-cent +beer and fusel-oil whiskey. But his time would come, he repeated +drunkenly, as he watched with his haggard hound's eyes the meretricious +and tragic merriment of the revelers about him—his time would come! +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap18"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XVIII +</H3> + + +<P> +Blake did not look up as he heard the door open and the woman step into +the room. There was an echo of his old-time theatricalism in that +dissimulation of stolid indifference. But the old-time stage-setting, +he knew, was no longer there. Instead of sitting behind an oak desk at +Headquarters, he was staring down at a beer-stained card-table in the +dingy back room of a dingy downtown hotel. +</P> + +<P> +He knew the woman had closed the door and crossed the room to the other +side of the card-table, but still he did not look up at her. The +silence lengthened until it became acute, epochal, climactic. +</P> + +<P> +"You sent for me?" his visitor finally said. +</P> + +<P> +And as Elsie Verriner uttered the words he was teased by a vague sense +that the scene had happened before, that somewhere before in their +lives it had been duplicated, word by word and move by move. +</P> + +<P> +"Sit down," he said with an effort at the gruffness of assured +authority. But the young woman did not do as he commanded. She +remained still standing, and still staring down at the face of the man +in front of her. +</P> + +<P> +So prolonged was this stare that Blake began to be embarrassingly +conscious of it, to fidget under it. When he looked up he did so +circuitously, pretending to peer beyond the white face and the staring +eyes of the young woman confronting him. Yet she ultimately coerced +his unsteady gaze, even against his own will. And as he had expected, +he saw written on her face something akin to horror. +</P> + +<P> +As he, in turn, stared back at her, and in her eyes saw first +incredulity, and then, what stung him more, open pity itself, it came +home to him that he must indeed have altered for the worse, that his +face and figure must have changed. For the first time it flashed over +him: he was only the wreck of the man he had once been. Yet at the +core of that wreck burned the old passion for power, the ineradicable +appetite for authority. He resented the fact that she should feel +sorry for him. He inwardly resolved to make her suffer for that pity, +to enlighten her as to what life was still left in the battered old +carcass which she could so openly sorrow over. +</P> + +<P> +"Well, I 'm back," he announced in his guttural bass, as though to +bridge a silence that was becoming abysmal. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, you 're back!" echoed Elsie Verriner. She spoke absently, as +though her mind were preoccupied with a problem that seemed +inexplicable. +</P> + +<P> +"And a little the worse for wear," he pursued, with his mirthless croak +of a laugh. Then he flashed up at her a quick look of resentment, a +look which he found himself unable to repress. "While you're all +dolled up," he said with a snort, as though bent on wounding her, +"dolled up like a lobster palace floater!" +</P> + +<P> +It hurt him more than ever to see that he could not even dethrone that +fixed look of pity from her face, that even his abuse could not thrust +aside her composure. +</P> + +<P> +"I 'm not a lobster palace floater," she quietly replied. "And you +know it." +</P> + +<P> +"Then what are you?" he demanded. +</P> + +<P> +"I 'm a confidential agent of the Treasury Department," was her +quiet-toned answer. +</P> + +<P> +"Oho!" cried Blake. "So that's why we 've grown so high and mighty!" +</P> + +<P> +The woman sank into the chair beside which she had been standing. She +seemed impervious to his mockery. +</P> + +<P> +"What do you want me for?" she asked, and the quick directness of her +question implied not so much that time was being wasted on side issues +as that he was cruelly and unnecessarily demeaning himself in her eyes. +</P> + +<P> +It was then that Blake swung about, as though he, too, were anxious to +sweep aside the trivialities that stood between him and his end, as +though he, too, were conscious of the ignominy of his own position. +</P> + +<P> +"You know where I 've been and what I 've been doing!" he suddenly +cried out. +</P> + +<P> +"I 'm not positive that I do," was the woman's guarded answer. +</P> + +<P> +"That's a lie!" thundered Blake. "You know as well as I do!" +</P> + +<P> +"What have you been doing?" asked the woman, almost indulgently. +</P> + +<P> +"I 've been trailing Binhart, and you know it! And what's more, you +know where Binhart is, now, at this moment!" +</P> + +<P> +"What was it you wanted me for?" reiterated the white-faced woman, +without looking at him. +</P> + +<P> +Her evasions did more than anger Blake; they maddened him. For years +now he had been compelled to face her obliquities, to puzzle over the +enigma of her ultimate character, and he was tired of it all. He made +no effort to hold his feelings in check. Even into his voice crept +that grossness which before had seemed something of the body alone. +</P> + +<P> +"I want to know where Binhart is!" he cried, leaning forward so that +his head projected pugnaciously from his shoulders like the head of a +fighting-cock. +</P> + +<P> +"Then you have only wasted time in sending for me," was the woman's +obdurate answer. Yet beneath her obduracy was some vague note of +commiseration which he could not understand. +</P> + +<P> +"I want that man, and I 'm going to get him," was Blake's impassioned +declaration. "And before you get out of this room you 're going to +tell me where he is!" +</P> + +<P> +She met his eyes, studiously, deliberately, as though it took a great +effort to do so. Their glances seemed to close in and lock together. +</P> + +<P> +"Jim!" said the woman, and it startled him to see that there were +actual tears in her eyes. But he was determined to remain superior to +any of her subterfuges. His old habit returned to him, the old habit +of "pounding" a prisoner. He knew that one way to get at the meat of a +nut was to smash the nut. And in all his universe there seemed only +one issue and one end, and that was to find his trail and get his man. +So he cut her short with his quick volley of abuse. +</P> + +<P> +"I 've got your number, Elsie Verriner, alias Chaddy Cravath," he +thundered out, bringing his great withered fist down on the table top. +"I 've got every trick you ever turned stowed away in cold storage. I +'ve got 'em where they 'll keep until the cows come home. I don't care +whether you 're a secret agent or a Secretary of War. There 's only +one thing that counts with me now. And I 'm going to win out. I 'm +going to win out, in the end, no matter what it costs. If you try to +block me in this I 'll put you where you belong. I 'll drag you down +until you squeal like a cornered rat. I 'll put you so low you 'll +never even stand up again!" +</P> + +<P> +The woman leaned a little forward, staring into his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"I did n't expect this of you, Jim," she said. Her voice was tremulous +as she spoke, and still again he could see on her face that odious and +unfathomable pity. +</P> + +<P> +"There 's lots of things were n't expected of me. But I 'm going to +surprise you all. I 'm going to get what I 'm after or I 'm going to +put you where I ought to have put you two years ago!" +</P> + +<P> +"Jim," said the woman, white-lipped hut compelling herself to calmness, +"don't go on like this! Don't! You're only making it worse, every +minute!" +</P> + +<P> +"Making what worse?" demanded Blake. +</P> + +<P> +"The whole thing. It was a mistake, from the first. I could have told +you that. But you did then what you 're trying to do now. And see +what you 've lost by it!" +</P> + +<P> +"What have I lost by it?" +</P> + +<P> +"You 've lost everything," she answered, and her voice was thin with +misery. "Everything—just as they counted on your doing, just as they +expected!" +</P> + +<P> +"As who expected?" +</P> + +<P> +"As Copeland and the others expected when they sent you out on a blind +trail." +</P> + +<P> +"I was n't sent out on a blind trail." +</P> + +<P> +"But you found nothing when you went out. Surely you remember that." +</P> + +<P> +It seemed like going back to another world to another life, as he sat +there coercing his memory to meet the past, the abysmal and embittered +past which he had grown to hate. +</P> + +<P> +"Are you trying to say this Binhart case was a frame up?" he suddenly +cried out. +</P> + +<P> +"They wanted you out of the way. It was the only trick they could +think of." +</P> + +<P> +"That's a lie!" declared Blake. +</P> + +<P> +"It's not a lie. They knew you 'd never give up. They even +handicapped you—started you wrong, to be sure it would take time, to +be positive of a clear field." +</P> + +<P> +Blake stared at her, almost stupidly. His mind was groping about, +trying to find some adequate motive for this new line of duplicity. He +kept warning himself that she was not to be trusted. Human beings, all +human beings, he had found, moved only by indirection. He was too old +a bird to have sand thrown in his eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"Why, you welched on Binhart yourself. You put me on his track. You +sent me up to Montreal!" +</P> + +<P> +"They made me do that," confessed the unhappy woman. "He was n't in +Montreal. He never had been there!" +</P> + +<P> +"You had a letter from him there, telling you to come to 881 King +Edward when the coast was clear." +</P> + +<P> +"That letter was two years old. It was sent from a room in the King +Edward Hotel. That was part of their plant." +</P> + +<P> +He sat for a long time thinking it over, point by point. He became +disturbed by a sense of instability in the things that had once seemed +most enduring, the sickening cataclysmic horror of a man who finds the +very earth under his feet shaken by its earthquake. His sodden face +appeared to age even as he sat there laboriously reliving the past, the +past that seemed suddenly empty and futile. +</P> + +<P> +"So you sold me out!" he finally said, studying her white face with his +haggard hound's eyes. +</P> + +<P> +"I could n't help it, Jim. You forced it on me. You wouldn't give me +the chance to do anything else. I wanted to help you—but you held me +off. You put the other thing before my friendship!" +</P> + +<P> +"What do <I>you</I> know about friendship?" cried the gray-faced man. +</P> + +<P> +"We were friends once," answered the woman, ignoring the bitter mockery +in his cry. +</P> + +<P> +He stared at her, untouched by the note of pathos in her voice. There +was something abstracted about his stare, as though his mind had not +yet adjusted itself to a vast new discovery. His inner vision seemed +dazzled, just as the eye itself may be dazzled by unexpected light. +</P> + +<P> +"So you sold me out!" he said for a third time. He did not move, but +under that lava-like shell of diffidence were volcanic and coursing +fires which even he himself could not understand. +</P> + +<P> +"Jim, I would have done anything for you, once," went on the unhappy +woman facing him. "You could have saved me—from him, from myself. +But you let the chance slip away. I couldn't go on. I saw where it +would end. So I had to save myself. I had to save myself—in the only +way I could. Oh, Jim, if you 'd only been kinder!" +</P> + +<P> +She sat with her head bowed, ashamed of her tears, the tears which he +could not understand. He stared at her great crown of carefully coiled +and plaited hair, shining in the light of the unshaded electric-bulb +above them. It took him back to other days when he had looked at it +with other eyes. And a comprehension of all he had lost crept slowly +home to him. Poignant as was the thought that she had seemed beautiful +to him and he might have once possessed her, this thought was +obliterated by the sudden memory that in her lay centered everything +that had caused his failure. She had been the weak link in his life, +the life which he had so wanted to crown with success. +</P> + +<P> +"You welcher!" he suddenly gasped, as he continued to stare at her. +His very contemplation of her white face seemed to madden him. In it +he seemed to find some signal and sign of his own dissolution, of his +lost power, of his outlived authority. In her seemed to abide the +reason for all that he had endured. To have attained to a +comprehension of her own feelings was beyond him. Even the effort to +understand them would have been a contradiction of his whole career. +She only angered him. And the hot anger that crept through his body +seemed to smoke out of some inner recess of his being a hate that was +as unreasonable as it was animal-like. All the instincts of existence, +in that moment, reverted to life's one primordial problem, the problem +of the fighting man to whom every other man must be an opponent, the +problem of the feral being, as to whether it should kill or be killed. +</P> + +<P> +Into that unreasoning blind rage flared all the frustration of months, +of years, all the disappointments of all his chase, all the defeat of +all his career. Even as she sat there in her pink and white frailty +she knew and nursed the secret for which he had girdled the world. He +felt that he must tear it from her, that he must crush it out of her +body as the pit is squeezed from a cherry. And the corroding part of +it was that he had been outwitted by a woman, that he was being defied +by a physical weakling, a slender-limbed thing of ribbons and laces +whose back he could bend and break across his great knee. +</P> + +<P> +He lurched forward to his feet. His great crouching body seemed drawn +towards her by some slow current which he could not control. +</P> + +<P> +"Where's Binhart?" he suddenly gasped, and the explosive tensity of +that wheezing cry caused her to look up, startled. He swayed toward +her as she did so, swept by some power not his own. There was +something leonine in his movement, something leonine in his snarl as he +fell on her. He caught her body in his great arms and shook it. He +moved without any sense of movement, without any memory of it. +</P> + +<P> +"Where 's Binhart?" he repeated, foolishly, for by this time his great +hand had closed on her throat and all power of speech was beyond her. +He swung her about and bore her back across the table. She did not +struggle. She lay there so passive in his clutch that a dull pride +came to him at the thought of his own strength. This belated sense of +power seemed to intoxicate him. He was swept by a blind passion to +crush, to obliterate. It seemed as though the rare and final moment +for the righting of vast wrongs, for the ending of great injustices, +were at hand. His one surprise was that she did not resist him, that +she did not struggle. +</P> + +<P> +From side to side he twisted and flailed her body about, in his +madness, gloating over her final subserviency to his will, marveling +how well adapted for attack was this soft and slender column of the +neck, on which his throttling fingers had fastened themselves. +Instinctively they had sought out and closed on that slender column, +guided to it by some ancestral propulsion, by some heritage of the +brute. It was made to get a grip on, a neck like that! And he grunted +aloud, with wheezing and voluptuous grunts of gratification, as he saw +the white face alter and the wide eyes darken with terror. He was +making her suffer. He was no longer enveloped by that mild and +tragically inquiring stare that had so discomforted him. He was no +longer stung by the thought that she was good to look on, even with her +head pinned down against a beer-stained card-table. He was converting +her into something useless and broken, into something that could no +longer come between him and his ends. He was completely and finally +humiliating her. He was breaking her. He was converting her into +something corrupt.… Then his pendulous throat choked with a +falsetto gasp of wonder. <I>He was killing her</I>! +</P> + +<P> +Then, as suddenly as it had come, the smoke of that mental explosion +seemed to clear away. Even as he gaped into the white face so close to +his own he awoke to reason. The consciousness of how futile, of how +odious, of how maniacal, it all was swept over him. He had fallen low, +but he had never dreamed that he could fall so low as this. +</P> + +<P> +A reaction of physical nausea left him weak and dizzy. The flexor +muscles of his fingers relaxed. An ague of weakness crept through his +limbs. A vertiginous faintness brought him half tumbling and half +rolling back into his chair, wheezing and moist with sweat. He sat +there looking about him, like a sheep killer looking up from the ewe it +has captured. +</P> + +<P> +Then his great chest heaved and shook with hysterical sobbing. When, a +little later, he heard the shaken woman's antiphonal sobs, the +realization of how low he had fallen kept him from looking at her. A +great shame possessed him. He stumbled out of the room. He groped his +way down to the open streets, a haggard and broken man from whom life +had wrung some final hope of honor. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap19"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XIX +</H3> + + +<P> +No catastrophe that was mental in its origin could oppress for long a +man so essentially physical as Blake. For two desolate hours, it is +true, he wandered about the streets of the city, struggling to medicine +his depression of the mind by sheer weariness of the body. Then the +habit of a lifetime of activity reasserted itself. He felt the need of +focusing his resentment on something tangible and material. And as a +comparative clarity of vision returned to him there also came back +those tendencies of the instinctive fighter, the innate protest against +injustice, the revolt against final surrender, the forlorn claim for at +least a fighting chance. And with the thought of his official downfall +came the thought of Copeland and what Copeland had done to him. +</P> + +<P> +Out of that ferment of futile protest arose one sudden decision. Even +before he articulated the decision he found it unconsciously swaying +his movements and directing his steps. He would go and see Copeland! +He would find that bloodless little shrimp and put him face to face +with a few plain truths. He would confront that anemic +Deputy-Commissioner and at least let him know what one honest man +thought of him. +</P> + +<P> +Even when Blake stood before Copeland's brownstone-fronted house, the +house that seemed to wear a mask of staid discretion in every drawn +blind and gloomy story, no hesitation came to him. His naturally +primitive mind foresaw no difficulties in that possible encounter. He +knew it was late, that it was nearly midnight, but even that did not +deter him. The recklessness of utter desperation was on him. His +purpose was something that transcended the mere trivialities of +every-day intercourse. And he must see him. To confront Copeland +became essential to his scheme of things. +</P> + +<P> +He went ponderously up the brown stone steps and rang the bell. He +waited patiently until his ring was answered. It was some time before +the door swung open. Inside that door Blake saw a solemn-eyed servant +in a black spiked-tailed service-coat and gray trousers. +</P> + +<P> +"I want to see Mr. Copeland," was Blake's calmly assured announcement. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Copeland is not at home," answered the man in the service-coat. +His tone was politely impersonal. His face, too, was impassive. But +one quick glance seemed to have appraised the man on the doorstep, to +have judged him, and in some way to have found him undesirable. +</P> + +<P> +"But this is important," said Blake. +</P> + +<P> +"I'm sorry, sir," answered, the impersonal-eyed servant. Blake made an +effort to keep himself in perfect control. He knew that his unkempt +figure had not won the good-will of that autocratic hireling. +</P> + +<P> +"I 'm from Police Headquarters," the man on the doorstep explained, +with the easy mendacity that was a heritage of his older days. +</P> + +<P> +He produced the one official card that remained with him, the one worn +and dog-eared and once water-soaked Deputy-Commissioner's card which +still remained in his dog-eared wallet. "I 've got to see him on +business, Departmental business!" +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. and Mrs. Copeland are at the Metropolitan, sir," explained the +servant. "At the Opera. And they are not back yet." +</P> + +<P> +"Then I 'll wait for him," announced Blake, placated by the humbler +note in the voice of the man in the service-coat. +</P> + +<P> +"Very good, sir," announced the servant. And he led the way upstairs, +switching on the electrics as he went. +</P> + +<P> +Blake found himself in what seemed to be a library. About this softly +hung room he peered with an acute yet heavy disdain, with an +indeterminate envy which he could not control. It struck him as being +feminine and over fine, that shadowy room with all its warm hangings +and polished wood. It stood for a phase of life with which he had no +patience. And he kept telling himself that it had not been come by +honestly, that on everything about him, from the silver desk ornaments +to the marble bust glimmering out of its shadowy background, he himself +had some secret claim. He scowled up at a number of signed etchings +and a row of diminutive and heavily framed canvases, scowled up at them +with quick contempt. Then he peered uncomfortably about at the shelves +of books, mottled streaks of vellum and morocco stippled with gold, +crowded pickets of soft-lettered color which seemed to stand between +him and a world which he had never cared to enter. It was a foolish +world, that world of book reading, a lackadaisical region of unreality, +a place for women and children, but never meant for a man with a man's +work to do. +</P> + +<P> +His stolidly contemptuous eyes were still peering about the room when +the door opened and closed again. There was something so +characteristically guarded and secretive in the movement that Blake +knew it was Copeland even before he let his gaze wheel around to the +newcomer. About the entire figure, in fact, he could detect that +familiar veiled wariness, that enigmatic and self-concealing +cautiousness which had always had the power to touch him into a quick +irritation. +</P> + +<P> +"Mr. Blake, I believe," said Copeland, very quietly. He was in full +evening dress. In one hand he held a silk hat and over one arm hung a +black top-coat. He held himself in perfect control, in too perfect +control, yet his thin face was almost ashen in color, almost the +neutral-tinted gray of a battle-ship's side-plates. And when he spoke +it was with the impersonal polite unction with which he might have +addressed an utter stranger. +</P> + +<P> +"You wished to see me!" he said, as his gaze fastened itself on Blake's +figure. The fact that he remained standing imparted a tentativeness to +the situation. Yet his eyes remained on Blake, studying him with the +cold and mildly abstracted curiosity with which he might view a mummy +in its case. +</P> + +<P> +"I do!" said Blake, without rising from his chair. +</P> + +<P> +"About what?" asked Copeland. There was an acidulated crispness in his +voice which hinted that time might be a matter of importance to him. +</P> + +<P> +"You know what it's about, all right," was Blake's heavy retort. +</P> + +<P> +"On the contrary," said Copeland, putting down his hat and coat, "I 'm +quite in the dark as to how I can be of service to you." +</P> + +<P> +Both his tone and his words angered Blake, angered him unreasonably. +But he kept warning himself to wait, to hold himself in until the +proper moment arrived. +</P> + +<P> +"I expect no service from you," was Blake's curtly guttural response. +He croaked out his mirthless ghost of a laugh. "You 've taught me +better than that!" +</P> + +<P> +Copeland, for all his iciness, seemed to resent the thrust. +</P> + +<P> +"We have always something to learn," retorted, meeting Blake's stolid +stare enmity. +</P> + +<P> +"I guess I've learned enough!" said Blake. +</P> + +<P> +"Then I hope it has brought you what you are looking for!" Copeland, +as he spoke, stepped over to a chair, but he still remained on his feet. +</P> + +<P> +"No, it has n't brought me what I 'm after," said the other man. "Not +yet! But it's going to, in the end, Mr. Copeland, or I 'm going to +know the reason why!" +</P> + +<P> +He kept warning himself to be calm, yet he found his voice shaking a +little as he spoke. The time was not yet ripe for his outbreak. The +climactic moment was still some distance away. But he could feel it +emerging from the mist just as a pilot sights the bell-buoy that marks +his changing channel. +</P> + +<P> +"Then might I ask what you are after?" inquired Copeland. He folded +his arms, as though to fortify himself behind a pretense of +indifferency. +</P> + +<P> +"You know what I 've been after, just as I know what you 've been +after," cried Blake. "You set out to get my berth, and you got it. +And I set out to get Binhart, to get the man your whole push could n't +round up—and I 'm going to get him!" +</P> + +<P> +"Blake," said Copeland, very quietly, "you are wrong in both instances." +</P> + +<P> +"Am I!" +</P> + +<P> +"You are," was Copeland's answer, and he spoke with a studious patience +which his rival resented even more than his open enmity. "In the first +place, this Binhart case is a closed issue." +</P> + +<P> +"Not with me!" cried Blake, feeling himself surrendering to the tide +that had been tugging at him so long. "They may be able to buy off you +cuff-shooters down at Headquarters. They may grease your palm down +there, until you see it pays to keep your hands off. They may pull a +rope or two and make you back down. But nothing this side o' the gates +o' hell is going to make <I>me</I> back down. I began this man-hunt, and <I>I +'m going to end it</I>!" +</P> + +<P> +He took on a dignity in his own eyes. He felt that in the face of +every obstacle he was still the instrument of an ineluctable and +incorruptible Justice. Uncouth and buffeted as his withered figure may +have been, it still represented the relentlessness of the Law. +</P> + +<P> +"That man-hunt is out of our hands," he heard Copeland saying. +</P> + +<P> +"But it's not out of <I>my</I> hands!" reiterated the detective. +</P> + +<P> +"Yes, it's out of your hands, too," answered Copeland. He spoke with a +calm authority, with a finality, that nettled the other man. +</P> + +<P> +"What are you driving at?" he cried out. +</P> + +<P> +"This Binhart hunt is ended," repeated Copeland, and in the eyes +looking down at him Blake saw that same vague pity which had rested in +the gaze of Elsie Verriner. +</P> + +<P> +"By God, it's not ended!" Blake thundered back at him. +</P> + +<P> +"It is ended," quietly contended the other. "And precisely as you have +put it—Ended by God!" +</P> + +<P> +"It's what?" cried Blake. +</P> + +<P> +"You don't seem to be aware of the fact, Blake, that Binhart is +dead—dead and buried!" +</P> + +<P> +Blake stared up at him. +</P> + +<P> +"Is what?" his lips automatically inquired. +</P> + +<P> +"Binhart died seven weeks ago. He died in the town of Toluca, out in +Arizona. He's buried there." +</P> + +<P> +"That's a lie!" cried Blake, sagging forward in his chair. +</P> + +<P> +"We had the Phoenix authorities verify the report in every detail. +There is no shadow of doubt about it." +</P> + +<P> +Still Blake stared up at the other man. +</P> + +<P> +"I don't believe it," he wheezed. +</P> + +<P> +Copeland did not answer him. He stepped to the end of the desk and +with his scholarly white finger touched a mother-of-pearl bell button. +Utter silence reigned in the room until the servant answered his +summons. +</P> + +<P> +"Bridley, go to my secretary and bring me the portfolio in the second +drawer." +</P> + +<P> +Blake heard and yet did not hear the message. A fog-like sense of +unreality seemed to drape everything about him. The earth itself +seemed to crumble away and leave him poised alone in the very emptiness +of space. Binhart was dead! +</P> + +<P> +He could hear Copeland's voice far away. He could see the returning +figure of the servant, but it seemed as gray and ghostlike as the +entire room about him. In his shaking fingers he took the official +papers which Copeland handed over to him. He could read the words, he +could see the signatures, but they seemed unable to impart any +clear-cut message to his brain. His dazed eyes wandered over the +newspaper clippings which Copeland thrust into his unsteady fingers. +There, too, was the same calamitous proclamation, as final as though he +had been reading it on a tombstone. Binhart was dead! Here were the +proofs of it; here was an authentic copy of the death certificate, the +reports of the police verification; here in his hands were the final +and indisputable proofs. +</P> + +<P> +But he could not quite comprehend it. He tried to tell himself it was +only that his old-time enemy was playing some new trick on him, a trick +which he could not quite fathom. Then the totality of it all swept +home to him, swept through his entire startled being as a tidal-wave +sweeps over a coast-shoal. +</P> + +<P> +Blake, in his day, had known desolation, but it had seldom been +desolation of spirit. It had never been desolation like this. He +tried to plumb it, to its deepest meaning, but consciousness seemed to +have no line long enough. He only knew that his world had ended. He +saw himself as the thing that life had at last left him—a solitary and +unsatisfied man, a man without an aim, without a calling, without +companionship. +</P> + +<P> +"So this ends the music!" he muttered, as he rose weakly to his feet. +And yet it was more than the end of the music, he had to confess to +himself. It was the collapse of the instruments, the snapping of the +last string. It was the ultimate end, the end that proclaimed itself +as final as the stabbing thought of his own death itself. +</P> + +<P> +He heard Copeland asking if he would care for a glass of sherry. +Whether he answered that query or not he never knew. He only knew that +Binhart was dead, and that he himself was groping his way out into the +night, a broken and desolate man. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap20"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XX +</H3> + + +<P> +Several days dragged away before Blake's mental clarity returned to +him. Then block by unstable block he seemed to rebuild a new world +about him, a new world which was both narrow and empty. But it at +least gave him something on which to plant his bewildered feet. +</P> + +<P> +That slow return to the substantialities of life was in the nature of a +convalescence. It came step by languid step; he knew no power to hurry +it. And as is so often the case with convalescents, he found himself +in a world from which time seemed to have detached him. Yet as he +emerged from that earlier state of coma, his old-time instincts and +characteristics began to assert themselves. Some deep-seated inner +spirit of dubiety began to grope about and question and challenge. His +innate skepticism once more became active. That tendency to cynical +unbelief which his profession had imposed upon him stubbornly +reasserted itself. His career had crowned him with a surly +suspiciousness. And about the one thing that remained vital to that +career, or what was left of it, these wayward suspicions arrayed +themselves like wolves, about a wounded stag. +</P> + +<P> +His unquiet soul felt the need of some final and personal proof of +Binhart's death. He asked for more data than had been given him. He +wanted more information than the fact that Binhart, on his flight +north, had fallen ill of pneumonia in New Orleans, had wandered on to +the dry air of Arizona with a "spot" on his lungs, and had there +succumbed to the tubercular invasion for which his earlier sickness had +laid him open. Blake's slowly awakening and ever-wary mind kept +telling him that after all there might be some possibility of trickery, +that a fugitive with the devilish ingenuity of Binhart would resort to +any means to escape being further harassed by the Law. +</P> + +<P> +Blake even recalled, a few days later, the incident of the Shattuck +jewel-robbery, during the first weeks of his regime as a Deputy +Commissioner. This diamond-thief named Shattuck had been arrested and +released under heavy bail. Seven months later Shattuck's attorney had +appeared before the District Attorney's office with a duly executed +certificate of death, officially establishing the fact that his client +had died two weeks before in the city of Baltimore. On this he had +based a demand for the dismissal of the case. He had succeeded in +having all action stopped and the affair became, officially, a closed +incident. Yet two months later Shattuck had been seen alive, and the +following winter had engaged in an Albany hotel robbery which had +earned for him, under an entirely different name, a nine-year sentence +in Sing Sing. +</P> + +<P> +From the memory of that case Never-Fail Blake wrung a thin and ghostly +consolation. The more he brooded over it the more morosely disquieted +he became. The thing grew like a upas tree; it spread until it +obsessed all his waking hours and invaded even his dreams. Then a time +came when he could endure it no more. He faced the necessity of +purging his soul of all uncertainty. The whimpering of one of his +unkenneled "hunches" merged into what seemed an actual voice of +inspiration to him. +</P> + +<P> +He gathered together what money he could; he arranged what few matters +still remained to engage his attention, going about the task with that +valedictory solemnity with which the forlornly decrepit execute their +last will and testament. Then, when everything was prepared, he once +more started out on the trail. +</P> + +<BR> +<HR WIDTH="60%" ALIGN="center"> +<BR> + +<P> +Two weeks later a rough and heavy-bodied man, garbed in the rough +apparel of a mining prospector, made his way into the sun-steeped town +of Toluca. There he went quietly to the wooden-fronted hotel, hired a +pack-mule and a camp-outfit and made purchase, among other things, of a +pick and shovel. To certain of the men he met he put inquiries as to +the best trail out to the Buenavista Copper Camp. Then, as he waited +for the camp-partner who was to follow him into Toluca, he drifted with +amiable and ponderous restlessness about the town, talking with the +telegraph operator and the barber, swapping yarns at the livery-stable +where his pack-mule was lodged, handing out cigars in the +wooden-fronted hotel, casually interviewing the town officials as to +the health of the locality and the death-rate of Toluca, acquainting +himself with the local undertaker and the lonely young doctor, and even +dropping in on the town officials and making inquiries about +main-street building lots and the need of a new hotel. +</P> + +<P> +To all this amiable and erratic garrulity there seemed to be neither +direction nor significance. But in one thing the town of Toluca +agreed; the ponderous-bodied old new-comer was a bit "queer" in his +head. +</P> + +<P> +A time came, however, when the newcomer announced that he could wait no +longer for his belated camp-partner. With his pack-mule and a pick and +shovel he set out, late one afternoon, for the Buenavista Camp. Yet by +nightfall, for some strange reason, any one traveling that lonely trail +might have seen him returning towards Toluca. He did not enter the +town, however, but skirted the outer fringe of sparsely settled houses +and guardedly made his way to a close-fenced area, in which neither +light nor movement could be detected. This silent place awakened in +him no trace of either fear or repugnance. With him he carried his +pick and shovel, and five minutes later the sound of this pick and +shovel might have been heard at work as the ponderous-bodied man +sweated over his midnight labor. When he had dug for what seemed an +interminable length of time, he tore away a layer of pine boards and +released a double row of screw-heads. Then he crouched low down in the +rectangular cavern which he had fashioned with his spade, struck a +match, and peered with a narrow-eyed and breathless intentness at what +faced him there. +</P> + +<P> +One glance at that tragic mass of corruption was enough for him. He +replaced the screw-heads and the pine boards. He took up his shovel +and began restoring the earth, stolidly tramping it down, from time to +time, with his great weight. +</P> + +<P> +When his task was completed he saw that everything was orderly and as +he had found it. Then he returned to his tethered packmule and once +more headed for the Buenavista Camp, carrying with him a discovery +which made the night air as intoxicating as wine to his weary body. +</P> + +<P> +Late that night a man might have been heard singing to the stars, +singing in the midst of the wilderness, without rhyme or reason. And +in the midst of that wilderness he remained for another long day and +another long night, as though solitude were necessary to him, that he +might adjust himself to some new order of things, that he might digest +some victory which had been too much for his shattered nerves. +</P> + +<P> +On the third day, as he limped placidly back into the town of Toluca, +his soul was torn between a great peace and a great hunger. He hugged +to his breast the fact that somewhere in the world ahead of him a man +once known as Binhart still moved and lived. He kept telling himself +that somewhere about the face of the globe that restless spirit whom he +sought still wandered. +</P> + +<P> +Day by patient day, through the drought and heat and alkali of an +Arizona summer, he sought some clue, some inkling, of the direction +which that wanderer had taken. But about Binhart and his movements, +Toluca and Phoenix and all Arizona itself seemed to know nothing. +</P> + +<P> +Nothing, Blake saw in the end, remained to be discovered there. So in +time the heavy-bodied man with the haggard hound's eyes took his leave, +passing out into the world which in turn swallowed him up as completely +as it had swallowed up his unknown enemy. +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR> + +<A NAME="chap21"></A> +<H3 ALIGN="center"> +XXI +</H3> + + +<P> +Three of the busiest portions of New York, varying with the various +hours of the day, may safely be said to lie in that neighborhood where +Nassau Street debouches into Park Row, and also near that point where +Twenty-third Street intercepts Fourth Avenue, and still again not far +from where Broadway and Fifth Avenue meet at the southeast corner of +Madison Square. +</P> + +<P> +About these three points, at certain hours of the day and on certain +days of the week, an observant stranger might have noticed the +strangely grotesque figure of an old cement seller. So often had this +old street-peddler duly appeared at his stand, from month to month, +that the hurrying public seemed to have become inured to the +grotesqueness of his appearance. Seldom, indeed, did a face turn to +inspect him as he blinked out at the lighted street like a Pribiloff +seal blinking into an Arctic sun. Yet it was only by a second or even +a third glance that the more inquisitive might have detected anything +arresting in that forlornly ruminative figure with the pendulous and +withered throat and cheek-flaps. +</P> + +<P> +To the casual observer he was merely a picturesque old street-peddler, +standing like a time-stained statue beside a carefully arrayed exhibit +of his wares. This exhibit, which invariably proved more interesting +than his own person, consisted of a frame of gas-piping in the form of +an inverted U. From the top bar of this iron frame swung two heavy +pieces of leather cemented together. Next to this coalesced leather +dangled a large Z made up of three pieces of plate glass stuck together +at the ends, and amply demonstrating the adhesive power of the +cementing mixture to be purchased there. +</P> + +<P> +Next to the glass Z again were two rows of chipped and serrated plates +and saucers, plates and saucers of all kinds and colors, with holes +drilled in their edges, and held together like a suspended chain-gang +by small brass links. At some time in its career each one of these +cups and saucers had been broken across or even shattered into +fragments. Later, it had been ingeniously and patiently glued +together. And there it and its valiant brothers in misfortune swung +together in a double row, with a cobblestone dangling from the bottom +plate, reminding the passing world of remedial beneficences it might +too readily forget, attesting to the fact that life's worst fractures +might in some way still be made whole. +</P> + +<P> +Yet so impassively, so stolidly statuesque, did this figure stand +beside the gas-pipe that to all intents he might have been cemented to +the pavement with his own glue. He seldom moved, once his frame had +been set up and his wares laid out. When he did move it was only to +re-awaken the equally plethoric motion of his slowly oscillating links +of cemented glass and chinaware. Sometimes, it is true, he disposed of +a phial of his cement, producing his bottle and receiving payment with +the absorbed impassivity of an automaton. +</P> + +<P> +Huge as his figure must once have been, it now seemed, like his +gibbeted plates, all battered and chipped and over-written with the +marks of time. Like his plates, too, he carried some valiant sense of +being still intact, still stubbornly united, still oblivious of every +old-time fracture, still bound up into personal compactness by some +power which defied the blows of destiny. +</P> + +<P> +In all seasons, winter and summer, apparently, he wore a long and +loose-fitting overcoat. This overcoat must once have been black, but +it had faded to a green so conspicuous that it made him seem like a +bronze figure touched with the mellowing <I>patina</I> of time. +</P> + +<P> +It was in the incredibly voluminous pockets of this overcoat that the +old peddler carried his stock in trade, paper-wrapped bottles of +different sizes, and the nickels and dimes and quarters of his daily +trafficking. And as the streams of life purled past him, like water +past a stone, he seemed to ask nothing of the world on which he looked +out with such deep-set and impassive eyes. He seemed content with his +lot. He seemed to have achieved a Nirvana-like indifferency towards +all his kind. +</P> + +<P> +Yet there were times, as he waited beside his stand, as lethargic as a +lobster in a fish-peddler's window, when his flaccid, exploring fingers +dug deeper into one of those capacious side-pockets and there came in +contact with two oddly shaped wristlets of polished steel. At such +times his intent eyes would film, as the eyes of a caged eagle +sometimes do. Sometimes, too, he would smile with the half-pensive +Castilian smile of an uncouth and corpulent Cervantes. +</P> + +<P> +But as a rule his face was expressionless. About the entire moss-green +figure seemed something faded and futile, like a street-lamp left +burning after sunrise. At other times, as the patrolman on the beat +sauntered by in his authoritative blue stippled with its metal buttons, +the old peddler's watching eyes would wander wistfully after the +nonchalant figure. At such times a meditative and melancholy +intentness would fix itself on the faded old face, and the stooping old +shoulders would even unconsciously heave with a sigh. +</P> + +<P> +As a rule, however, the great green-clad figure with its fringe of +white hair—the fringe that stood blithely out from the faded hat brim +like the halo of some medieval saint on a missal—did not permit his +gaze to wander so far afield. +</P> + +<P> +For, idle as that figure seemed, the brain behind it was forever +active, forever vigilant and alert. The deep-set eyes under their lids +that hung as loose as old parchment were always fixed on the life that +flowed past them. No face, as those eyes opened and closed like the +gills of a dying fish, escaped their inspection. Every man who came +within their range of vision was duly examined and adjudicated. Every +human atom of that forever ebbing and flowing tide of life had to pass +through an invisible screen of inspection, had in some intangible way +to justify itself as it proceeded on its unknown movement towards an +unknown end. And on the loose-skinned and haggard face, had it been +studied closely enough, could have been seen a vague and wistful note +of expectancy, a guarded and muffled sense of anticipation. +</P> + +<P> +Yet to-day, as on all other days, nobody stopped to study the old +cement-seller's face. The pink-cheeked young patrolman, swinging back +on his beat, tattooed with his ash night-stick on the gas-pipe frame +and peered indifferently down at the battered and gibbeted crockery. +</P> + +<P> +"Hello, Batty," he said as he set the exhibit oscillating with a push +of the knee. "How 's business?" +</P> + +<P> +"Pretty good," answered the patient and guttural voice. But the eyes +that seemed as calm as a cow's eyes did not look at the patrolman as he +spoke. +</P> + +<P> +He had nothing to fear. He knew that he had his license. He knew that +under the faded green of his overcoat was an oval-shaped +street-peddler's badge. He also knew, which the patrolman did not, +that under the lapel of his inner coat was a badge of another shape and +design, the badge which season by season the indulgent new head of the +Detective Bureau extended to him with his further privilege of a +special officer's license. For this empty honor "Batty" Blake—for as +"Batty" he was known to nearly all the cities of America—did an +occasional bit of "stooling" for the Central Office, a tip as to a +stray yeggman's return, a hint as to a "peterman's" activities in the +shopping crowds, a whisper that a till tapper had failed to respect the +Department's dead-lines. +</P> + +<P> +Yet nobody took Batty Blake seriously. It was said, indeed, that once, +in the old regime, he had been a big man in the Department. But that +Department had known many changes, and where life is unduly active, +memory is apt to be unduly short. +</P> + +<P> +The patrolman tapping on the gas-pipe arch with his idle night-stick +merely knew that Batty was placid and inoffensive, that he never +obstructed traffic and always carried a license-badge. He knew that in +damp weather Batty limped and confessed that his leg pained him a bit, +from an old hurt he 'd had in the East. And he had heard somewhere +that Batty was a sort of Wandering Jew, patroling the whole length of +the continent with his broken plates and his gas-pipe frame and his +glue-bottles, migrating restlessly from city to city, striking out as +far west as San Francisco, swinging round by Denver and New Orleans and +then working his way northward again up to St. Louis and Chicago and +Pittsburgh. +</P> + +<P> +Remembering these things the idle young "flatty" turned and looked at +the green-coated and sunken-shouldered figure, touched into some rough +pity by the wordless pathos of an existence which seemed without aim or +reason. +</P> + +<P> +"Batty, how long 're yuh going to peddle glue, anyway?" he suddenly +asked. +</P> + +<P> +The glue-peddler, watching the crowds that drifted by him, did not +answer. He did not even look about at his interrogator. +</P> + +<P> +"D' yuh <I>have</I> to do this?" asked the wide-shouldered youth in uniform. +</P> + +<P> +"No," was the peddler's mild yet guttural response. +</P> + +<P> +The other prodded with his night-stick against the capacious overcoat +pockets. Then he laughed. +</P> + +<P> +"I'll bet yuh 've got about forty dollars stowed away in there," he +mocked. "Yuh have now, have n't yuh?" +</P> + +<P> +"I don' know!" listlessly answered the sunken-shouldered figure. +</P> + +<P> +"Then what 're yuh sellin' this stuff for, if it ain't for money?" +persisted the vaguely piqued youth. +</P> + +<P> +"I don' know!" was the apathetic answer. +</P> + +<P> +"Then who does?" inquired the indolent young officer, as he stood +humming and rocking on his heels and swinging his stick by its +wrist-thong. +</P> + +<P> +The man known as Batty may or may not have been about to answer him. +His lips moved, but no sound came from them. His attention, +apparently, was suddenly directed elsewhere. For approaching him from +the east his eyes had made out the familiar figure of old McCooey, the +oldest plain-clothes man who still came out from Headquarters to "pound +the pavement." +</P> + +<P> +And at almost the same time, approaching him from the west, he had +caught sight of another figure. +</P> + +<P> +It was that of a dapper and thin-faced man who might have been anywhere +from forty to sixty years of age. He walked, however, with a quick and +nervous step. Yet the most remarkable thing about him seemed to be his +eyes. They were wide-set and protuberant, like a bird's, as though +years of being hunted had equipped him with the animal-like faculty of +determining without actually looking back just who might be following +him. +</P> + +<P> +Those alert and wide-set eyes, in fact, must have sighted McCooey at +the same time that he fell under the vision of the old cement seller. +For the dapper figure wheeled quietly and quickly about and stooped +down at the very side of the humming patrolman. He stooped and +examined one of the peddler's many-fractured china plates. He squinted +down at it as though it were a thing of intense interest to him. +</P> + +<P> +As he stooped there the humming patrolman was the witness of a +remarkable and inexplicable occurrence. From the throat of the +huge-shouldered peddler, not two paces away from him, he heard come a +hoarse and brutish cry, a cry strangely like the bawl and groan of a +branded range-cow. At the same moment the gigantic green-draped figure +exploded into sudden activity. He seemed to catapult out at the +stooping dapper figure, bearing it to the sidewalk with the sheer +weight of his unprovoked assault. +</P> + +<P> +There the struggle continued. There the two strangely diverse bodies +twisted and panted and writhed. There the startlingly agile dapper +figure struggled to throw off his captor. The arch of gas-pipe went +over. Glue-bottles showered amid the shattered glass and crockery. +But that once placid-eyed old cement seller struck to the unoffending +man he had so promptly and so gratuitously attacked, stuck to him as +though he had been glued there with his own cement. And before the +patrolman could tug the combatants apart, or even wedge an arm into the +fight, the exulting green-coated figure had his enemy on his back along +the curb, and, reaching down into his capacious pocket, drew out two +oddly shaped steel wristlets. Forcing up his captive's arm, he +promptly snapped one steel wring on his own wrist, and one on the wrist +of the still prostrate man. +</P> + +<P> +"What 're yuh tryin' to do?" demanded the amazed officer, still tugging +at the great figure holding down the smaller man. In the encounter +between those two embattled enemies had lurked an intensity of passion +which he could not understand, which seemed strangely akin to insanity +itself. +</P> + +<P> +It was only when McCooey pushed his way in through the crowd and put a +hand on his shoulder that the old cement seller slowly rose to his +feet. He was still panting and blowing. But as he lifted his face up +to the sky his body rumbled with a Jove-like sound that was not +altogether a cough of lungs overtaxed nor altogether a laugh of triumph. +</P> + +<P> +"I got him!" he gasped. +</P> + +<P> +About his once placid old eyes, which the hardened tear-ducts no longer +seemed able to drain of their moisture, was a look of exultation that +made the gathering street-crowd take him for a panhandler gone mad with +hunger. +</P> + +<P> +"Yuh got <I>who</I>?" cried the indignant young officer, wheeling the bigger +man about on his feet. As the cement seller, responding to that tug, +pivoted about, it was noticeable that the man to whom his wrist was +locked by the band of steel duly duplicated the movement. He moved +when the other moved; he drew aside when the other drew aside, as +though they were now two parts of one organism. +</P> + +<P> +"I got him!" calmly repeated the old street-peddler. +</P> + +<P> +"Yuh got <I>who</I>?" demanded the still puzzled young patrolman, oblivious +of the quiescent light in the bewildered eyes of McCooey, close beside +him. +</P> + +<P> +"Binhart!" answered Never-Fail Blake, with a sob. "<I>I 've got +Binhart</I>!" +</P> + +<BR><BR><BR><BR> + +<hr class="full" noshade> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEVER-FAIL BLAKE***</p> +<p>******* This file should be named 18671-h.txt or 18671-h.zip *******</p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/6/7/18671">http://www.gutenberg.org/1/8/6/7/18671</a></p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed.</p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Never-Fail Blake + + +Author: Arthur Stringer + + + +Release Date: June 23, 2006 [eBook #18671] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEVER-FAIL BLAKE*** + + +E-text pepared by Al Haines + + + +Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this + file which includes the original illustration. + See 18671-h.htm or 18671-h.zip: + (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/6/7/18671/18671-h/18671-h.htm) + or + (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/6/7/18671/18671-h.zip) + + +Transcriber's note: + + The printed version of this book had two Chapter V's. + Rather than renumber all the subsequent chapters in the + book, I numbered the first "V" to "V (a)" and the second + one to "V (b)". + + + + + +Supertales of Modern Mystery + +NEVER-FAIL BLAKE + +by + +ARTHUR STRINGER + + + + + + + +[Frontispiece: "Then why can't you marry me?"] + + + +Mckinlay, Stone & Mackenzie +New York +Copyright, 1913, by +The Bobbs-Merrill Company + + + + + +NEVER-FAIL BLAKE + + +I + +Blake, the Second Deputy, raised his gloomy hound's eyes as the door +opened and a woman stepped in. Then he dropped them again. + +"Hello, Elsie!" he said, without looking at her. + +The woman stood a moment staring at him. Then she advanced +thoughtfully toward his table desk. + +"Hello, Jim!" she answered, as she sank into the empty chair at the +desk end. The rustling of silk suddenly ceased. An aphrodisiac odor +of ambergris crept through the Deputy-Commissioner's office. + +The woman looped up her veil, festooning it about the undulatory roll +of her hat brim. Blake continued his solemnly preoccupied study of the +desk top. + +"You sent for me," the woman finally said. It was more a reminder than +a question. And the voice, for all its quietness, carried no sense of +timidity. The woman's pale face, where the undulating hat brim left +the shadowy eyes still more shadowy, seemed fortified with a calm sense +of power. It was something more than a dormant consciousness of +beauty, though the knowledge that men would turn back to a face so +wistful as hers, and their judgment could be dulled by a smile so +narcotizing, had not a little to do with the woman's achieved serenity. +There was nothing outwardly sinister about her. This fact had always +left her doubly dangerous as a law-breaker. + +Blake himself, for all his dewlap and his two hundred pounds of +lethargic beefiness, felt a vague and inward stirring as he finally +lifted his head and looked at her. He looked into the shadowy eyes +under the level brows. He could see, as he had seen before, that they +were exceptional eyes, with iris rings of deep gray about the +ever-widening and ever-narrowing pupils which varied with varying +thought, as though set too close to the brain that controlled them. So +dominating was this pupil that sometimes the whole eye looked violet, +and sometimes green, according to the light. + +Then his glance strayed to the woman's mouth, where the upper lip +curved outward, from the base of the straight nose, giving her at first +glance the appearance of pouting. Yet the heavier underlip, soft and +wilful, contradicted this impression of peevishness, deepened it into +one of Ishmael-like rebellion. + +Then Blake looked at the woman's hair. It was abundant and nut-brown, +and artfully and scrupulously interwoven and twisted together. It +seemed to stand the solitary pride of a life claiming few things of +which to be proud. Blake remembered how that wealth of nut-brown hair +was daily plaited and treasured and coiled and cared for, the +meticulous attentiveness with which morning by morning its hip-reaching +abundance was braided and twisted and built up about the small head, an +intricate structure of soft wonder which midnight must ever see again +in ruins, just as the next morning would find idly laborious fingers +rebuilding its ephemeral glories. This rebuilding was done +thoughtfully and calmly, as though it were a religious rite, as though +it were a sacrificial devotion to an ideal in a life tragically forlorn +of beauty. + +He remembered, too, the day when he had first seen her. That was at +the time of "The Sick Millionaire" case, when he had first learned of +her association with Binhart. She had posed at the Waldorf as a +trained nurse, in that case, and had met him and held him off and +outwitted him at every turn. Then he had decided on his "plant." To +effect this he had whisked a young Italian with a lacerated thumb up +from the City Hospital and sent him in to her as an injured +elevator-boy looking for first-aid treatment. One glimpse of her work +on that thumb showed her to be betrayingly ignorant of both +figure-of-eight and spica bandaging, and Blake, finally satisfied as to +the imposture, carried on his investigation, showed "Doctor Callahan" +to be Connie Binhart, the con-man and bank thief, and sent the two +adventurers scurrying away to shelter. + +He remembered, too, how seven months after that first meeting Stimson +of the Central Office had brought her to Headquarters, fresh from +Paris, involved in some undecipherable way in an Aix-les-Bains diamond +robbery. The despatches had given his office very little to work on, +and she had smiled at his thunderous grillings and defied his noisy +threats. But as she sat there before him, chic and guarded, with her +girlishly frail body so arrogantly well gowned, she had in some way +touched his lethargic imagination. She showed herself to be of finer +and keener fiber than the sordid demireps with whom he had to do. +Shimmering and saucy and debonair as a polo pony, she had seemed a +departure from type, something above the meretricious termagants round +whom he so often had to weave his accusatory webs of evidence. + +Then, the following autumn, she was still again mysteriously involved +in the Sheldon wire-tapping coup. This Montreal banker named Sheldon, +from whom nearly two hundred thousand dollars had been wrested, put a +bullet through his head rather than go home disgraced, and she had +straightway been brought down to Blake, for, until the autopsy and the +production of her dupe's letters, Sheldon's death had been looked upon +as a murder. + +Blake had locked himself in with the white-faced Miss Elsie Verriner, +alias Chaddy Cravath, alias Charlotte Carruthers, and for three long +hours he had pitted his dynamic brute force against her flashing and +snake-like evasiveness. He had pounded her with the artillery of his +inhumanities. He had beleaguered her with explosive brutishness. He +had bulldozed and harried her into frantic weariness. He had +third-degreed her into cowering and trembling indignation, into hectic +mental uncertainties. Then, with the fatigue point well passed, he had +marshaled the last of his own animal strength and essayed the final +blasphemous Vesuvian onslaught that brought about the nervous +breakdown, the ultimate collapse. She had wept, then, the blubbering, +loose-lipped, abandoned weeping of hysteria. She had stumbled forward +and caught at his arm and clung to it, as though it were her last +earthly pillar of support. Her huge plaited ropes of hair had fallen +down, thick brown ropes longer than his own arms, and he, breathing +hard, had sat back and watched them as she wept. + +But Blake was neither analytical nor introspective. How it came about +he never quite knew. He felt, after his blind and inarticulate +fashion, that this scene of theirs, that this official assault and +surrender, was in some way associated with the climacteric transports +of camp-meeting evangelism, that it involved strange nerve-centers +touched on in rhapsodic religions, that it might even resemble the +final emotional surrender of reluctant love itself to the first +aggressive tides of passion. What it was based on, what it arose from, +he could not say. But in the flood-tide of his own tumultuous conquest +he had watched her abandoned weeping and her tumbled brown hair. And +as he watched, a vague and troubling tingle sped like a fuse-sputter +along his limbs, and fired something dormant and dangerous in the great +hulk of a body which had never before been stirred by its explosion of +emotion. It was not pity, he knew; for pity was something quite +foreign to his nature. Yet as she lay back, limp and forlorn against +his shoulder, sobbing weakly out that she wanted to be a good woman, +that she could be honest if they would only give her a chance, he felt +that thus to hold her, to shield her, was something desirable. + +She had stared, weary and wide-eyed, as his head had bent closer down +over hers. She had drooped back, bewildered and unresponsive, as his +heavy lips had closed on hers that were still wet and salty with tears. +When she had left the office, at the end of that strange hour, she had +gone with the promise of his protection. + +The sobering light of day, with its cynic relapse to actualities, might +have left that promise a worthless one, had not the prompt evidence of +Sheldon's suicide come to hand. This made Blake's task easier than he +had expected. The movement against Elsie Verriner was "smothered" at +Headquarters. Two days later she met Blake by appointment. That day, +for the first time in his life, he gave flowers to a woman. + +Two weeks later he startled her with the declaration that he wanted to +marry her. He did n't care about her past. She 'd been dragged into +the things she 'd done without understanding them, at first, and she 'd +kept on because there 'd been no one to help her away from them. He +knew he could do it. She had a fine streak in her, and he wanted to +bring it out! + +A little frightened, she tried to explain that she was not the marrying +kind. Then, brick-red and bull-necked, he tried to tell her in his +groping Celtic way that he wanted children, that she meant a lot to +him, that he was going to try to make her the happiest woman south of +Harlem. + +This had brought into her face a quick and dangerous light which he +found hard to explain. He could see that she was flattered by what he +had said, that his words had made her waywardly happy, that for a +moment, in fact, she had been swept off her feet. + +Then dark afterthought interposed. It crept like a cloud across her +abandoned face. It brought about a change so prompt that it disturbed +the Second Deputy. + +"You 're--you 're not tied up already, are you?" he had hesitatingly +demanded. "You 're not married?" + +"No, I 'm not tied up!" she had promptly and fiercely responded. "My +life 's my own--my own!" + +"Then why can't you marry me?" the practical-minded man had asked. + +"I could!" she had retorted, with the same fierceness as before. Then +she had stood looking at him out of wistful and unhappy eyes. "I +could--if you only understood, if you could only help me the way I want +to be helped!" + +She had clung to his arm with a tragic forlornness that seemed to leave +her very wan and helpless. And he had found it ineffably sweet to +enfold that warm mass of wan helplessness in his own virile strength. + +She asked for time, and he was glad to consent to the delay, so long as +it did not keep him from seeing her. In matters of the emotions he was +still as uninitiated as a child. He found himself a little dazed by +the seemingly accidental tenderness, by the promises of devotion, in +which she proved so lavish. Morning by jocund morning he built up his +airy dreams, as carefully as she built up her nut-brown plaits. He +grew heavily light-headed with his plans for the future. When she +pleaded with him never to leave her, never to trust her too much, he +patted her thin cheek and asked when she was going to name the day. +From that finality she still edged away, as though her happiness itself +were only experimental, as though she expected the blue sky above them +to deliver itself of a bolt. + +But by this time she had become a habit with him. He liked her even in +her moodiest moments. When, one day, she suggested that they go away +together, anywhere so long as it was away, he merely laughed at her +childishness. + +It was, in fact, Blake himself who went away. After nine weeks of +alternating suspense and happiness that seemed nine weeks of +inebriation to him, he was called out of the city to complete the +investigation on a series of iron-workers' dynamite outrages. Daily he +wrote or wired back to her. But he was kept away longer than he had +expected. When he returned to New York she was no longer there. She +had disappeared as completely as though an asphalted avenue had opened +and swallowed her up. It was not until the following winter that he +learned she was again with Connie Binhart, in southern Europe. + +He had known his one belated love affair. It had left no scar, he +claimed, because it had made no wound. Binhart, he consoled himself, +had held the woman in his power: there had been no defeat because there +had been no actual conquest. And now he could face her without an +eye-blink of conscious embarrassment. Yet it was good to remember that +Connie Binhart was going to be ground in the wheels of the law, and +ground fine, and ground to a finish. + +"What did you want me for, Jim?" the woman was again asking him. She +spoke with an intimate directness, and yet in her attitude were subtle +reservations, a consciousness of the thin ice on which they both stood. +Each saw, only too plainly, the need for great care, in every step. In +each lay the power to uncover, at a hand's turn, old mistakes that were +best unremembered. Yet there was a certain suave audacity about the +woman. She was not really afraid of Blake, and the Second Deputy had +to recognize that fact. This self-assurance of hers he attributed to +the recollection that she had once brought about his personal +subjugation, "got his goat," as he had phrased it. She, woman-like, +would never forget it. + +"There 's a man I want. And Schmittenberg tells me you know where he +is." Blake, as he spoke, continued to look heavily down at his desk +top. + +"Yes?" she answered cautiously, watching herself as carefully as an +actress with a role to sustain, a role in which she could never quite +letter-perfect. + +"It's Connie Binhart," cut out the Second Deputy. + +He could see discretion drop like a curtain across her watching face. + +"Connie Binhart!" she temporized. Blake, as his heavy side glance +slewed about to her, prided himself on the fact that he could see +through her pretenses. At any other time he would have thrown open the +flood-gates of that ever-inundating anger of his and swept away all +such obliquities. + +"I guess," he went on with slow patience "we know him best round here +as Charles Blanchard." + +"Blanchard?" she echoed. + +"Yes, Blanchard, the Blanchard we 've been looking for, for seven +months now, the Blanchard who chloroformed Ezra Newcomb and carried off +a hundred and eighteen thousand dollars." + +"Newcomb?" again meditated the woman. + +"The Blanchard who shot down the bank detective in Newcomb's room when +the rest of the bank was listening to a German band playing in the side +street, a band hired for the occasion." + +"When was that?" demanded the woman. + +"That was last October," he answered with a sing-song weariness +suggestive of impatience at such supererogative explanations. + +"I was at Monte Carlo all last autumn," was the woman's quick retort. + +Blake moved his heavy body, as though to shoulder away any claim as to +her complicity. + +"I know that," he acknowledged. "And you went north to Paris on the +twenty-ninth of November. And on the third of December you went to +Cherbourg; and on the ninth you landed in New York. I know all that. +That's not what I 'm after. I want to know where Connie Binhart is, +now, to-day." + +Their glances at last came together. No move was made; no word was +spoken. But a contest took place. + +"Why ask _me_?" repeated the woman for the second time. It was only +too plain that she was fencing. + +"Because you _know_," was Blake's curt retort. He let the gray-irised +eyes drink in the full cup of his determination. Some slowly +accumulating consciousness of his power seemed to intimidate her. He +could detect a change in her hearing, in her speech itself. + +"Jim, I can't tell you," she slowly asserted. "I can't do it!" + +"But I 've got 'o know," he stubbornly maintained. "And I 'm going to." + +She sat studying him for a minute or two. Her face had lost its +earlier arrogance. It seemed troubled; almost touched with fear. She +was not altogether ignorant, he reminded himself, of the resources +which he could command. + +"I can't tell you," she repeated. "I'd rather you let me go." + +The Second Deputy's smile, scoffing and melancholy, showed how utterly +he ignored her answer. He looked at his watch. Then he looked back at +the woman. A nervous tug-of-war was taking place between her right and +left hand, with a twisted-up pair of ecru gloves for the cable. + +"You know me," he began again in his deliberate and abdominal bass. +"And I know you. I 've got 'o get this man Binhart. I 've got 'o! He +'s been out for seven months, now, and they 're going to put it up to +me, to _me_, personally. Copeland tried to get him without me. He +fell down on it. They all fell down on it. And now they're going to +throw the case back on me. They think it 'll be my Waterloo." + +He laughed. His laugh was as mirthless as the cackle of a guinea hen. +"But I 'm going to die hard, believe me! And if I go down, if they +think they can throw me on that, I 'm going to take a few of my friends +along with me." + +"Is that a threat?" was the woman's quick inquiry. Her eyes narrowed +again, for she had long since learned, and learned it to her sorrow, +that every breath he drew was a breath of self-interest. + +"No; it's just a plain statement." He slewed about in his swivel +chair, throwing one thick leg over the other as he did so. "I hate to +holler Auburn at a girl like you, Elsie; but I 'm going--" + +"Auburn?" she repeated very quietly. Then she raised her eyes to his. +"Can you say a thing like that to me, Jim?" + +He shifted a little in his chair. But he met her gaze without a wince. + +"This is business, Elsie, and you can't mix business and--and other +things," he tailed off at last, dropping his eyes. + +"I 'm sorry you put it that way," she said. "I hoped we 'd be better +friends than that!" + +"I'm not counting on friendship in this!" he retorted. + +"But it might have been better, even in this!" she said. And the +artful look of pity on her face angered him. + +"Well, we 'll begin on something nearer home!" he cried. + +He reached down into his pocket and produced a small tinted oblong of +paper. He held it, face out, between his thumb and forefinger, so that +she could read it. + +"This Steinert check 'll do the trick. Take a closer look at the +signature. Do you get it?" + +"What about it?" she asked, without a tremor. + +He restored the check to his wallet and the wallet to his pocket. She +would find it impossible to outdo him in the matter of impassivity. + +"I may or I may not know who forged that check. I don't _want_ to +know. And when you tell me where Binhart is, I _won't_ know." + +"That check was n't forged," contended the quiet-eyed woman. + +"Steinert will swear it was," declared the Second Deputy. + +She sat without speaking, apparently in deep study. Her intent face +showed no fear, no bewilderment, no actual emotion of any kind. + +"You 've got 'o face it," said Blake, sitting back and waiting for her +to speak. His attitude was that of a physician at a bedside, awaiting +the prescribed opiate to produce its prescribed effect. + +"Will I be dragged into this case, in any way, if Binhart is rounded +up?" the woman finally asked. + +"Not once," he asserted. + +"You promise me that?" + +"Of course," answered the Second Deputy. + +"And you 'll let me alone on--on the other things?" she calmly exacted. + +"Yes," he promptly acknowledged. "I 'll see that you 're let alone." + +Again she looked at him with her veiled and judicial eyes. Then she +dropped her hands into her lap. The gesture seemed one of resignation. + +"Binhart's in Montreal," she said. + +Blake, keeping his face well under control, waited for her to go on. + +"He 's been in Montreal for weeks now. You 'll find him at 381 King +Edward Avenue, in Westmount. He 's there, posing as an expert +accountant." + +She saw the quick shadow of doubt, the eye-flash of indecision. So she +reached quietly down and opened her pocket-book, rummaging through its +contents for a moment or two. Then she handed Blake a folded envelope. + +"You know his writing?" she asked. + +"I 've seen enough of it," he retorted, as he examined the typewritten +envelope post-marked "Montreal, Que." Then he drew out the inner +sheet. On it, written by pen, he read the message: "Come to 381 King +Edward when the coast is clear," and below this the initials "C. B." + +Blake, with the writing still before his eyes, opened a desk drawer and +took out a large reading-glass. Through the lens of this he again +studied the inscription, word by word. Then he turned to the office +'phone on his desk. + +"Nolan," he said into the receiver, "I want to know if there 's a King +Edward Avenue in Montreal." + +He sat there waiting, still regarding the handwriting with stolidly +reproving eyes. There was no doubt of its authenticity. He would have +known it at a glance. + +"Yes, sir," came the answer over the wire. "It's one of the newer +avenues in Westmount." + +Blake, still wrapped in thought, hung up the receiver. The woman +facing him did not seem to resent his possible imputation of +dishonesty. To be suspicious of all with whom he came in contact was +imposed on him by his profession. He was compelled to watch even his +associates, his operatives and underlings, his friends as well as his +enemies. Life, with him, was a concerto of skepticisms. + +She was able to watch him, without emotion, as he again bent forward, +took up the 'phone receiver, and this time spoke apparently to another +office. + +"I want you to wire Teal to get a man out to cover 381 King Edward +Avenue, in Montreal. Yes, Montreal. Tell him to get a man out there +inside of an hour, and put a night watch on until I relieve 'em." + +Then, breathing heavily, he bent over his desk, wrote a short message +on a form pad and pushed the buzzer-button with his thick finger. He +carefully folded up the piece of paper as he waited. + +"Get that off to Carpenter in Montreal right away," he said to the +attendant who answered his call. Then he swung about in his chair, +with a throaty grunt of content. He sat for a moment, staring at the +woman with unseeing eyes. Then he stood up. With his hands thrust +deep in his pockets he slowly moved his head back and forth, as though +assenting to some unuttered question. + +"Elsie, you 're all right," he acknowledged with his solemn and +unimaginative impassivity. "You 're all right." + +Her quiet gaze, with all its reservations, was a tacit question. He +was still a little puzzled by her surrender. He knew she did not +regard him as the great man that he was, that his public career had +made of him. + +"You've helped me out of a hole," he acknowledged as he faced her +interrogating eyes with his one-sided smile. "I 'm mighty glad you 've +done it, Elsie--for your sake as well as mine." + +"What hole?" asked the woman, wearily drawing on her gloves. There was +neither open contempt nor indifference on her face. Yet something in +her bearing nettled him. The quietness of her question contrasted +strangely with the gruffness of the Second Deputy's voice as he +answered her. + +"Oh, they think I 'm a has-been round here," he snorted. "They 've got +the idea I 'm out o' date. And I 'm going to show 'em a thing or two +to wake 'em up." + +"How?" asked the woman. + +"By doing what their whole kid-glove gang have n't been able to do," he +avowed. And having delivered himself of that ultimatum, he promptly +relaxed into his old-time impassiveness, like a dog snapping from his +kennel and shrinking back into its shadows. At the same moment that +Blake's thick forefinger again prodded the buzzer-button at his desk +end the watching woman could see the relapse into official wariness. +It was as though he had put the shutters up in front of his soul. She +accepted the movement as a signal of dismissal. She rose from her +chair and quietly lowered and adjusted her veil. Yet through that +lowered veil she stood looking down at Never-Fail Blake for a moment or +two. She looked at him with grave yet casual curiosity, as tourists +look at a ruin that has been pointed out to them as historic. + +"You did n't give me back Connie Binhart's note," she reminded him as +she paused with her gloved finger-tips resting on the desk edge. + +"D' you want it?" he queried with simulated indifference, as he made a +final and lingering study of it. + +"I 'd like to keep it," she acknowledged. When, without meeting her +eyes, he handed it over to her, she folded it and restored it to her +pocket-book, carefully, as though vast things depended on that small +scrap of paper. + +Never-Fail Blake, alone in his office and still assailed by the vaguely +disturbing perfumes which she had left behind her, pondered her reasons +for taking back Binhart's scrap of paper. He wondered if she had at +any time actually cared for Binhart. He wondered if she was capable of +caring for anybody. And this problem took his thoughts back to the +time when so much might have depended on its answer. + +The Second Deputy dropped his reading-glass in its drawer and slammed +it shut. It made no difference, he assured himself, one way or the +other. And in the consolatory moments of a sudden new triumph +Never-Fail Blake let his thoughts wander pleasantly back over that long +life which (and of this he was now comfortably conscious) his next +official move was about to redeem. + + + + +II + +It was as a Milwaukee newsboy, at the age of twelve, that "Jimmie" +Blake first found himself in any way associated with that arm of +constituted authority known as the police force. A plain-clothes man, +on that occasion, had given him a two-dollar bill to carry about an +armful of evening papers and at the same time "tail" an itinerant +pickpocket. The fortifying knowledge, two years later, that the Law +was behind him when he was pushed happy and tingling through a transom +to release the door-lock for a house-detective, was perhaps a +foreshadowing of that pride which later welled up in his bosom at the +phrase that he would always "have United Decency behind him," as the +social purifiers fell into the habit of putting it. + +At nineteen, as a "checker" at the Upper Kalumet Collieries, Blake had +learned to remember faces. Slavic or Magyar, Swedish or Calabrian, +from that daily line of over two hundred he could always pick his face +and correctly call the name. His post meant a life of indolence and +petty authority. His earlier work as a steamfitter had been more +profitable. Yet at that work he had been a menial; it involved no +transom-born thrills, no street-corner tailer's suspense. As a checker +he was at least the master of other men. + +His public career had actually begun as a strike breaker. The monotony +of night-watchman service, followed by a year as a drummer for an +Eastern firearm firm, and another year as an inspector for a +Pennsylvania powder factory, had infected him with the _wanderlust_ of +his kind. It was in Chicago, on a raw day of late November, with a +lake wind whipping the street dust into his eyes, that he had seen the +huge canvas sign of a hiring agency's office, slapping in the storm. +This sign had said: + +"MEN WANTED." + +Being twenty-six and adventurous and out of a job, he had drifted in +with the rest of earth's undesirables and asked for work. + +After twenty minutes of private coaching in the mysteries of railway +signals, he had been "passed" by the desk examiner and sent out as one +of the "scab" train crew to move perishable freight, for the Wisconsin +Central was then in the throes of its first great strike. And he had +gone out as a green brakeman, but he had come back as a hero, with a +_Tribune_ reporter posing him against a furniture car for a two-column +photo. For the strikers had stoned his train, half killed the "scab" +fireman, stalled him in the yards and cut off two thirds of his cars +and shot out the cab-windows for full measure. But in the cab with an +Irish engine-driver named O'Hagan, Blake had backed down through the +yards again, picked up his train, crept up over the tender and along +the car tops, recoupled his cars, fought his way back to the engine, +and there, with the ecstatic O'Hagan at his side, had hurled back the +last of the strikers trying to storm his engine steps. He even fell to +"firing" as the yodeling O'Hagan got his train moving again, and then, +perched on the tender coal, took pot-shots with his brand-new revolver +at a last pair of strikers who were attempting to manipulate the +hand-brakes. + +That had been the first train to get out of the yards in seven days. +Through a godlike disregard of signals, it is true, they had run into +an open switch, some twenty-eight miles up the line, but they had moved +their freight and won their point. + +Blake, two weeks later, had made himself further valuable to that +hiring agency, not above subornation of perjury, by testifying in a +court of law to the sobriety of a passenger crew who had been carried +drunk from their scab-manned train. So naively dogged was he in his +stand, so quick was he in his retorts, that the agency, when the strike +ended by a compromise ten days later, took him on as one of their own +operatives. + +Thus James Blake became a private detective. He was at first +disappointed in the work. It seemed, at first, little better than his +old job as watchman and checker. But the agency, after giving him a +three-week try out at picket work, submitted him to the further test of +a "shadowing" case. That first assignment of "tailing" kept him +thirty-six hours without sleep, but he stuck to his trail, stuck to it +with the blind pertinacity of a bloodhound, and at the end transcended +mere animalism by buying a tip from a friendly bartender. Then, when +the moment was ripe, he walked into the designated hop-joint and picked +his man out of an underground bunk as impassively as a grocer takes an +egg crate from a cellar shelf. + +After his initial baptism of fire in the Wisconsin Central railway +yards, however, Blake yearned for something more exciting, for +something more sensational. His hopes rose, when, a month later, he +was put on "track" work. He was at heart fond of both a good horse and +a good heat. He liked the open air and the stir and movement and color +of the grand-stand crowds. He liked the "ponies" with the sunlight on +their satin flanks, the music of the band, the gaily appareled women. +He liked, too, the off-hand deference of the men about him, from +turnstile to betting shed, once his calling was known. They were all +ready to curry favor with him, touts and rail-birds, dockers and +owners, jockeys and gamblers and bookmakers, placating him with an +occasional "sure-thing" tip from the stables, plying him with cigars +and advice as to how he should place his money. There was a tacit +understanding, of course, that in return for these courtesies his +vision was not to be too keen nor his manner too aggressive. When he +was approached by an expert "dip" with the offer of a fat reward for +immunity in working the track crowds, Blake carefully weighed the +matter, pro and con, equivocated, and decided he would gain most by a +"fall." So he planted a barber's assistant with whom he was friendly, +descended on the pickpocket in the very act of going through that +bay-rum scented youth's pocket, and secured a conviction that brought a +letter of thanks from the club stewards and a word or two of approval +from his head office. + +That head office, seeing that they had a man to be reckoned with, +transferred Blake to their Eastern division, with headquarters at New +York, where new men and new faces were at the moment badly needed. + +They worked him hard, in that new division, but he never objected. He +was sober; he was dependable; and he was dogged with the doggedness of +the unimaginative. He wanted to get on, to make good, to be more than +a mere "operative." And if his initial assignments gave him little but +"rough-neck" work to do, he did it without audible complaint. He did +bodyguard service, he handled strike breakers, he rounded up +freight-car thieves, he was given occasionally "spot" and "tailing" +work to do. Once, after a week of upholstered hotel lounging on a +divorce case he was sent out on night detail to fight river pirates +stealing from the coal-road barges. + +In the meantime, being eager and unsatisfied, he studied his city. +Laboriously and patiently he made himself acquainted with the ways of +the underworld. He saw that all his future depended upon +acquaintanceship with criminals, not only with their faces, but with +their ways and their women and their weaknesses. So he started a +gallery, a gallery of his own, a large and crowded gallery between +walls no wider than the bones of his own skull. To this jealously +guarded and ponderously sorted gallery he day by day added some new +face, some new scene, some new name. Crook by crook he stored them +away there, for future reference. He got to know the "habituals" and +the "timers," the "gangs" and their "hang outs" and "fences." He +acquired an array of confidence men and hotel beats and queer shovers +and bank sneaks and wire tappers and drum snuffers. He made a mental +record of dips and yeggs and till-tappers and keister-crackers, of +panhandlers and dummy chuckers, of sun gazers and schlaum workers. He +slowly became acquainted with their routes and their rendezvous, their +tricks and ways and records. But, what was more important, he also +grew into an acquaintanceship with ward politics, with the nameless +Power above him and its enigmatic traditions. He got to know the +Tammany heelers, the men with "pull," the lads who were to be "pounded" +and the lads who were to be let alone, the men in touch with the +"Senator," and the gangs with the fall money always at hand. + +Blake, in those days, was a good "mixer." He was not an "office" man, +and was never dubbed high-brow. He was not above his work; no one +accused him of being too refined for his calling. Through a mind such +as his the Law could best view the criminal, just as a solar eclipse is +best viewed through smoked glass. + +He could hobnob with bartenders and red-lighters, pass unnoticed +through a slum, join casually in a stuss game, or loaf unmarked about a +street corner. He was fond of pool and billiards, and many were the +unconsidered trifles he picked up with a cue in his hand. His face, +even in those early days, was heavy and inoffensive. Commonplace +seemed to be the word that fitted him. He could always mix with and +become one of the crowd. He would have laughed at any such foolish +phrase as "protective coloration." Yet seldom, he knew, men turned +back to look at him a second time. Small-eyed, beefy and well-fed, he +could have passed, under his slightly tilted black boulder, as a truck +driver with a day off. + +What others might have denominated as "dirty work" he accepted with +heavy impassivity, consoling himself with the contention that its final +end was cleanness. And one of his most valuable assets, outside his +stolid heartlessness, was his speaking acquaintanceship with the women +of the underworld. He remained aloof from them even while he mixed +with them. He never grew into a "moll-buzzer." But in his rough way +he cultivated them. He even helped some of them out of their +troubles--in consideration for "tips" which were to be delivered when +the emergency arose. They accepted his gruffness as simple-mindedness, +as blunt honesty. One or two, with their morbid imaginations touched +by his seeming generosities, made wistful amatory advances which he +promptly repelled. He could afford to have none of them with anything +"on" him. He saw the need of keeping cool headed and clean handed, +with an eye always to the main issue. + +And Blake really regarded himself as clean handed. Yet deep in his +nature was that obliquity, that adeptness at trickery, that facility in +deceit, which made him the success he was. He could always meet a +crook on his own ground. He had no extraneous sensibilities to +eliminate. He mastered a secret process of opening and reading letters +without detection. He became an adept at picking a lock. One of his +earlier successes had depended on the cool dexterity with which he had +exchanged trunk checks in a Wabash baggage car at Black Rock, allowing +the "loft" thief under suspicion to carry off a dummy trunk, while he +came into possession of another's belongings and enough evidence to +secure his victim's conviction. + +At another time, when "tailing" on a badger-game case, he equipped +himself as a theatrical "bill-sniper," followed his man about without +arousing suspicion, and made liberal use of his magnetized tack-hammer +in the final mix up when he made his haul. He did not shirk these mix +ups, for he was endowed with the bravery of the unimaginative. This +very mental heaviness, holding him down to materialities, kept his +contemplation of contingencies from becoming bewildering. He enjoyed +the limitations of the men against whom he was pitted. Yet at times he +had what he called a "coppered hunch." When, in later years, an +occasional criminal of imagination became his enemy, he was often at a +loss as to how to proceed. But imaginative criminals, he knew, were +rare, and dilemmas such as these proved infrequent. Whatever his +shift, or however unsavory his resource, he never regarded himself as +on the same basis as his opponents. He had Law on his side; he was the +instrument of that great power known as Justice. + +As Blake's knowledge of New York and his work increased he was given +less and less of the "rough-neck" work to do. He proved himself, in +fact, a stolid and painstaking "investigator." As a divorce-suit +shadower he was equally resourceful and equally successful. When his +agency took over the bankers' protective work he was advanced to this +new department, where he found himself compelled to a new term of study +and a new circle of alliances. He went laboriously through records of +forgers and check raisers and counterfeiters. He took up the study of +all such gentry, sullenly yet methodically, like a backward scholar +mastering a newly imposed branch of knowledge, thumbing frowningly +through official reports, breathing heavily over portrait files and +police records, plodding determinedly through counterfeit-detector +manuals. For this book work, as he called it, he retained a +deep-seated disgust. + +The outcome of his first case, later known as the "Todaro National Ten +Case," confirmed him in this attitude. Going doggedly over the +counterfeit ten-dollar national bank note that had been given him after +two older operatives had failed in the case, he discovered the word +"Dollars" in small lettering spelt "Ddllers." Concluding that only a +foreigner would make a mistake of that nature, and knowing the activity +of certain bands of Italians in such counterfeiting efforts, he began +his slow and scrupulous search through the purlieus of the East Side. +About that search was neither movement nor romance. It was humdrum, +dogged, disheartening labor, with the gradual elimination of +possibilities and the gradual narrowing down of his field. But across +that ever-narrowing trail the accidental little clue finally fell, and +on the night of the final raid the desired plates were captured and the +notorious and long-sought Todaro rounded up. + +So successful was Blake during the following two years that the +Washington authorities, coming in touch with him through the operations +of the Secret Service, were moved to make him an offer. This offer he +stolidly considered and at last stolidly accepted. He became an +official with the weight of the Federal authority behind him. He +became an investigator with the secrets of the Bureau of Printing and +Engraving at his beck. He found himself a cog in a machinery that +seemed limitless in its ramifications. He was the agent of a vast and +centralized authority, an authority against which there could be no +opposition. But he had to school himself to the knowledge that he was +a cog, and nothing more. And two things were expected of him, +efficiency and silence. + +He found a secret pleasure, at first, in the thought of working from +under cover, in the sense of operating always in the dark, unknown and +unseen. It gave a touch of something Olympian and godlike to his +movements. But as time went by the small cloud of discontent on his +horizon grew darker, and widened as it blackened. He was avid of +something more than power. He thirsted not only for its operation, but +also for its display. He rebelled against the idea of a continually +submerged personality. He nursed a keen hunger to leave some record of +what he did or had done. He objected to it all as a conspiracy of +obliteration, objected to it as an actor would object to playing to an +empty theater. There was no one to appreciate and applaud. And an +audience was necessary. He enjoyed the unctuous salute of the +patrolman on his beat, the deferential door-holding of "office boys," +the quick attentiveness of minor operatives. But this was not enough. +He felt the normal demand to assert himself, to be known at his true +worth by both his fellow workers and the world in general. + +It was not until the occasion when he had run down a gang of +Williamsburg counterfeiters, however, that his name was conspicuously +in print. So interesting were the details of this gang's operations, +so typical were their methods, that Wilkie or some official under +Wilkie had handed over to a monthly known as _The Counterfeit Detector_ +a full account of the case. A New York paper has printed a somewhat +distorted and romanticized copy of this, having sent a woman reporter +to interview Blake--while a staff artist made a pencil drawing of the +Secret Service man during the very moments the latter was smilingly +denying them either a statement or a photograph. Blake knew that +publicity would impair his effectiveness. Some inner small voice +forewarned him that all outside recognition of his calling would take +away from his value as an agent of the Secret Service. But his hunger +for his rights as a man was stronger than his discretion as an +official. He said nothing openly; but he allowed inferences to be +drawn and the artist's pencil to put the finishing touches to the +sketch. + +It was here, too, that his slyness, his natural circuitiveness, +operated to save him. When the inevitable protest came he was able to +prove that he had said nothing and had indignantly refused a +photograph. He completely cleared himself. But the hint of an +interesting personality had been betrayed to the public, the name of a +new sleuth had gone on record, and the infection of curiosity spread +like a mulberry rash from newspaper office to newspaper office. A +representative of the press, every now and then, would drop in on +Blake, or chance to occupy the same smoking compartment with him on a +run between Washington and New York, to ply his suavest and subtlest +arts for the extraction of some final fact with which to cap an +unfinished "story." Blake, in turn, became equally subtle and suave. +His lips were sealed, but even silence, he found, could be made +illuminative. Even reticence, on occasion, could be made to serve his +personal ends. He acquired the trick of surrendering data without any +shadow of actual statement. + +These chickens, however, all came home to roost. Official recognition +was taken of Blake's tendencies, and he was assigned to those cases +where a "leak" would prove least embarrassing to the Department. He +saw this and resented it. But in the meantime he had been keeping his +eyes open and storing up in his cabinet of silence every unsavory rumor +and fact that might prove of use in the future. He found himself, in +due time, the master of an arsenal of political secrets. And when it +came to a display of power he could merit the attention if not the +respect of a startlingly wide circle of city officials. When a New +York municipal election brought a party turn over, he chose the moment +as the psychological one for a display of his power, cruising up and +down the coasts of officialdom with his grim facts in tow, for all the +world like a flagship followed by its fleet. + +It was deemed expedient for the New York authorities to "take care" of +him. A berth was made for him in the Central Office, and after a year +of laborious manipulation he found himself Third Deputy Commissioner +and a power in the land. + +If he became a figure of note, and fattened on power, he found it no +longer possible to keep as free as he wished from entangling alliances. +He had by this time learned to give and take, to choose the lesser of +two evils, to pay the ordained price for his triumphs. Occasionally +the forces of evil had to be bribed with a promise of protection. For +the surrender of dangerous plates, for example, a counterfeiter might +receive immunity, or for the turning of State's evidence a guilty man +might have to go scott free. At other times, to squeeze confession out +of a crook, a cruelty as refined as that of the Inquisition had to be +adopted. In one stubborn case the end had been achieved by depriving +the victim of sleep, this Chinese torture being kept up until the +needed nervous collapse. At another time the midnight cell of a +suspected murderer had been "set" like a stage, with all the +accessories of his crime, including even the cadaver, and when suddenly +awakened the frenzied man had shrieked out his confession. But, as a +rule, it was by imposing on his prisoner's better instincts, such as +gang-loyalty or pity for a supposedly threatened "rag," that the point +was won. In resources of this nature Blake became quite +conscienceless, salving his soul with the altogether Jesuitic claim +that illegal means were always justified by the legal end. + +By the time he had fought his way up to the office of Second Deputy he +no longer resented being known as a "rough neck" or a "flat foot." As +an official, he believed in roughness; it was his right; and one touch +of right made away with all wrong, very much as one grain of pepsin +properly disposed might digest a carload of beef. A crook was a crook. +His natural end was the cell or the chair, and the sooner he got there +the better for all concerned. So Blake believed in "hammering" his +victims. He was an advocate of "confrontation." He had faith in the +old-fashioned "third-degree" dodges. At these, in his ponderous way, +he became an adept, looking on the nervous system of his subject as a +nut, to be calmly and relentlessly gnawed at until the meat of truth +lay exposed, or to be cracked by the impact of some sudden great shock. +Nor was the Second Deputy above resorting to the use of "plants." +Sometimes he had to call in a "fixer" to manufacture evidence, that the +far-off ends of justice might not be defeated. He made frequent use of +women of a certain type, women whom he could intimidate as an officer +or buy over as a good fellow. He had his _aides_ in all walks of life, +in clubs and offices, in pawnshops and saloons, in hotels and steamers +and barber shops, in pool rooms and anarchists' cellars. He also had +his visiting list, his "fences" and "stool-pigeons" and "shoo-flies." + +He preferred the "outdoor" work, both because he was more at home in it +and because it was more spectacular. He relished the bigger cases. He +liked to step in where an underling had failed, get his teeth into the +situation, shake the mystery out of it, and then obliterate the +underling with a half hour of blasphemous abuse. He had scant patience +with what he called the "high-collar cops." He consistently opposed +the new-fangled methods, such as the _Portrait Parle_, and pin-maps for +recording crime, and the graphic-system boards for marking the +movements of criminals. All anthropometric nonsense such as +Bertillon's he openly sneered at, just as he scoffed at card indexes +and finger prints and other academic innovations which were +debilitating the force. He had gathered his own data, at great pains, +he nursed his own personal knowledge as to habitual offenders and their +aliases, their methods, their convictions and records, their associates +and hang outs. He carried his own gallery under his own hat, and he +was proud of it. His memory was good, and he claimed always to know +his man. His intuitions were strong, and if he disliked a captive, +that captive was in some way guilty--and he saw to it that his man did +not escape. He was relentless, once his professional pride was +involved. Being without imagination, he was without pity. It was, at +best, a case of dog eat dog, and the Law, the Law for which he had such +reverence, happened to keep him the upper dog. + +Yet he was a comparatively stupid man, an amazingly self-satisfied +toiler who had chanced to specialize on crime. And even as he became +more and more assured of his personal ability, more and more entrenched +in his tradition of greatness, he was becoming less and less elastic, +less receptive, less adaptive. Much as he tried to blink the fact, he +was compelled to depend more and more on the office behind him. His +personal gallery, the gallery under his hat, showed a tendency to +become both obsolete and inadequate. That endless catacomb of lost +souls grew too intricate for one human mind to compass. New faces, new +names, new tricks tended to bewilder him. He had to depend more and +more on the clerical staff and the finger-print bureau records. His +position became that of a villager with a department store on his +hands, of a country shopkeeper trying to operate an urban emporium. He +was averse to deputizing his official labors. He was ignorant of +system and science. He took on the pathos of a man who is out of his +time, touched with the added poignancy of a passionate incredulity as +to his predicament. He felt, at times, that there was something wrong, +that the rest of the Department did not look on life and work as he +did. But he could not decide just where the trouble lay. And in his +uncertainty he made it a point to entrench himself by means of +"politics." It became an open secret that he had a pull, that his +position was impregnable. This in turn tended to coarsen his methods. +It lifted him beyond the domain of competitive effort. It touched his +carelessness with arrogance. It also tinged his arrogance with +occasional cruelty. + +He redoubled his efforts to sustain the myth which had grown up about +him, the myth of his vast cleverness and personal courage. He showed a +tendency for the more turbulent centers. He went among murderers +without a gun. He dropped into dives, protected by nothing more than +the tradition of his office. He pushed his way in through thugs, +picked out his man, and told him to come to Headquarters in an hour's +time--and the man usually came. His appetite for the spectacular +increased. He preferred to head his own gambling raids, ax in hand. +But more even than his authority he liked to parade his knowledge. He +liked to be able to say: "This is Sheeny Chi's coup!" or, "That's a job +that only Soup-Can Charlie could do!" When a police surgeon hit on the +idea of etherizing an obdurate "dummy chucker," to determine if the +prisoner could talk or not, Blake appropriated the suggestion as his +own. And when the "press boys" trooped in for their daily gist of +news, he asked them, as usual, not to couple his name with the +incident; and they, as usual, made him the hero of the occasion. + +For Never-Fail Blake had made it a point to be good to the press boys. +He acquired an ability to "jolly" them without too obvious loss of +dignity. He took them into his confidences, apparently, and made his +disclosures personal matters, individual favors. He kept careful note +of their names, their characteristics, their interests. He cultivated +them, keeping as careful track of them from city to city as he did of +the "big" criminals themselves. They got into the habit of going to +him for their special stories. He always exacted secrecy, pretended +reluctance, yet parceled out to one reporter and another those dicta to +which his name could be most appropriately attached. He even +surrendered a clue or two as to how his own activities and triumphs +might be worked into a given story. When he perceived that those +worldly wise young men of the press saw through the dodge, he became +more adept, more adroit, more delicate in method. But the end was the +same. + +It was about this time that he invested in his first scrap-book. Into +this secret granary went every seed of his printed personal history. +Then came the higher records of the magazines, the illustrated articles +written about "Blake, the Hamard of America," as one of them expressed +it, and "Never-Fail Blake," as another put it. He was very proud of +those magazine articles, he even made ponderous and painstaking efforts +for their repetition, at considerable loss of dignity. Yet he adopted +the pose of disclaiming responsibility, of disliking such things, of +being ready to oppose them if some effective method could only be +thought out. He even hinted to those about him at Headquarters that +this seeming garrulity was serving a good end, claiming it to be +harmless pother to "cover" more immediate trails on which he pretended +to be engaged. + +But the scrap-books grew in number and size. It became a task to keep +up with his clippings. He developed into a personage, as much a +personage as a grand-opera prima donna on tour. His successes were +talked over in clubs. His name came to be known to the men in the +street. His "camera eye" was now and then mentioned by the scientists. +His unblemished record was referred to in an occasional editorial. +When an ex-police reporter came to him, asking him to father a +macaronic volume bearing the title "Criminals of America," Blake not +only added his name to the title page, but advanced three hundred +dollars to assist towards its launching. + +The result of all this was a subtle yet unmistakable shifting of +values, an achievement of public glory at the loss of official +confidence. He excused his waning popularity among his co-workers on +the ground of envy. It was, he held, merely the inevitable penalty for +supreme success in any field. But a hint would come, now and then, +that troubled him. "You think you 're a big gun, Blake," one of his +underworld victims once had the temerity to cry out at him. "You think +you 're the king of the Hawkshaws! But if you were on _my_ side of the +fence, you 'd last about as long as a snowball on a crownsheet!" + + + + +III + +It was not until the advent of Copeland, the new First Deputy, that +Blake began to suspect his own position. Copeland was an out-and-out +"office" man, anything but a "flat foot." Weak looking and pallid, +with the sedentary air of a junior desk clerk, vibratingly restless +with no actual promise of being penetrating, he was of that +indeterminate type which never seems to acquire a personality of its +own. The small and bony and steel-blue face was as neutral as the +spare and reticent figure that sat before a bald table in a bald room +as inexpressive and reticent as its occupant. Copeland was not only +unknown outside the Department; he was, in a way, unknown in his own +official circles. + +And then Blake woke up to the fact that some one on the inside was +working against him, was blocking his moves, was actually using him as +a "blind." While he was given the "cold" trails, younger men went out +on the "hot" ones. There were times when the Second Deputy suspected +that his enemy was Copeland. Not that he could be sure of this, for +Copeland himself gave no inkling of his attitude. He gave no inkling +of anything, in fact, personal or impersonal. But more and more Blake +was given the talking parts, the role of spokesman to the press. He +was more and more posted in the background, like artillery, to +intimidate with his remote thunder and cover the advance of more agile +columns. He was encouraged to tell the public what he knew, but he was +not allowed to know too much. And, ironically enough, he bitterly +resented this role of "mouthpiece" for the Department. + +"You call yourself a gun!" a patrolman who had been shaken down for +insubordination broke out at him. "A gun! why, you 're only a _park_ +gun! That's all you are, a broken-down bluff, an ornamental has-been, +a park gun for kids to play 'round!" + +Blake raged at that, impotently, pathetically, like an old lion with +its teeth drawn. He prowled moodily around, looking for an enemy on +whom to vent his anger. But he could find no tangible force that +opposed him. He could see nothing on which to centralize his activity. +Yet something or somebody was working against him. To fight that +opposition was like fighting a fog. It was as bad as trying to +shoulder back a shadow. + +He had his own "spots" and "finders" on the force. When he had been +tipped off that the powers above were about to send him out on the +Binhart case, he passed the word along to his underlings, without loss +of time, for he felt that he was about to be put on trial, that they +were making the Binhart capture a test case. And he had rejoiced +mightily when his dragnet had brought up the unexpected tip that Elsie +Verriner had been in recent communication with Binhart, and with +pressure from the right quarter could be made to talk. + +This tip had been a secret one. Blake, on his part, kept it well +muffled, for he intended that his capture of Binhart should be not only +a personal triumph for the Second Deputy, but a vindication of that +Second Deputy's methods. + +So when the Commissioner called him and Copeland into conference, the +day after his talk with Elsie Verriner, Blake prided himself on being +secretly prepared for any advances that might be made. + +It was the Commissioner who did the talking. Copeland, as usual, +lapsed into the background, cracking his dry knuckles and blinking his +pale-blue eyes about the room as the voices of the two larger men +boomed back and forth. + +"We 've been going over this Binhart case," began the Commissioner. +"It's seven months now--and nothing done!" + +Blake looked sideways at Copeland. There was muffled and meditative +belligerency in the look. There was also gratification, for it was the +move he had been expecting. + +"I always said McCooey was n't the man to go out on that case," said +the Second Deputy, still watching Copeland. + +"Then who _is_ the man?" asked the Commissioner. + +Blake took out a cigar, bit the end off, and struck a match. It was +out of place; but it was a sign of his independence. He had long since +given up plug and fine-cut and taken to fat Havanas, which he smoked +audibly, in plethoric wheezes. Good living had left his body stout and +his breathing slightly asthmatic. He sat looking down at his massive +knees; his oblique study of Copeland, apparently, had yielded him scant +satisfaction. Copeland, in fact, was making paper fans out of the +official note-paper in front of him. + +"What's the matter with Washington and Wilkie?" inquired Blake, +attentively regarding his cigar. + +"They 're just where we are--at a standstill," acknowledged the +Commissioner. + +"And that's where we 'll stay!" heavily contended the Second Deputy. + +The entire situation was an insidiously flattering one to Blake. Every +one else had failed. They were compelled to come to him, their final +resource. + +"Why?" demanded his superior. + +"Because we have n't got a man who can turn the trick! We have n't got +a man who can go out and round up Binhart inside o' seven years!" + +"Then what is your suggestion?" It was Copeland who spoke, mild and +hesitating. + +"D'you want my suggestion?" demanded Blake, warm with the wine-like +knowledge which, he knew, made him master of the situation. + +"Of course," was the Commissioner's curt response. + +"Well, you 've got to have a man who knows Binhart, who knows him and +his tricks and his hang outs!" + +"Well, who does?" + +"I do," declared Blake. + +The Commissioner indulged in his wintry smile. + +"You mean if you were n't tied down to your Second Deputy's chair you +could go out and get him!" + +"I could!" + +"Within a reasonable length of time?" + +"I don't know about the time! But I could get him, all right." + +"If you were still on the outside work?" interposed Copeland. + +"I certainly would n't expect to dig him out o' my stamp drawer," was +Blake's heavily facetious retort. + +Copeland and the Commissioner looked at each other, for one fraction of +a second. + +"You know what _my_ feeling is," resumed the latter, "on this Binhart +case." + +"I know what my feeling is," declared Blake. + +"What?" + +"That the right method would 've got him six months ago, without all +this monkey work!" + +"Then why not end the monkey work, as you call it?" + +"How?" + +"By doing what you say you can do!" was the Commissioner's retort. + +"How 'm I going to hold down a chair and hunt a crook at the same time?" + +"Then why hold down the chair? Let the chair take care of itself. It +could be arranged, you know." + +Blake had the stage-juggler's satisfaction of seeing things fall into +his hands exactly as he had manoeuvered they should. His reluctance +was merely a dissimulation, a stage wait for heightened dramatic effect. + +"How 'd you do the arranging?" he calmly inquired. + +"I could see the Mayor in the morning. There will be no Departmental +difficulty." + +"Then where 's the trouble?" + +"There is none, if you are willing to go out." + +"Well, we can't get Binhart here by pink-tea invitations. Somebody 's +got to go out and _get_ him!" + +"The bank raised the reward to eight thousand this week," interposed +the ruminative Copeland. + +"Well, it 'll take money to get him," snapped back the Second Deputy, +remembering that he had a nest of his own to feather. + +"It will be worth what it costs," admitted the Commissioner. + +"Of course," said Copeland, "they 'll have to honor your drafts--in +reason." + +"There will be no difficulty on the expense side," quietly interposed +the Commissioner. "The city wants Binhart. The whole country wants +Binhart. And they will be willing to pay for it." + +Blake rose heavily to his feet. His massive bulk was momentarily +stirred by the prospect of the task before him. For one brief moment +the anticipation of that clamor of approval which would soon be his +stirred his lethargic pulse. Then his cynic calmness again came back +to him. + +"Then what 're we beefing about?" he demanded. "You want Binhart and I +'ll get him for you." + +The Commissioner, tapping the top of his desk with his gold-banded +fountain pen, smiled. It was almost a smile of indulgence. + +"You _know_ you will get him?" he inquired. + +The inquiry seemed to anger Blake. He was still dimly conscious of the +operation of forces which he could not fathom. There were things, +vague and insubstantial, which he could not understand. But he nursed +to his heavy-breathing bosom the consciousness that he himself was not +without his own undivulged powers, his own private tricks, his own +inner reserves. + +"I say I 'll get him!" he calmly proclaimed. "And I guess that ought +to be enough!" + + + + +IV + +The unpretentious, brownstone-fronted home of Deputy Copeland was +visited, late that night, by a woman. She was dressed in black, and +heavily veiled. She walked with the stoop of a sorrowful and +middle-aged widow. + +She came in a taxicab, which she dismissed at the corner. From the +house steps she looked first eastward and then westward, as though to +make sure she was not being followed. Then she rang the bell. + +She gave no name; yet she was at once admitted. Her visit, in fact, +seemed to be expected, for without hesitation she was ushered upstairs +and into the library of the First Deputy. + +He was waiting for her in a room more intimate, more personal, more +companionably crowded than his office, for the simple reason that it +was not a room of his own fashioning. He stood in the midst of its +warm hangings, in fact, as cold and neutral as the marble Diana behind +him. He did not even show, as he closed the door and motioned his +visitor into a chair, that he had been waiting for her. + +The woman, still standing, looked carefully about the room, from side +to side, saw that they were alone, made note of the two closed doors, +and then with a sigh lifted her black gloved hands and began to remove +the widow's cap from her head. She sighed again as she tossed the +black crepe on the dark-wooded table beside her. As she sank into the +chair the light from the electrolier fell on her shoulders and on the +carefully coiled and banded hair, so laboriously built up into a crown +that glinted nut-brown above the pale face she turned to the man +watching her. + +"Well?" she said. And from under her level brows she stared at +Copeland, serene in her consciousness of power. It was plain that she +neither liked him nor disliked him. It was equally plain that he, too, +had his ends remote from her and her being. + +"You saw Blake again?" he half asked, half challenged. + +"No," she answered. + +"Why?" + +"I was afraid to." + +"Did n't I tell you we 'd take care of your end?" + +"I 've had promises like that before. They were n't always remembered." + +"But our office never made you that promise before, Miss Verriner." + +The woman let her eyes rest on his impassive face. + +"That's true, I admit. But I must also admit I know Jim Blake. We 'd +better not come together again, Blake and me, after this week." + +She was pulling off her gloves as she spoke. She suddenly threw them +down on the table. "There 's just one thing I want to know, and know +for certain. I want to know if this is a plant to shoot Blake up?" + +The First Deputy smiled. It was not altogether at the mere calmness +with which she could suggest such an atrocity. + +"Hardly," he said. + +"Then what is it?" she demanded. + +He was both patient and painstaking with her. His tone was almost +paternal in its placativeness. + +"It's merely a phase of departmental business," he answered her. "And +we 're anxious to see Blake round up Connie Binhart." + +"That's not true," she answered with neither heat nor resentment, "or +you would never have started him off on this blind lead. You 'd never +have had me go to him with that King Edward note and had it work out to +fit a street in Montreal. You 've got a wooden decoy up there in +Canada, and when Blake gets there he 'll be told his man slipped away +the day before. Then another decoy will bob up, and Blake will go +after that. And when you 've fooled him two or three times he 'll sail +back to New York and break me for giving him a false tip." + +"Did you give it to him?" + +"No, he hammered it out of me. But you knew he was going to do that. +That was part of the plant." + +She sat studying her thin white hands for several seconds. Then she +looked up at the calm-eyed Copeland. + +"How are you going to protect me, if Blake comes back? How are you +going to keep your promise?" + +The First Deputy sat back in his chair and crossed his thin legs. + +"Blake will not come back," he announced. She slewed suddenly round on +him again. + +"Then it _is_ a plant!" she proclaimed. + +"You misunderstand me, Miss Verriner. Blake will not come back as an +official. There will be changes in the Department, I imagine; changes +for the better which even he and his Tammany Hall friends can't stop, +by the time he gets back with Binhart." + +The woman gave a little hand gesture of impatience. + +"But don't you see," she protested, "supposing he gives up Binhart? +Supposing he suspects something and hurries back to hold down his +place?" + +"They call him Never-Fail Blake," commented the unmoved and dry-lipped +official. He met her wide stare with his gently satiric smile. + +"I see," she finally said, "you 're not going to shoot him up. You 're +merely going to wipe him out." + +"You are quite wrong there," began the man across the table from her. +"Administration changes may happen, and in--" + +"In other words, you 're getting Jim Blake out of the way, off on this +Binhart trail, while you work him out of the Department." + +"No competent officer is ever worked out of this Department," parried +the First Deputy. + +She sat for a silent and studious moment or two, without looking at +Copeland. Then she sighed, with mock plaintiveness. Her wistfulness +seemed to leave her doubly dangerous. + +"Mr. Copeland, are n't you afraid some one might find it worth while to +tip Blake off?" she softly inquired. + +"What would you gain?" was his pointed and elliptical interrogation. + +She leaned forward in the fulcrum of light, and looked at him soberly. + +"What is your idea of me?" she asked. + +He looked back at the thick-lashed eyes with their iris rings of deep +gray. There was something alert and yet unparticipating in their +steady gaze. They held no trace of abashment. They were no longer +veiled. There was even something disconcerting in their lucid and +level stare. + +"I think you are a very intelligent woman," Copeland finally confessed. + +"I think I am, too," she retorted. "Although I have n't used that +intelligence in the right way. Don't smile! I 'm not going to turn +mawkish. I 'm not good. I don't know whether I want to be. But I +know one thing: I 've got to keep busy--I 've got to be active. I 've +_got_ to be!" + +"And?" prompted the First Deputy, as she came to a stop. + +"We all know, now, exactly where we 're at. We all know what we want, +each one of us. We know what Blake wants. We know what you want. And +I want something more than I 'm getting, just as you want something +more than writing reports and rounding up push-cart peddlers. I want +my end, as much as you want yours." + +"And?" again prompted the First Deputy. + +"I 've got to the end of my ropes; and I want to swing around. It's no +reform bee, mind! It's not what other women like me think it is. But +I can't go on. It doesn't lead to anything. It does n't pay. I want +to be safe. I 've _got_ to be safe!" + +He looked up suddenly, as though a new truth had just struck home with +him. For the first time, all that evening, his face was ingenuous. + +"I know what's behind me," went on the woman. "There 's no use digging +that up. And there 's no use digging up excuses for it. But there +_are_ excuses--good excuses, or I 'd never have gone through what I +have, because I feel I was n't made for it. I 'm too big a coward to +face what it leads to. I can look ahead and see through things. I can +understand too easily." She came to a stop, and sat back, with one +white hand on either arm of the chair. "And I 'm afraid to go on. I +want to begin over. And I want to begin on the right side!" + +He sat pondering just how much of this he could believe. But she +disregarded his veiled impassivity. + +"I want you to take Picture 3,970 out of the Identification Bureau, the +picture and the Bertillon measurements. And then I want you to give me +the chance I asked for." + +"But that does not rest with me, Miss Verriner!" + +"It will rest with you. I could n't stool with my own people here. +But Wilkie knows my value. He knows what I can do for the service if I +'m on their side. He could let me begin with the Ellis Island +spotting. I could stop that Stockholm white-slave work in two months. +And when you see Wilkie to-morrow you can swing me one way or the +other!" + +Copeland, with his chin on his bony breast, looked up to smile into her +intent and staring eyes. + +"You are a very clever woman," he said. "And what is more, you know a +great deal!" + +"I know a great deal!" she slowly repeated, and her steady gaze +succeeded in taking the ironic smile out of the corners of his eyes. + +"Your knowledge," he said with a deliberation equal to her own, "will +prove of great value to you--as an agent with Wilkie." + +"That's as you say!" she quietly amended as she rose to her feet. +There was no actual threat in her words, just as there was no actual +mockery in his. But each was keenly conscious of the wheels that +revolved within wheels, of the intricacies through which each was +threading a way to certain remote ends. She picked up her black gloves +from the desk top. She stood there, waiting. + +"You can count on me," he finally said, as he rose from his chair. "I +'ll attend to the picture. And I 'll say the right thing to Wilkie!" + +"Then let's shake hands on it!" she quietly concluded. And as they +shook hands her gray-irised eyes gazed intently and interrogatively +into his. + + + + +V (a) + +When Never-Fail Blake alighted from his sleeper in Montreal he found +one of Teal's men awaiting him at Bonaventure Station. There had been +a hitch or a leak somewhere, this man reported. Binhart, in some way, +had slipped through their fingers. + +All they knew was that the man they were tailing had bought a ticket +for Winnipeg, that he was not in Montreal, and that, beyond the railway +ticket, they had no trace of him. + +Blake, at this news, had a moment when he saw red. He felt, during +that moment, like a drum-major who had "muffed" his baton on parade. +Then recovering himself, he promptly confirmed the Teal operative's +report by telephone, accepted its confirmation as authentic, consulted +a timetable, and made a dash for Windsor Station. There he caught the +Winnipeg express, took possession of a stateroom and indited carefully +worded telegrams to Trimble in Vancouver, that all out-going Pacific +steamers should be watched, and to Menzler in Chicago, that the +American city might be covered in case of Binhart's doubling southward +on him. Still another telegram he sent to New York, requesting the +Police Department to send on to him at once a photograph of Binhart. + +In Winnipeg, two days later, Blake found himself on a blind trail. +When he had talked with a railway detective on whom he could rely, when +he had visited certain offices and interviewed certain officials, when +he had sought out two or three women acquaintances in the city's +sequestered area, he faced the bewildering discovery that he was still +without an actual clue of the man he was supposed to be shadowing. + +It was then that something deep within his nature, something he could +never quite define, whispered its first faint doubt to him. This doubt +persisted even when late that night a Teal Agency operative wired him +from Calgary, stating that a man answering Binhart's description had +just left the Alberta Hotel for Banff. To this latter point Blake +promptly wired a fuller description of his man, had an officer posted +to inspect every alighting passenger, and early the next morning +received a telegram, asking for still more particulars. + +He peered down at this message, vaguely depressed in spirit, discarding +theory after theory, tossing aside contingency after contingency. And +up from this gloomy shower slowly emerged one of his "hunches," one of +his vague impressions, coming blindly to the surface very much like an +earthworm crawling forth after a fall of rain. There was something +wrong. Of that he felt certain. He could not place it or define it. +To continue westward would be to depend too much on an uncertainty; it +would involve the risk of wandering too far from the center of things. +He suddenly decided to double on his tracks and swing down to Chicago. +Just why he felt as he did he could not fathom. But the feeling was +there. It was an instinctive propulsion, a "hunch." These hunches +were to him, working in the dark as he was compelled to, very much what +whiskers are to a cat. They could not be called an infallible guide. +But they at least kept him from colliding with impregnabilities. + +Acting on this hunch, as he called it, he caught a Great Northern train +for Minneapolis, transferred to a Chicago, Milwaukee & St. Paul +express, and without loss of time sped southward. When, thirty hours +later, he alighted in the heart of Chicago, he found himself in an +environment more to his liking, more adaptable to his ends. He was not +disheartened by his failure. He did not believe in luck, in miracles, +or even in coincidence. But experience had taught him the bewildering +extent of the resources which he might command. So intricate and so +wide-reaching were the secret wires of his information that he knew he +could wait, like a spider at the center of its web, until the betraying +vibration awakened some far-reaching thread of that web. In every +corner of the country lurked a non-professional ally, a secluded +tipster, ready to report to Blake when the call for a report came. The +world, that great detective had found, was indeed a small one. From +its scattered four corners, into which his subterranean wires of +espionage stretched, would in time come some inkling, some hint, some +discovery. And at the converging center of those wires Blake was able +to sit and wait, like the central operator at a telephone switchboard, +knowing that the tentacles of attention were creeping and wavering +about dim territories and that in time they would render up their +awaited word. + +In the meantime, Blake himself was by no means idle. It would not be +from official circles, he knew, that his redemption would come. Time +had already proved that. For months past every police chief in the +country had held his description of Binhart. That was a fact which +Binhart himself very well knew; and knowing that, he would continue to +move as he had been moving, with the utmost secrecy, or at least +protected by some adequate disguise. + +It would be from the underworld that the echo would come. And next to +New York, Blake knew, Chicago would make as good a central exchange for +this underworld as could be desired. Knowing that city of the Middle +West, and knowing it well, he at once "went down the line," making his +rounds stolidly and systematically, first visiting a West Side +faro-room and casually interviewing the "stools" of Custom House Place +and South dark Street, and then dropping in at the Cafe Acropolis, in +Halsted Street, and lodging houses in even less savory quarters. He +duly canvassed every likely dive, every "melina," every gambling house +and yegg hang out. He engaged in leisurely games of pool with +stone-getters and gopher men. He visited bucket-shops and barrooms, +and dingy little Ghetto cafes. He "buzzed" tipsters and floaters and +mouthpieces. He fraternized with till tappers and single-drillers. He +always made his inquiries after Binhart seem accidental, a case +apparently subsidiary to two or three others which he kept always to +the foreground. + +He did not despair over the discovery that no one seemed to know of +Binhart or his movements. He merely waited his time, and extended new +ramifications into newer territory. His word still carried its weight +of official authority. There was still an army of obsequious +underlings compelled to respect his wishes. It was merely a matter of +time and mathematics. Then the law of averages would ordain its end; +the needed card would ultimately be turned up, the right dial-twist +would at last complete the right combination. + +The first faint glimmer of life, in all those seemingly dead wires, +came from a gambler named Mattie Sherwin, who reported that he had met +Binhart, two weeks before, in the cafe of the Brown Palace in Denver. +He was traveling under the name of Bannerman, wore his hair in a +pomadour, and had grown a beard. + +Blake took the first train out of Chicago for Denver. In this latter +city an Elks' Convention was supplying blue-bird weather for +underground "haymakers," busy with bunco-steering, "rushing" +street-cars and "lifting leathers." Before the stampede at the news of +his approach, he picked up Biff Edwards and Lefty Stivers, put on the +screws, and learned nothing. He went next to Glory McShane, a Market +Street acquaintance indebted for certain old favors, and from her, too, +learned nothing of moment. He continued the quest in other quarters, +and the results were equally discouraging. + +Then began the real detective work about which, Blake knew, newspaper +stories were seldom written. This work involved a laborious and +monotonous examination of hotel registers, a canvassing of ticket +agencies and cab stands and transfer companies. It was anything but +story-book sleuthing. It was a dispiriting tread-mill round, but he +was still sifting doggedly through the tailings of possibilities when a +code-wire came from St. Louis, saying Binhart had been seen the day +before at the Planters' Hotel. + +Blake was eastbound on his way to St. Louis one hour after the receipt +of this wire. And an hour after his arrival in St. Louis he was +engaged in an apparently care free and leisurely game of pool with one +Loony Ryan, an old-time "box man" who was allowed to roam with a +clipped wing in the form of a suspended indictment. Loony, for the +liberty thus doled out to him, rewarded his benefactors by an +occasional indulgence in the "pigeon-act." + +"Draw for lead?" asked Blake, lighting a cigar. + +"Sure," said Loony. + +Blake pushed his ball to the top cushion, won the draw, and broke. + +"Seen anything of Wolf Yonkholm?" he casually inquired, as he turned to +chalk his cue. But his eye, with one quick sweep, had made sure of +every face in the room. + +Loony studied the balls for a second or two. Wolf was a "dip" with an +international record. + +"Last time I saw Wolf he was out at 'Frisco, workin' the Beaches," was +Loony's reply. + +Blake ventured an inquiry or two about other worthies of the +underworld. The players went on with their game, placid, self-immured, +matter-of-fact. + +"Where's Angel McGlory these days?" asked Blake, as he reached over to +place a ball. + +"What's she been doin'?" demanded Loony, with his cue on the rail. + +"She 's traveling with a bank sneak named Blanchard or Binhart," +explained Blake. "And I want her." + +Loony Ryan made his stroke. + +"Hep Roony saw Binhart this mornin', beatin' it for N' Orleans. But he +was n't travelin' wit' any moll that Hep spoke of." + +Blake made his shot, chalked his cue again, and glanced down at his +watch. His eyes were on the green baize, but his thoughts were +elsewhere. + +"I got 'o leave you, Loony," he announced as he put his cue back in the +rack. He spoke slowly and calmly. But Loony's quick gaze circled the +room, promptly checking over every face between the four walls. + +"What's up?" he demanded. "Who 'd you spot?" + +"Nothing, Loony, nothing! But this game o' yours blamed near made me +forget an appointment o' mine!" + +Twenty minutes after he had left the bewildered Loony Ryan in the pool +parlor he was in a New Orleans sleeper, southward bound. He knew that +he was getting within striking distance of Binhart, at last. The zest +of the chase took possession of him. The trail was no longer a "cold" +one. He knew which way Binhart was headed. And he knew he was not +more than a day behind his man. + + + + +V (b) + +The moment Blake arrived in New Orleans he shut himself in a telephone +booth, called up six somewhat startled acquaintances, learned nothing +to his advantage, and went quickly but quietly to the St. Charles. +There he closeted himself with two dependable "elbows," started his +detectives on a round of the hotels, and himself repaired to the Levee +district, where he held off-handed and ponderously facetious +conversations with certain unsavory characters. Then came a visit to +certain equally unsavory wharf-rats and a call or two on South Rampart +Street. But still no inkling of Binhart or his intended movements came +to the detective's ears. + +It was not until the next morning, as he stepped into Antoine's, on St. +Louis Street just off the Rue Royal, that anything of importance +occurred. The moment he entered that bare and cloistral restaurant +where Monsieur Jules could dish up such startling uncloistral dishes, +his eyes fell on Abe Sheiner, a drum snuffer with whom he had had +previous and somewhat painful encounters. Sheiner, it was plain to +see, was in clover, for he was breakfasting regally, on squares of +toast covered with shrimp and picked crab meat creamed, with a bisque +of cray-fish and _papa-bottes_ in ribbons of bacon, to say nothing of +fruit and _bruilleau_. + +Blake insisted on joining his old friend Sheiner, much to the tatter's +secret discomfiture. It was obvious that the drum snuffer, having made +a recent haul, would be amenable to persuasion. And, like all yeggs, +he was an upholder of the "moccasin telegraph," a wanderer and a +carrier of stray tidings as to the movements of others along the +undergrooves of the world. So while Blake breakfasted on shrimp and +crab meat and French artichokes stuffed with caviar and anchovies, he +intimated to the uneasy-minded Sheiner certain knowledge as to a +certain recent coup. In the face of this charge Sheiner indignantly +claimed that he had only been playing the ponies and having a run of +greenhorn's luck. + +"Abe, I 've come down to gather you in," announced the calmly +mendacious detective. He continued to sip his _bruilleau_ with +fraternal unconcern. + +"You got nothing _on_ me, Jim," protested the other, losing his taste +for the delicacies arrayed about him. + +"Well, we got 'o go down to Headquarters and talk that over," calmly +persisted Blake. + +"What's the use of pounding me, when I 'm on the square again?" +persisted the ex-drum snuffer. + +"That's the line o' talk they all hand out. That's what Connie Binhart +said when we had it out up in St. Louis." + +"Did you bump into Binhart in St. Louis?" + +"We had a talk, three days ago." + +"Then why 'd he blow through this town as though he had a regiment o' +bulls and singed cats behind him!" + +Blake's heart went down like an elevator with a broken cable. But he +gave no outward sign of this inward commotion. + +"Because he wants to get down to Colon before the Hamburg-American boat +hits the port," ventured Blake. "His moll's aboard!" + +"But he blew out for 'Frisco this morning," contended the puzzled +Sheiner. "Shot through as though he 'd just had a rumble!" + +"Oh, he _said_ that, but he went south, all right." + +"Then he went in an oyster sloop. There 's nothing sailing from this +port to-day." + +"Well, what's Binhart got to do with our trouble anyway? What I want--" + +"But I saw him start," persisted the other. "He ducked for a day coach +and said he was traveling for his health. And he sure looked like a +man in a hurry!" + +Blake sipped his bruilleau, glanced casually at his watch, and took out +a cigar and lighted it. He blinked contentedly across the table at the +man he was "buzzing." The trick had been turned. The word had been +given. He knew that Binhart was headed westward again. He also knew +that Binhart had awakened to the fact that he was being followed, that +his feverish movements were born of a stampeding fear of capture. + +Yet Binhart was not a coward. Flight, in fact, was his only resource. +It was only the low-brow criminal, Blake knew, who ran for a hole and +hid in it until he was dragged out. The more intellectual type of +offender preferred the open. And Binhart was of this type. He was +suave and artful; he was active bodied and experienced in the ways of +the world. What counted still more, he was well heeled with money. +Just how much he had planted away after the Newcomb coup no one knew. +But no one denied that it was a fortune. It was ten to one that +Binhart would now try to get out of the country. He would make his way +to some territory without an extradition treaty. He would look for a +land where he could live in peace, where his ill-gotten wealth would +make exile endurable. + +Blake, as he smoked his cigar and turned these thoughts over in his +mind, could afford to smile. There would be no peace and no rest for +Connie Binhart; he himself would see to that. And he would "get" his +man; whether it was in a week's time or a month's time, he would "get" +his man and take him back in triumph to New York. He would show +Copeland and the Commissioner and the world in general that there was +still a little life in the old dog, that there was still a haul or two +he could make. + +So engrossing were these thoughts that Blake scarcely heard the drum +snuffer across the table from him, protesting the innocence of his ways +and the purity of his intentions. Then for the second time that +morning Blake completely bewildered him, by suddenly accepting those +protestations and agreeing to let everything drop. It was necessary, +of course, to warn Sheiner, to exact a promise of better living. But +Blake's interest in the man had already departed. He dropped him from +his scheme of things, once he had yielded up his data. He tossed him +aside like a sucked orange, a smoked cigar, a burnt-out match. +Binhart, in all the movements of all the stellar system, was the one +name and the one man that interested him. + +Loony Sheiner was still sitting at that table in Antoine's when Blake, +having wired his messages to San Pedro and San Francisco, caught the +first train out of New Orleans. As he sped across the face of the +world, crawling nearer and nearer the Pacific Coast, no thought of the +magnitude of that journey oppressed him. His imagination remained +untouched. He neither fretted nor fumed at the time this travel was +taking. In spite of the electric fans at each end of his Pullman, it +is true, he suffered greatly from the heat, especially during the ride +across the Arizona Desert. He accepted it without complaint, stolidly +thanking his lucky stars that men were n't still traveling across +America's deserts by ox-team. He was glad when he reached the Colorado +River and wound up into California, leaving the alkali and sage brush +and yucca palms of the Mojave well behind him. He was glad in his +placid way when he reached his hotel in San Francisco and washed the +grit and grime from his heat-nettled body. + +But once that body had been bathed and fed, he started on his rounds of +the underworld, seined the entire harbor-front without effect, and then +set out his night-lines as cautiously as a fisherman in forbidden +waters. He did not overlook the shipping offices and railway stations, +neither did he neglect the hotels and ferries. Then he quietly lunched +at Martenelli's with the much-honored but most-uncomfortable Wolf +Yonkholm, who promptly suspended his "dip" operations at the Beaches +out of respect to Blake's sudden call. + +Nothing of moment, however, was learned from the startled Wolf, and at +Coppa's six hours later, Blake dined with a Chink-smuggler named Goldie +Hopper. Goldie, after his fifth glass of wine and an adroit decoying +of the talk along the channels which most interested his portly host, +casually announced that an Eastern crook named Blanchard had got away, +the day before, on the Pacific mail steamer _Manchuria_. He was clean +shaven and traveled as a clergyman. That struck Goldie as the height +of humor, a bank sneak having the nerve to deck himself out as a +gospel-spieler. + +His elucidation of it, however, brought no answering smile from the +diffident-eyed Blake, who confessed that he was rounding up a couple of +nickel-coiners and would be going East in a day or two. + +Instead of going East, however, he hurriedly consulted maps and +timetables, found a train that would land him in Portland in twenty-six +hours, and started north. He could eventually save time, he found, by +hastening on to Seattle and catching a Great Northern steamer from that +port. When a hot-box held his train up for over half an hour, Blake +stood with his timepiece in his hand, watching the train crew in their +efforts to "freeze the hub." They continued to lose time, during the +night. At Seattle, when he reached the Great Northern docks, he found +that his steamer had sailed two hours before he stepped from his +sleeper. + +His one remaining resource was a Canadian Pacific steamer from +Victoria. This, he figured out, would get him to Hong Kong even +earlier than the steamer which he had already missed. He had a hunch +that Hong Kong was the port he wanted. Just why, he could not explain. +But he felt sure that Binhart would not drop off at Manila. Once on +the run, he would keep out of American quarters. It was a gamble; it +was a rough guess. But then all life was that. And Blake had a dogged +and inarticulate faith in his "hunches." + +Crossing the Sound, he reached Victoria in time to see the _Empress of +China_ under way, and heading out to sea. Blake hired a tug and +overtook her. He reached the steamer's deck by means of a Jacob's +ladder that swung along her side plates like a mason's plumbline along +a factory wall. + +Binhart, he told himself, was by this time in mid-Pacific, untold miles +away, heading for that vast and mysterious East into which a man could +so easily disappear. He was approaching gloomy and tangled waterways +that threaded between islands which could not even be counted. He was +fleeing towards dark rivers which led off through barbaric and +mysterious silence, into the heart of darkness. He was drawing nearer +and nearer to those regions of mystery where a white man might be +swallowed up as easily as a rice grain is lost in a shore lagoon. He +would soon be in those teeming alien cities as under-burrowed as a +gopher village. + +But Blake did not despair. Their whole barbaric East, he told himself, +was only a Chinatown slum on a large scale. And he had never yet seen +the slum that remained forever impervious to the right dragnet. He did +not know how or where the end would be. But he knew there would be an +end. He still hugged to his bosom the placid conviction that the world +was small, that somewhere along the frontiers of watchfulness the +impact would be recorded and the alarm would be given. A man of +Binhart's type, with the money Binhart had, would never divorce himself +completely from civilization. He would always crave a white man's +world; he would always hunger for what that world stood for and +represented. He would always creep back to it. He might hide in his +heathen burrow, for a time; but there would be a limit to that exile. +A power stronger than his own will would drive him back to his own +land, back to civilization. And civilization, to Blake, was merely a +rather large and rambling house equipped with a rather efficient +burglar-alarm system, so that each time it was entered, early or late, +the tell-tale summons would eventually go to the right quarter. And +when the summons came Blake would be waiting for it. + + + + +VI + +It was by wireless that Blake made what efforts he could to confirm his +suspicions that Binhart had not dropped off at any port of call between +San Francisco and Hong Kong. In due time the reply came back to +"Bishop MacKishnie," on board the westbound _Empress of China_ that the +Reverend Caleb Simpson had safely landed from the _Manchuria_ at Hong +Kong, and was about to leave for the mission field in the interior. + +The so-called bishop, sitting in the wireless-room of the _Empress of +China_, with a lacerated black cigar between his teeth, received this +much relayed message with mixed feelings. He proceeded to send out +three Secret Service code-despatches to Shanghai, Amoy and Hong Kong, +which, being picked up by a German cruiser, were worried over and +argued over and finally referred back to an intelligence bureau for +explanation. + +But at Yokohama, Blake hurried ashore in a sampan, met an agent who +seemed to be awaiting him, and caught a train for Kobe. He hurried on, +indifferent to the beauties of the country through which he wound, +unimpressed by the oddities of the civilization with which he found +himself confronted. His mind, intent on one thing, seemed unable to +react to the stimuli of side-issues. From Kobe he caught a _Toyo Kisen +Kaisha_ steamer for Nagasaki and Shanghai. This steamer, he found, lay +over at the former port for thirteen hours, so he shifted again to an +outbound boat headed for Woosung. + +It was not until he was on the tender, making the hour-long run from +Woosung up the Whangpoo to Shanghai itself, that he seemed to emerge +from his half-cataleptic indifference to his environment. He began to +realize that he was at last in the Orient. + +As they wound up the river past sharp-nosed and round-hooded sampans, +and archaic Chinese battle-ships and sea-going junks and gunboats +flying their unknown foreign flags, Blake at last began to realize that +he was in a new world. The very air smelt exotic; the very colors, the +tints of the sails, the hues of clothing, the forms of things, land and +sky itself--all were different. This depressed him only vaguely. He +was too intent on the future, on the task before him, to give his +surroundings much thought. + +Blake had entirely shaken off this vague uneasiness, in fact, when +twenty minutes after landing he found himself in a red-brick hotel +known as The Astor, and guardedly shaking hands with an incredulously +thin and sallow-faced man of about forty. Although this man spoke with +an English accent and exile seemed to have foreigneered him in both +appearance and outlook, his knowledge of America was active and +intimate. He passed over to the detective two despatches in cipher, +handed him a confidential list of Hong Kong addresses, gave him certain +information as to Macao, and an hour later conducted him down the river +to the steamer which started that night for Hong Kong. + +As Blake trod that steamer's deck and plowed on through strange seas, +surrounded by strange faces, intent on his strange chase, no sense of +vast adventure entered his soul. No appreciation of a great hazard +bewildered his emotions. The kingdom of romance dwells in the heart, +in the heart roomy enough to house it. And Blake's heart was taken up +with more material things. He was preoccupied with his new list of +addresses, with his new lines of procedure, with the men he must +interview and the dives and clubs and bazars he must visit. He had his +day's work to do, and he intended to do it. + +The result was that of Hong Kong he carried away no immediate personal +impression, beyond a vague jumble, in the background of consciousness, +of Buddhist temples and British red-jackets, of stately parks and +granite buildings, of mixed nationalities and native theaters, of +anchored warships and a floating city of houseboats. For it was the +same hour that he landed in this orderly and strangely English city +that the discovery he was drawing close to Binhart again swept clean +the slate of his emotions. The response had come from a consulate +secretary. One wire in all his sentinel network had proved a live one. +Binhart was not in Hong Kong, but he had been seen in Macao; he was +known to be still there. And beyond that there was little that +Never-Fail Blake cared to know. + +His one side-movement in Hong Kong was to purchase an American +revolver, for it began to percolate even through his indurated +sensibilities that he was at last in a land where his name might not be +sufficiently respected and his office sufficiently honored. For the +first time in seven long years he packed a gun, he condescended to go +heeled. Yet no minutest tingle of excitement spread through his +lethargic body as he examined this gun, carefully loaded it, and stowed +it away in his wallet-pocket. It meant no more to him than the stowing +away of a sandwich against the emergency of a possible lost meal. + + + + +VII + +By the time he was on the noon boat that left for Macao, Blake had +quite forgotten about the revolver. As he steamed southward over +smooth seas, threading a way through boulder-strewn islands and +skirting mountainous cliffs, his movements seemed to take on a sense of +finality. He stood at the rail, watching the hazy blue islands, the +forests of fishing-boats and high-pooped junks floating lazily at +anchor, the indolent figures which he could catch glimpses of on deck, +the green waters of the China Sea. He watched them with intent, yet +abstracted, eyes. Some echo of the witchery of those Eastern waters at +times penetrated his own preoccupied soul. A vague sense of his +remoteness from his old life at last crept in to him. + +He thought of the watching green lights that were flaring up, dusk by +dusk, in the shrill New York night, the lamps of the precinct stations, +the lamps of Headquarters, where the great building was full of moving +feet and shifting faces, where telephones were ringing and detectives +were coming and going, and policemen in uniform were passing up and +down the great stone steps, clean-cut, ruddy-faced, strong-limbed +policemen, talking and laughing as they started out on their night +details. He could follow them as they went, those confident-striding +"flatties" with their ash night-sticks at their side, soldiers without +bugles or banner, going out to do the goodly tasks of the Law, soldiers +of whom he was once the leader, the pride, the man to whom they pointed +as the Vidoc of America. + +And he would go back to them as great as ever. He would again compel +their admiration. The newspaper boys would again come filing into his +office and shake hands with him and smoke his cigars and ask how much +he could tell them about his last haul. And he would recount to them +how he shadowed Binhart half way round the world, and gathered him in, +and brought him back to Justice. + +It was three o'clock in the afternoon when Blake's steamer drew near +Macao. Against a background of dim blue hills he could make out the +green and blue and white of the houses in the Portuguese quarters, +guarded on one side by a lighthouse and on the other by a stolid square +fort. Swinging around a sharp point, the boat entered the inner +harbor, crowded with Chinese craft and coasters and dingy tramps of the +sea. + +Blake seemed in no hurry to disembark. The sampan into which he +stepped, in fact, did not creep up to the shore until evening. There, +ignoring the rickshaw coolies who awaited him as he passed an +obnoxiously officious trio of customs officers, he disappeared up one +of the narrow and slippery side streets of the Chinese quarter. + +He followed this street for some distance, assailed by the smell of its +mud and rotting sewerage, twisting and turning deeper into the +darkness, past dogs and chattering coolies and oil lamps and +gaming-house doors. Into one of these gaming houses he turned, passing +through the blackwood sliding door and climbing the narrow stairway to +the floor above. There, from a small quadrangular gallery, he could +look down on the "well" of the fan-tan lay out below. + +He made his way to a seat at the rail, took out a cigar, lighted it, +and let his veiled gaze wander about the place, point by point, until +he had inspected and weighed and appraised every man in the building. +He continued to smoke, listlessly, like a sightseer with time on his +hands and in no mood for movement. The brim of his black boulder +shadowed his eyes. His thumbs rested carelessly in the arm-holes of +his waistcoat. He lounged back torpidly, listening to the drone and +clatter of voices below, lazily inspecting each newcomer, pretending to +drop off into a doze of ennui. But all the while he was most acutely +awake. + +For somewhere in that gathering, he knew, there was a messenger +awaiting him. Whether he was English or Portuguese, white or yellow, +Blake could not say. But from some one there some word or signal was +to come. + +He peered down at the few white men in the pit below. He watched the +man at the head of the carved blackwood table, beside his heap of brass +"cash," watched him again and again as he took up his handful of coins, +covered them with a brass hat while the betting began, removed the hat, +and seemed to be dividing the pile, with the wand in his hand, into +fours. The last number of the last four, apparently, was the object of +the wagers. + +Blake could not understand the game. It puzzled him, just as the +yellow men so stoically playing it puzzled him, just as the entire +country puzzled him. Yet, obtuse as he was, he felt the gulf of +centuries that divided the two races. These yellow men about him +seemed as far away from his humanity, as detached from his manner of +life and thought, as were the animals he sometimes stared at through +the bars of the Bronx Zoo cages. + +A white man would have to be pretty far gone, Blake decided, to fall +into their ways, to be satisfied with the life of those yellow men. He +would have to be a terrible failure, or he would have to be hounded by +a terrible fear, to live out his life so far away from his own kind. +And he felt now that Binhart could never do it, that a life sentence +there would be worse than a life sentence to "stir." So he took +another cigar, lighted it, and sat back watching the faces about him. + +For no apparent reason, and at no decipherable sign, one of the yellow +faces across the smoke-filled room detached itself from its fellows. +This face showed no curiosity, no haste. Blake watched it as it calmly +approached him. He watched until he felt a finger against his arm. + +"You clum b'long me," was the enigmatic message uttered in the +detective's ear. + +"Why should I go along with you?" Blake calmly inquired. + +"You clum b'long me," reiterated the Chinaman. The finger again +touched the detective's arm. "Clismas!" + +Blake rose, at once. He recognized the code word of "Christmas." This +was the messenger he had been awaiting. + +He followed the figure down the narrow stairway, through the sliding +door, out into the many-odored street, foul with refuse, bisected by +its open sewer of filth, took a turning into a still narrower street, +climbed a precipitous hill cobbled with stone, turned still again, +always overshadowed and hemmed in by tall houses close together, with +black-beamed lattice doors through which he could catch glimpses of +gloomy interiors. He turned again down a wooden-walled hallway that +reminded him of a Mott Street burrow. When the Chinaman touched him on +the sleeve he came to a stop. + +His guide was pointing to a closed door in front of them. + +"You sabby?" he demanded. + +Blake hesitated. He had no idea of what was behind that door, but he +gathered from the Chinaman's motion that he was to enter. Before he +could turn to make further inquiry the Chinaman had slipped away like a +shadow. + + + + +VIII + +Blake stood regarding the door. The he lifted his revolver from his +breast pocket and dropped it into his side pocket, with his hand on the +butt. Then with his left hand he quietly opened the door, pushed it +back, and as quietly stepped into the room. + +On the floor, in the center of a square of orange-colored matting, he +saw a white woman sitting. She was drinking tea out of an egg-shell of +a cup, and after putting down the cup she would carefully massage her +lips with the point of her little finger. This movement puzzled the +newcomer until he suddenly realized that it was merely to redistribute +the rouge on them. + +She was dressed in a silk petticoat of almost lemon yellow and an +azure-colored silk bodice that left her arms and shoulders bare to the +light that played on them from three small oil lamps above her. Her +feet and ankles were also bare, except for the matting sandals into +which her toes were thrust. On one thin arm glimmered an +extraordinarily heavy bracelet of gold. Her skin, which was very +white, was further albificated by a coat of rice powder. She was +startlingly slight. Blake, as he watched her, could see the oval +shadows under her collar bones and the almost girlish meagerness of +breast half-covered by the azure silk bodice. + +She looked up slowly as Blake stepped into the room. Her eyes widened, +and she continued to look, with parted lips, as she contemplated the +intruder's heavy figure. There was no touch of fear on her face. It +was more curiosity, the wilful, wide-eyed curiosity of the child. She +even laughed a little as she stared at the intruder. Her rouged lips +were tinted a carmine so bright that they looked like a wound across +her white face. That gash of color became almost clown-like as it +crescented upward with its wayward mirth. Her eyebrows were heavily +penciled and the lids of the eyes elongated by a widening point of blue +paint. Her bare heel, which she caressed from time to time with +fingers whereon the nails were stained pink with henna, was small and +clean cut, as clean cut, Blake noticed, as the heel of a razor, while +the white calf above it was as thin and flat as a boy's. + +"Hello, New York," she said with her foolish and inconsequential little +laugh. Her voice took on an oddly exotic intonation, as she spoke. +Her teeth were small and white; they reminded Blake of rice, while she +repeated the "New York," bubblingly, as though she were a child with a +newly learned word. + +"Hello!" responded the detective, wondering how or where to begin. She +made him think of a painted marionette, so maintained were her poses, +so unreal was her make up. + +"You 're the party who 's on the man hunt," she announced. + +"Am I?" equivocated Blake. She had risen to her feet by this time, +with monkey-like agility, and showed herself to be much taller than he +had imagined. He noticed a knife scar on her forearm. + +"You 're after this man called Binhart," she declared. + +"Oh, no, I 'm not," was Blake's sagacious response. "I don't want +Binhart!" + +"Then what do you want?" + +"I want the money he 's got." + +The little painted face grew serious; then it became veiled. + +"How much money has he?" + +"That's what I want to find out!" + +She squatted ruminatively down on the edge of her divan. It was low +and wide and covered with orange-colored silk. + +"Then you'll have to find Binhart!" was her next announcement. + +"Maybe!" acknowledged Blake. + +"I can show you where he is!" + +"All right," was the unperturbed response. The blue-painted eyes were +studying him. + +"It will be worth four thousand pounds, in English gold," she announced. + +Blake took a step or two nearer her. + +"Is that the message Ottenheim told you to give me?" he demanded. His +face was red with anger. + +"Then three thousand pounds," she calmly suggested, wriggling her toes +into a fallen sandal. + +Blake did not deign to speak. His inarticulate grunt was one of +disgust. + +"Then a thousand, in gold," she coyly intimated. She twisted about to +pull the strap of her bodice up over her white shoulder-blades. "Or I +will kill him for you for two thousand pounds in gold!" + +Her eyes were as tranquil as a child's. Blake remembered that he was +in a world not his own. + +"Why should I want him killed?" he inquired. He looked about for some +place to sit. There was not a chair in the room. + +"Because he intends to kill _you_," answered the woman, squatting on +the orange-covered divan. + +"I wish he 'd come and try," Blake devoutly retorted. + +"He will not come," she told him. "It will be done from the dark. _I_ +could have done it. But Ottenheim said no." + +"And Ottenheim said you were to work with me in this," declared Blake, +putting two and two together. + +The woman shrugged a white shoulder. + +"Have you any money?" she asked. She put the question with the +artlessness of a child. + +"Mighty little," retorted Blake, still studying the woman from where he +stood. He was wondering if Ottenheim had the same hold on her that the +authorities had on Ottenheim, the ex-forger who enjoyed his parole only +on condition that he remain a stool-pigeon of the high seas. He +pondered what force he could bring to bear on her, what power could +squeeze from those carmine and childish lips the information he must +have. + +He knew that he could break that slim body of hers across his knee. +But he also knew that he had no way of crushing out of it the truth he +sought, the truth he must in some way obtain. The woman still squatted +on the divan, peering down at the knife scar on her arm from time to +time, studying it, as though it were an inscription. + +Blake was still watching the woman when the door behind him was slowly +opened; a head was thrust in, and as quietly withdrawn again. Blake +dropped his right hand to his coat pocket and moved further along the +wall, facing the woman. There was nothing of which he stood afraid: he +merely wished to be on the safe side. + +"Well, what word 'll I take back to Ottenheim?" he demanded. + +The woman grew serious. Then she showed her rice-like row of teeth as +she laughed. + +"That means there 's nothing in it for me," she complained with +pouting-lipped moroseness. Her venality, he began to see, was merely +the instinctive acquisitiveness of the savage, the greed of the petted +child. + +"No more than there is for me," Blake acknowledged. She turned and +caught up a heavily flowered mandarin coat of plaited cream and gold. +She was thrusting one arm into it when a figure drifted into the room +from the matting-hung doorway on Blake's left. As she saw this figure +she suddenly flung off the coat and stooped to the tea tray in the +middle of the floor. + +Blake saw that the newcomer was a Chinaman. This newcomer, he also +saw, ignored him as though he were a door post, confronting the woman +and assailing her with a quick volley of words, of incomprehensible +words in the native tongue. She answered with the same clutter and +clack of unknown syllables, growing more and more excited as the +dialogue continued. Her thin face darkened and changed, her white arms +gyrated, the fires of anger burned in the baby-like eyes. She seemed +expostulating, arguing, denouncing, and each wordy sally was met by an +equally wordy sally from the Chinaman. She challenged and rebuked with +her passionately pointed finger; she threatened with angry eyes; she +stormed after the newcomer as he passed like a shadow out of the room; +she met him with a renewed storm when he returned a moment later. + +The Chinaman now stood watching her, impassive and immobile, as though +he had taken his stand and intended to stick to it. Blake studied him +with calm and patient eyes. That huge-limbed detective in his day had +"pounded" too many Christy Street Chinks to be in any way intimidated +by a queue and a yellow face. He was not disturbed. He was merely +puzzled. + +Then the woman turned to the mandarin coat, and caught it up, shook it +out, and for one brief moment stood thoughtfully regarding it. Then +she suddenly turned about on the Chinaman. + +Blake, as he stood watching that renewed angry onslaught, paid little +attention to the actual words that she was calling out. But as he +stood there he began to realize that she was not speaking in Chinese, +but in English. + +"Do you hear me, white man? Do you hear me?" she cried out, over and +over again. Yet the words seemed foolish, for all the time as she +uttered them, she was facing the placid-eyed Chinaman and gesticulating +in his face. + +"Don't you see," Blake at last heard her crying, "he doesn't know what +I'm saying! He doesn't understand a word of English!" And then, and +then only, it dawned on Blake that every word the woman was uttering +was intended for his own ears. She was warning him, and all the while +pretending that her words were the impetuous words of anger. + +"Watch this man!" he heard her cry. "Don't let him know you 're +listening. But remember what I say, remember it. And God help you if +you haven't got a gun." + +Blake could see her, as in a dream, assailing the Chinaman with her +gestures, advancing on him, threatening him, expostulating with him, +but all in pantomime. There was something absurd about it, as absurd +as a moving-picture film which carries the wrong text. + +"He 'll pretend to take you to the man you want," the woman was +panting. "That's what he will say. But it's a lie. He 'll take you +out to a sampan, to put you aboard Binhart's boat. But the three of +them will cut your throat, cut your throat, and then drop you +overboard. He 's to get so much in gold. Get out of here with him. +Let him think you 're going. But drop away, somewhere, before you get +to the beach. And watch them all the way." + +Blake stared at the immobile Chinaman, as though to make sure that the +other man had not understood. He was still staring at that impassive +yellow face, he was still absorbing the shock of his news, when the +outer door opened and a second Chinaman stepped into the room. The +newcomer cluttered a quick sentence or two to his countryman, and was +still talking when a third figure sidled in. + +Those spoken words, whatever they were, seemed to have little effect on +any one in the room except the woman. She suddenly sprang about and +exploded into an angry shower of denials. + +"It's a lie!" she cried in English, storming about the impassive trio. +"You never heard me peach! You never heard me say a word! It's a lie!" + +Blake strode to the middle of the room, towering above the other +figures, dwarfing them by his great bulk, as assured of his mastery as +he would have been in a Chatham Square gang fight. + +"What's the row here?" he thundered, knowing from the past that power +promptly won its own respect. "What 're you talking about, you two?" +He turned from one intruder to another. "And you? And you? What do +you want, anyway?" + +The three contending figures, however, ignored him as though he were a +tobacconist's dummy. They went on with their exotic cackle, as though +he was no longer in their midst. They did not so much as turn an eye +in his direction. And still Blake felt reasonably sure of his position. + +It was not until the woman squeaked, like a frightened mouse, and ran +whimpering into the corner of the room, that he realized what was +happening. He was not familiar with the wrist movement by which the +smallest bodied of the three men was producing a knife from his sleeve. +The woman, however, had understood from the first. + +"White man, look out!" she half sobbed from her corner. "Oh, white +man!" she repeated in a shriller note as the Chinaman, bending low, +scuttled across the room to the corner where she cowered. + +Blake saw the knife by this time. It was thin and long, for all the +world like an icicle, a shaft of cutting steel ground incredibly thin, +so thin, in fact, that at first sight it looked more like a point for +stabbing than a blade for cutting. + +The mere glitter of that knife electrified the staring white man into +sudden action. He swung about and tried to catch at the arm that held +the steel icicle. He was too late for that, but his fingers closed on +the braided queue. By means of this queue he brought the Chinaman up +short, swinging him sharply about so that he collided flat faced with +the room wall. + +Then, for the first time, Blake grew into a comprehension of what +surrounded him. He wheeled about, stooped and caught up the +papier-mache tea-tray from the floor and once more stood with his back +to the wall. He stood there, on guard, for a second figure with a +second steel icicle was sidling up to him. He swung viciously out and +brought the tea-tray down on the hand that held this knife, crippling +the fingers and sending the steel spinning across the room. Then with +his free hand he tugged the revolver from his coat pocket, holding it +by the barrel and bringing the metal butt down on the queue-wound head +of the third man, who had no knife, but was struggling with the woman +for the metal icicle she had caught up from the floor. + +Then the five seemed to close in together, and the fight became +general. It became a melee. With his swinging right arm Blake +battered and pounded with his revolver butt. With his left hand he +made cutting strokes with the heavy papier-mache tea-tray, keeping +their steel, by those fierce sweeps, away from his body. One Chinaman +he sent sprawling, leaving him huddled and motionless against the +orange-covered divan. The second, stunned by a blow of the tea-tray +across the eyes, could offer no resistance when Blake's smashing right +dealt its blow, the metal gun butt falling like a trip hammer on the +shaved and polished skull. + +As the white man swung about he saw the third Chinaman with his hand on +the woman's throat, holding her flat against the wall, placing her +there as a butcher might place a fowl on his block ready for the blow +of his carver. Blake stared at the movement, panting for breath, +overcome by that momentary indifference wherein a winded athlete +permits without protest an adversary to gain his momentary advantage. +Then will triumphed over the weakness of the body. But before Blake +could get to the woman's side he saw the Chinaman's loose-sleeved right +hand slowly and deliberately ascend. As it reached the meridian of its +circular upsweep he could see the woman rise on her toes, rise as +though with some quick effort, yet some effort which Blake could not +understand. + +At the same moment that she did so a look of pained expostulation crept +into the staring slant eyes on a level with her own. The yellow jaw +gaped, filled with blood, and the poised knife fell at his side, +sticking point down in the flooring. The azure and lemon-yellow that +covered the woman's body flamed into sudden scarlet. It was only as +the figure with the expostulating yellow face sank to the ground, +crumpling up on itself as it fell, that Blake comprehended. That quick +sweep of scarlet, effacing the azure and lemon, had come from the +sudden deluge of blood that burst over the woman's body. She had made +use of the upstroke, Mexican style. Her knife had cut the full length +of the man's abdominal cavity, clean and straight to the breastbone. +He had been ripped up like a herring. + +Blake panted and wheezed, not at the sight of the blood, but at the +exertion to which his flabby muscles had been put. His body was moist +with sweat. His asthmatic throat seemed stifling his lungs. A faint +nausea crept through him, a dim ventral revolt at the thought that such +things could take place so easily, and with so little warning. + +His breast still heaved and panted and he was still fighting for breath +when he saw the woman stoop and wipe the knife on one of the fallen +Chinaman's sleeves. + +"We 've got to get out of here!" she whimpered, as she caught up the +mandarin coat and flung it over her shoulders, for in the struggle her +body had been bared almost to the waist. Blake saw the crimson that +dripped on her matting slippers and maculated the cream white of the +mandarin coat. + +"But where's Binhart?" he demanded, as he looked stolidly about for his +black boulder. + +"Never mind Binhart," she cried, touching the eviscerated body at her +feet with one slipper toe, "or we 'll get what _he_ got!" + +"I want that man Binhart!" persisted the detective. + +"Not here! Not here!" she cried, folding the loose folds of the cloak +closer about her body. + +She ran to the matting curtain, looked out, and called back, "Quick! +Come quick!" Then she ran back, slipped the bolt in the outer door and +rejoined the waiting detective. + +"Oh, white man!" she gasped, as the matting fell between them and the +room incarnadined by their struggle. Blake was not sure, but he +thought he heard her giggle, hysterically, in the darkness. They were +groping their way along a narrow passage. They slipped through a +second door, closed and locked it after them, and once more groped on +through the darkness. + +How many turns they took, Blake could not remember. She stopped and +whispered to him to go softly, as they came to a stairway, as steep and +dark as a cistern. Blake, at the top, could smell opium smoke, and +once or twice he thought he heard voices. The woman stopped him, with +outstretched arms, at the stair head, and together they stood and +listened. + +Blake, with nerves taut, waited for some sign from her to go on again. +He thought she was giving it, when he felt a hand caress his side. He +felt it move upward, exploringly. At the same time that he heard her +little groan of alarm he knew that the hand was not hers. + +He could not tell what the darkness held, but his movement was almost +instinctive. He swung out with his great arm, countered on the +crouching form in front of him, caught at a writhing shoulder, and +tightening his grip, sent the body catapulting down the stairway at his +side. He could hear a revolver go off as the body went tumbling and +rolling down--Blake knew that it was a gun not his own. + +"Come on, white man!" the girl in front of him was crying, as she +tugged at his coat. And they went on, now at a run, taking a turn to +the right, making a second descent, and then another to the left. They +came to still another door, which they locked behind them. Then they +scrambled up a ladder, and he could hear her quick hands padding about +in the dark. A moment later she had thrust up a hatch. He saw it led +to the open air, for the stars were above them. + +He felt grateful for that open air, for the coolness, for the sense of +deliverance which came with even that comparative freedom. + +"Don't stop!" she whispered. And he followed her across the slant of +the uneven roof. He was weak for want of breath. The girl had to +catch him and hold him for a moment. + +"On the next roof you must take off your shoes," she warned him. "You +can rest then. But hurry--hurry!" + +He gulped down the fresh air as he tore at his shoe laces, thrusting +each shoe in a side pocket as he started after her. For by this time +she was scrambling across the broken sloping roofs, as quick and agile +as a cat, dropping over ledges, climbing up barriers and across coping +tiles. Where she was leading him he had no remotest idea. She +reminded him of a cream-tinted monkey in the maddest of steeplechases. +He was glad when she came to a stop. + +The town seemed to lay to their right. Before them were the scattered +lights of the harbor and the mild crescent of the outer bay. They +could see the white wheeling finger of some foreign gunboat as its +searchlight played back and forth in the darkness. + +She sighed with weariness and dropped cross-legged down on the coping +tiles against which he leaned, regaining his breath. She squatted +there, cooingly, like a child exhausted with its evening games. + +"I 'm dished!" she murmured, as she sat there breathing audibly through +the darkness. "I 'm dished for this coast!" + +He sat down beside her, staring at the search-light. There seemed +something reassuring, something authoritative and comforting, in the +thought of it watching there in the darkness. + +The girl touched him on the knee and then shifted her position on the +coping tiles, without rising to her feet. + +"Come here!" she commanded. And when he was close beside her she +pointed with her thin white arm. "That's Saint Poalo there--you can +just make it out, up high, see. And those lights are the Boundary +Gate. And this sweep of lights below here is the _Praya_. Now look +where I 'm pointing. That's the Luiz Camoes lodging-house. You see +the second window with the light in it?" + +"Yes, I see it." + +"Well, Binhart 's inside that window." + +"You know it?" + +"I know it." + +"So he 's there?" said Blake, staring at the vague square of light. + +"Yes, he's there, all right. He's posing as a buyer for a tea house, +and calls himself Bradley. Lee Fu told me; and Lee Fu is always right." + +She stood up and pulled the mandarin coat closer about her thin body. +The coolness of the night air had already chilled her. Then she +squinted carefully about in the darkness. + +"What are you going to do?" she asked. + +"I 'm going to get Binhart," was Blake's answer. + +He could hear her little childlike murmur of laughter. + +"You 're brave, white man," she said, with a hand on his arm. She was +silent for a moment, before she added; "And I think you 'll get him." + +"Of course I 'll get him," retorted Blake, buttoning his coat. The +fires had been relighted on the cold hearth of his resolution. It came +to him only as an accidental after-thought that he had met an unknown +woman and had passed through strange adventures with her and was now +about to pass out of her life again, forever. + +"What 'll you do?" he asked. + +Again he heard the careless little laugh. + +"Oh, I 'll slip down through the Quarter and cop some clothes +somewhere. Then I 'll have a sampan take me out to the German boat. +It 'll start for Canton at daylight." + +"And then?" asked Blake, watching the window of the Luiz Camoes +lodging-house below him. + +"Then I 'll work my way up to Port Arthur, I suppose. There 's a navy +man there who 'll help me!" + +"Have n't you any money?" Blake put the question a little uneasily. + +Again he felt the careless coo of laughter. + +"Feel!" she said. She caught his huge hand between hers and pressed it +against her waist line. She rubbed his fingers along what he accepted +as a tightly packed coin-belt. He was relieved to think that he would +not have to offer her money. Then he peered over the coping tiles to +make sure of his means of descent. + +"You had better go first," she said, as she leaned out and looked down +at his side. "Crawl down this next roof to the end there. At the +corner, see, is the end of the ladder." + +He stooped and slipped his feet into his shoes. Then he let himself +cautiously down to the adjoining roof, steeper even than the one on +which they had stood. She bent low over the tiles, so that her face +was very close to his as he found his footing and stood there. + +"Good-by, white man," she whispered. + +"Good-by!" he whispered back, as he worked his way cautiously and +ponderously along that perilous slope. + +She leaned there, watching him as he gained the ladder-end. He did not +look back as he lowered himself, rung by rung. All thought of her, in +fact, had passed from his preoccupied mind. He was once more intent on +his own grim ends. He was debating with himself just how he was to get +in through that lodging-house window and what his final move would be +for the round up of his enemy. He had made use of too many "molls" in +his time to waste useless thought on what they might say or do or +desire. When he had got Binhart, he remembered, he would have to look +about for something to eat, for he was as hungry as a wolf. And he did +not even hear the girl's second soft whisper of "Good-by." + + + + +IX + +That stolid practicality which had made Blake a successful operative +asserted itself in the matter of his approach to the Luiz Camoes house, +the house which had been pointed out to him as holding Binhart. + +He circled promptly about to the front of that house, pressed a gold +coin in the hand of the half-caste Portuguese servant who opened the +door, and asked to be shown to the room of the English tea merchant. + +That servant, had he objected, would have been promptly taken +possession of by the detective, and as promptly put in a condition +where he could do no harm, for Blake felt that he was too near the end +of his trail to be put off by any mere side issue. But the coin and +the curt explanation that the merchant must be seen at once admitted +Blake to the house. + +The servant was leading him down the length of the half-lit hall when +Blake caught him by the sleeve. + +"You tell my rickshaw boy to wait! Quick, before he gets away!" + +Blake knew that the last door would be the one leading to Binhart's +room. The moment he was alone in the hall he tiptoed to this door and +pressed an ear against its panel. Then with his left hand, he slowly +turned the knob, caressing it with his fingers that it might not click +when the latch was released. As he had feared, it was locked. + +He stood for a second or two, thinking. Then with the knuckle of one +finger he tapped on the door, lightly, almost timidly. + +A man's voice from within, cried out, "Wait a minute! Wait a minute!" +But Blake, who had been examining the woodwork of the door-frame, did +not choose to wait a minute. Any such wait, he felt, would involve too +much risk. In one minute, he knew, a fugitive could either be off and +away, or could at least prepare himself for any one intercepting that +flight. So Blake took two quick steps back, and brought his massive +shoulder against the door. It swung back, as though nothing more than +a parlor match had held it shut. Blake, as he stepped into the room, +dropped his right hand to his coat pocket. + +Facing him, at the far side of the room, he saw Binhart. + +The fugitive sat in a short-legged reed chair, with a grip-sack open on +his knees. His coat and vest were off, and the light from the oil lamp +at his side made his linen shirt a blotch of white. + +He had thrown his head up, at the sound of the opening door, and he +still sat, leaning forward in the low chair in an attitude of startled +expectancy. There was no outward and apparent change on his face as +his eyes fell on Blake's figure. He showed neither fear nor +bewilderment. His career had equipped him with histrionic powers that +were exceptional. As a bank-sneak and confidence-man he had long since +learned perfect control of his features, perfect composure even under +the most discomforting circumstances. + +"Hello, Connie!" said the detective facing him. He spoke quietly, and +his attitude seemed one of unconcern. Yet a careful observer might +have noticed that the pulse of his beefy neck was beating faster than +usual. And over that great body, under its clothing, were rippling +tremors strangely like those that shake the body of a leashed bulldog +at the sight of a street cat. + +"Hello, Jim!" answered Binhart, with equal composure. He had aged +since Blake had last seen him, aged incredibly. His face was thin now, +with plum-colored circles under the faded eyes. + +He made a move as though to lift down the valise that rested on his +knees. But Blake stopped him with a sharp movement of his right hand. + +"That's all right," he said. "Don't get up!" + +Binhart eyed him. During that few seconds of silent tableau each man +was appraising, weighing, estimating the strength of the other. + +"What do you want, Jim?" asked Binhart, almost querulously. + +"I want that gun you 've got up there under your liver pad," was +Blake's impassive answer. + +"Is that all?" asked Binhart. But he made no move to produce the gun. + +"Then I want you," calmly announced Blake. + +A look of gentle expostulation crept over Binhart's gaunt face. + +"You can't do it, Jim," he announced. "You can't take me away from +here." + +"But I'm going to," retorted Blake. + +"How?" + +"I 'm just going to take you." + +He crossed the room as he spoke. + +"Give me the gun," he commanded. + +Binhart still sat in the low reed chair. He made no movement in +response to Blake's command. + +"What's the good of getting rough-house," he complained. + +"Gi' me the gun," repeated Blake. + +"Jim, I hate to see you act this way," but as Binhart spoke he slowly +drew the revolver from its flapped pocket. Blake's revolver barrel was +touching the white shirt-front as the movement was made. It remained +there until he had possession of Binhart's gun. Then he backed away, +putting his own revolver back in his pocket. + +"Now, get your clothes on," commanded Blake. + +"What for?" temporized Binhart. + +"You 're coming with me!" + +"You can't do it, Jim," persisted the other. "You could n't get me +down to the waterfront, in this town. They 'd get you before you were +two hundred yards away from that door." + +"I 'll risk it," announced the detective. + +"And I 'd fight you myself, every move. This ain't Manhattan Borough, +you know, Jim; you can't kidnap a white man. I 'd have you in irons +for abduction the first ship we struck. And at the first port of call +I 'd have the best law sharps money could get. You can't do it, Jim. +It ain't law!" + +"What t' hell do I care for law," was Blake's retort. "I want you and +you 're going to come with me." + +"Where am I going?" + +"Back to New York." + +Binhart laughed. It was a laugh without any mirth in it. + +"Jim, you 're foolish. You could n't get me back to New York alive, +any more than you could take Victoria Peak to New York!" + +"All right, then, I 'll take you along the other way, if I ain't going +to take you alive. I 've followed you a good many thousand miles, +Connie, and a little loose talk ain't going to make me lie down at this +stage of the game." + +Binhart sat studying the other man for a moment or two. + +"Then how about a little real talk, the kind of talk that money makes?" + +"Nothing doing!" declared Blake, folding his arms. + +Binhart flickered a glance at him as he thrust his own right hand down +into the hand-bag on his knees. + +"I want to show you what you could get out of this," he said, leaning +forward a little as he looked up at Blake. + +When his exploring right hand was lifted again above the top of the bag +Blake firmly expected to see papers of some sort between its fingers. +He was astonished to see something metallic, something which glittered +bright in the light from the wall lamp. The record of this discovery +had scarcely been carried back to his brain, when the silence of the +room seemed to explode into a white sting, a puff of noise that felt +like a whip lash curling about Blake's leg. It seemed to roll off in a +shifting and drifting cloud of smoke. + +It so amazed Blake that he fell back against the wall, trying to +comprehend it, to decipher the source and meaning of it all. He was +still huddled back against the wall when a second surprise came to him. +It was the discovery that Binhart had caught up a hat and a coat, and +was running away, running out through the door while his captor stared +after him. + +It was only then Blake realized that his huddled position was not a +thing of his own volition. Some impact had thrown him against the wall +like a toppled nine-pin. The truth came to him, in a sudden flash; +Binhart had shot at him. There had been a second revolver hidden away +in the hand bag, and Binhart had attempted to make use of it. + +A great rage against Binhart swept through him. A still greater rage +at the thought that his enemy was running away brought Blake lurching +and scrambling to his feet. He was a little startled to find that it +hurt him to run. But it hurt him more to think of losing Binhart. + +He dove for the door, hurling his great bulk through it, tossing aside +the startled Portuguese servant who stood at the outer entrance. He +ran frenziedly out into the night, knowing by the staring faces of the +street-corner group that Binhart had made the first turning and was +running towards the water-front. He could see the fugitive, as he came +to the corner; and like an unpenned bull he swung about and made after +him. His one thought was to capture his man. His one obsession was to +haul down Binhart. + +Then, as he ran, a small trouble insinuated itself into his mind. He +could not understand the swishing of his right boot, at every hurrying +stride. But he did not stop, for he could already smell the odorous +coolness of the waterfront and he knew he must close in on his man +before that forest of floating sampans and native house-boats swallowed +him up. + +A lightheadedness crept over him as he came panting down to the water's +edge. The faces of the coolies about him, as he bargained for a +sampan, seemed far away and misty. The voices, as the flat-bottomed +little skiff was pushed off in pursuit of the boat which was hurrying +Binhart out into the night, seemed remote and thin, as though coming +from across foggy water. He was bewildered by a sense of dampness in +his right leg. He patted it with his hand, inquisitively, and found it +wet. + +He stooped down and felt his boot. It was full of blood. It was +overrunning with blood. He remembered then. Binhart had shot him, +after all. + +He could never say whether it was this discovery, or the actual loss of +blood, that filled him with a sudden giddiness. He fell forward on his +face, on the bottom of the rocking sampan. + +He must have been unconscious for some time, for when he awakened he +was dimly aware that he was being carried up the landing-ladder of a +steamer. He heard English voices about him. A very youthful-looking +ship's surgeon came and bent over him, cut away his trouser-leg, and +whistled. + +"Why, he 's been bleeding like a stuck pig!" he heard a startled voice, +very close to him, suddenly exclaim. And a few minutes later, after +being moved again, he opened his eyes to find himself in a berth and +the boyish-looking surgeon assuring him it was all right. + +"Where's Binhart?" asked Blake. + +"That's all right, old chap, you just rest up a bit," said the +placatory youth. + +At nine the next morning Blake was taken ashore at Hong Kong. + +After eleven days in the English hospital he was on his feet again. He +was quite strong by that time. But for several weeks after that his +leg was painfully stiff. + + + + +X + +Twelve days later Blake began just where he had left off. He sent out +his feelers, he canvassed the offices from which some echo might come, +he had Macao searched and all westbound steamers which he could reach +by wireless were duly warned. But more than ever, now, he found, he +had to depend on his own initiative, his own personal efforts. The +more official the quarters to which he looked for cooeperation, the less +response he seemed to elicit. In some circles, he saw, his story was +even doubted. It was listened to with indifference; it was dismissed +with shrugs. There were times when he himself was smiled at, pityingly. + +He concluded, after much thought on the matter, that Binhart would +continue to work his way westward. That the fugitive would strike +inland and try to reach Europe by means of the Trans-Siberian Railway +seemed out of the question. On that route he would be too easily +traced. The carefully guarded frontiers of Russia, too, would offer +obstacles which he dare not meet. He would stick to the ragged and +restless sea-fringes, concluded the detective. But before acting on +that conclusion he caught a _Toyo Kisen Kaisha_ steamer for Shanghai, +and went over that city from the Bund and the Maloo to the narrowest +street in the native quarter. In all this second search, however, he +found nothing to reward his efforts. So he started doggedly southward +again, stopping at Saigon and Bangkok and Singapore. + +At each of these ports he went through the same rounds, canvassed the +same set of officials, and made the same inquiries. Then he would go +to the native quarters, to the gambling houses, to the water-front and +the rickshaw coolies and half-naked Malay wharf-rats, holding the +departmental photograph of Binhart in his hand and inquiring of +stranger after stranger: "You know? You savvy him?" And time after +time the curious yellow faces would bend over the picture, the +inscrutable slant eyes would study the face, sometimes silently, +sometimes with a disheartening jabber of heathen tongues. But not one +trace of Binhart could he pick up. + +Then he went on to Penang. There he went doggedly through the same +manoeuvers, canvassing the same rounds and putting the same questions. +And it was at Penang that a sharp-eyed young water-front coolie +squinted at the well-thumbed photograph, squinted back at Blake, and +shook his head in affirmation. A tip of a few English shillings +loosened his tongue, but as Blake understood neither Malay nor Chinese +he was in the dark until he led his coolie to a Cook's agent, who in +turn called in the local officers, who in turn consulted with the +booking-agents of the P. & O. Line. It was then Blake discovered that +Binhart had booked passage under the name of Blaisdell, twelve days +before, for Brindisi. + +Blake studied the map, cashed a draft, and waited for the next steamer. +While marking time he purchased copies of "French Self-Taught" and +"Italian Self-Taught," hoping to school himself in a speaking knowledge +of these two tongues. But the effort was futile. Pore as he might +over those small volumes, he could glean nothing from their laboriously +pondered pages. His mind was no longer receptive. It seemed +indurated, hard-shelled. He had to acknowledge to his own soul that it +was beyond him. He was too old a dog to learn new tricks. + +The trip to Brindisi seemed an endless one. He seemed to have lost his +earlier tendency to be a "mixer." He became more morose, more +self-immured. He found himself without the desire to make new friends, +and his Celtic ancestry equipped him with a mute and sullen antipathy +for his aggressively English fellow travelers. He spent much of his +time in the smoking-room, playing solitaire. When they stopped at +Madras and Bombay he merely emerged from his shell to make sure if no +trace of Binhart were about. He was no more interested in these +heathen cities of a heathen East than in an ash-pile through which he +might have to rake for a hidden coin. + +By the time he reached Brindisi he had recovered his lost weight, and +added to it, by many pounds. He had also returned to his earlier habit +of chewing "fine-cut." He gave less thought to his personal +appearance, becoming more and more indifferent as to the impression he +made on those about him. His face, for all his increase in flesh, lost +its ruddiness. It was plain that during the last few months he had +aged, that his hound-like eye had grown more haggard, that his always +ponderous step had lost the last of its resilience. + +Yet one hour after he had landed at Brindisi his listlessness seemed a +thing of the past. For there he was able to pick up the trail again, +with clear proof that a man answering to Binhart's description had +sailed for Corfu. From Corfu the scent was followed northward to +Ragusa, and from Ragusa, on to Trieste, where it was lost again. + +Two days of hard work, however, convinced Blake that Binhart had sailed +from Fiume to Naples. He started southward by train, at once, vaguely +surprised at the length of Italy, vaguely disconcerted by the unknown +tongue and the unknown country which he had to face. + +It was not until he arrived at Naples that he seemed to touch solid +ground again. That city, he felt, stood much nearer home. In it were +many persons not averse to curry favor with a New York official, and +many persons indirectly in touch with the home Department. These +persons he assiduously sought out, one by one, and in twelve hours' +time his net had been woven completely about the city. And, so far as +he could learn, Binhart was still somewhere in that city. + +Two days later, when least expecting it, he stepped into the wine-room +of an obscure little pension hotel on the Via Margellina and saw +Binhart before him. Binhart left the room as the other man stepped +into it. He left by way of the window, carrying the casement with him. +Blake followed, but the lighter and younger man out-ran him and was +swallowed up by one of the unknown streets of an unknown quarter. An +hour later Blake had his hired agents raking that quarter from cellar +to garret. It was not until the evening of the following day that +these agents learned Binhart had made his way to the Marina, bribed a +water-front boatman to row him across the bay, and had been put aboard +a freighter weighing anchor for Marseilles. + +For the second time Blake traversed Italy by train, hurrying +self-immured and preoccupied through Rome and Florence and Genoa, and +then on along the Riviera to Marseilles. + +In that brawling and turbulent French port, after the usual rounds and +the usual inquiries down in the midst of the harbor-front forestry of +masts, he found a boatman who claimed to have knowledge of Binhart's +whereabouts. This piratical-looking boatman promptly took Blake +several miles down the coast, parleyed in the _lingua Franca_ of the +Mediterranean, argued in broken English, and insisted on going further. +Blake, scenting imposture, demanded to be put ashore. This the boatman +refused to do. It was then and only then that the detective suspected +he was the victim of a "plant," of a carefully planned shanghaing +movement, the object of which, apparently, was to gain time for the +fugitive. + +It was only at the point of a revolver that Blake brought the boat +ashore, and there he was promptly arrested and accused of attempted +murder. He found it expedient to call in the aid of the American +Consul, who, in turn, suggested the retaining of a local advocate. +Everything, it is true, was at last made clear and in the end Blake was +honorably released. + +But Binhart, in the meantime, had caught a Lloyd Brazileiro steamer for +Rio de Janeiro, and was once more on the high seas. + +Blake, when he learned of this, sat staring about him, like a man +facing news which he could not assimilate. He shut himself up in his +hotel room, for an hour, communing with his own dark soul. He emerged +from that self-communion freshly shaved and smoking a cigar. He found +that he could catch a steamer for Barcelona, and from that port take a +Campania Transatlantic boat for Kingston, Jamaica. + +From the American consulate he carried away with him a bundle of New +York newspapers. When out on the Atlantic he arranged these according +to date and went over them diligently, page by page. They seemed like +echoes out of another life. He read listlessly on, going over the +belated news from his old-time home with the melancholy indifference of +the alien, with the poignant impersonality of the exile. He read of +fires and crimes and calamities, of investigations and elections. He +read of a rumored Police Department shake up, and he could afford to +smile at the vitality of that hellbender-like report. Then, as he +turned the worn pages, the smile died from his heavy lips, for his own +name leaped up like a snake from the text and seemed to strike him in +the face. He spelled through the paragraphs carefully, word by word, +as though it were in a language with which he was only half familiar. +He even went back and read the entire column for a second time. For +there it told of his removal from the Police Department. The +Commissioner and Copeland had saved their necks, but Blake was no +longer Second Deputy. They spoke of him as being somewhere in the +Philippines, on the trail of the bank-robber Binhart. They went on to +describe him as a sleuth of the older school, as an advocate of the now +obsolete "third-degree" methods, and as a product of the "machine" +which had so long and so flagrantly placed politics before efficiency. + +Blake put down the papers, lighted a cigar, sat back, and let the truth +of what he had read percolate into his actual consciousness. He was +startled, at first, that no great outburst of rage swept through him. +All he felt, in fact, was a slow and dull resentment, a resentment +which he could not articulate. Yet dull as it was, hour by hour and +day by idle day it grew more virulent. About him stood nothing against +which this resentment could be marshaled. His pride lay as helpless as +a whale washed ashore, too massive to turn and face the tides of +treachery that had wrecked it. All he asked for was time. Let them +wait, he kept telling himself; let them wait until he got back with +Binhart! Then they would all eat crow, every last man of them! + +For Blake did not intend to give up the trail. To do so would have +been beyond him. His mental fangs were already fixed in Binhart. To +withdraw them was not in his power. He could no more surrender his +quarry than the python's head, having once closed on the rabbit, could +release its meal. With Blake, every instinct sloped inward, just as +every python-fang sloped backward. The actual reason for the chase was +no longer clear to his own vision. It was something no longer to be +reckoned with. The only thing that counted was the fact that he had +decided to "get" Binhart, that he was the pursuer and Binhart was the +fugitive. It had long since resolved itself into a personal issue +between him and his enemy. + + + + +XI + +Three hours after he had disembarked from his steamer at Rio, Blake was +breakfasting at the Cafe Britto in the Ovidor. At the same table with +him sat a lean-jawed and rat-eyed little gambler by the name of Passos. + +Two hours after this breakfast Passos might have been seen on the +Avenida Central, in deep talk with a peddler of artificial diamonds. +Still later in the day he held converse with a fellow gambler at the +Paineiras, half-way up Mount Corcovado; and the same afternoon he was +interrogating a certain discredited concession-hunter on the Petropolis +boat. + +By evening he was able to return to Blake with the information that +Binhart had duly landed at Rio, had hidden for three days in the +outskirts of the city, and had gone aboard a German cargo-boat bound +for Colon. Two days later Blake himself was aboard a British freighter +northward bound for Kingston. Once again he beheld a tropical sun +shimmer on hot brass-work and pitch boil up between bone-white +deck-boards sluiced and resluiced by a half-naked crew. Once again he +had to face an enervating equatorial heat that vitiated both mind and +body. But he neither fretted nor complained. Some fixed inner purpose +seemed to sustain him through every discomfort. Deep in that soul, +merely filmed with its fixed equatorial calm, burned some dormant and +crusader-like propulsion. And an existence so centered on one great +issue found scant time to worry over the trivialities of the moment. + +After a three-day wait at Jamaica Blake caught an Atlas liner for +Colon. And at Colon he found himself once more among his own kind. +Scattered up and down the Isthmus he found an occasional Northerner to +whom he was not unknown, engineers and construction men who could talk +of things that were comprehensible to him, gamblers and adventurers who +took him poignantly back to the life he had left so far behind him. +Along that crowded and shifting half-way house for the tropic-loving +American he found more than one passing friend to whom he talked +hungrily and put many wistful questions. Sometimes it was a rock +contractor tanned the color of a Mexican saddle. Sometimes it was a +new arrival in Stetson and riding-breeches and unstained leather +leggings. Sometimes it was a coatless dump-boss blaspheming his +toiling army of spick-a-dees. + +Sometimes he talked with graders and car-men and track-layers in +Chinese saloons along Bottle Alley. Sometimes it was with a +bridge-builder or a lottery capper in the barroom of the Hotel Central, +where he would sit without coat or vest, calmly giving an eye to his +game of "draw" or stolidly "rolling the bones" as he talked--but always +with his ears open for one particular thing, and that thing had to do +with the movements or the whereabouts of Connie Binhart. + +One night, as he sat placidly playing his game of "cut-throat" in his +shirt-sleeves, he looked up and saw a russet-faced figure as stolid as +his own. This figure, he perceived, was discreetly studying him as he +sat under the glare of the light. Blake went on with his game. In a +quarter of an hour, however, he got up from the table and bought a +fresh supply of "green" Havana cigars. Then he sauntered out to where +the russet-faced stranger stood watching the street crowds. + +"Pip, what 're you doing down in these parts?" he casually inquired. +He had recognized the man as Pip Tankred, with whom he had come in +contact five long years before. Pip, on that occasion, was engaged in +loading an East River banana-boat with an odd ton or two of cartridges +designed for Castro's opponents in Venezuela. + +"Oh, I 'm freightin' bridge equipment down the West Coast," he solemnly +announced. "And transshippin' a few cases o' phonograph-records as a +side-line!" + +"Have a smoke?" asked Blake. + +"Sure," responded the russet-faced bucaneer. And as they stood smoking +together Blake tenderly and cautiously put out the usual feelers, +plying the familiar questions and meeting with the too-familiar lack of +response. Like all the rest of them, he soon saw, Pip Tankred knew +nothing of Binhart or his whereabouts. And with that discovery his +interest in Pip Tankred ceased. + +So the next day Blake moved inland, working his interrogative way along +the Big Ditch to Panama. He even slipped back over the line to San +Cristobel and Ancon, found nothing of moment awaiting him there, and +drifted back into Panamanian territory. It was not until the end of +the week that the first glimmer of hope came to him. + +It came in the form of an incredibly thin gringo in an incredibly +soiled suit of duck. Blake had been sitting on the wide veranda of the +Hotel Angelini, sipping his "swizzle" and studiously watching the +Saturday evening crowds that passed back and forth through Panama's +bustling railway station. He had watched the long line of rickety cabs +backed up against the curb, the two honking auto-busses, the shifting +army of pleasure-seekers along the sidewalks, the noisy saloons round +which the crowds eddied like bees about a hive, and he was once more +appraising the groups closer about him, when through that seething and +bustling mass of humanity he saw Dusty McGlade pushing his way, a Dusty +McGlade on whom the rum of Jamaica and the _mezcal_ of Guatemala and +the _anisado_ of Ecuador had combined with the _pulque_ of Mexico to +set their unmistakable seal. + +But three minutes later the two men were seated together above their +"swizzles" and Blake was exploring Dusty's faded memories as busily as +a leather-dip might explore an inebriate's pockets. + +"Who 're you looking for, Jim?" suddenly and peevishly demanded the man +in the soiled white duck, as though impatient of the other's +indirections. + +Blake smoked for a moment or two before answering. + +"I 'm looking for a man called Connie Binhart," he finally confessed, +as he continued to study that ruinous figure in front of him. It +startled him to see what idleness and alcohol and the heat of the +tropics could do to a man once as astute as Dusty McGlade. + +"Then why didn't you say so?" complained McGlade, as though impatient +of obliquities that had been altogether too apparent. He had once been +afraid of this man called Blake, he remembered. But time had changed +things, as time has the habit of doing. And most of all, time had +changed Blake himself, had left the old-time Headquarters man oddly +heavy of movement and strangely slow of thought. + +"Well, I'm saying it now!" Blake's guttural voice was reminding him. + +"Then why did n't you say it an hour ago?" contested McGlade, with his +alcoholic peevish obstinacy. + +"Well, let's have it now," placated the patient-eyed Blake. He waited, +with a show of indifference. He even overlooked Dusty's curt laugh of +contempt. + +"I can tell you all right, all right--but it won't do you much good!" + +"Why not?" And still Blake was bland and patient. + +"Because," retorted McGlade, fixing the other man with a lean finger +that was both unclean and unsteady, "_you can't get at him_!" + +"You tell me where he is," said Blake, striking a match. "I 'll attend +to the rest of it!" + +McGlade slowly and deliberately drank the last of his swizzle. Then he +put down his empty glass and stared pensively and pregnantly into it. + +"What's there in it for me?" he asked. + +Blake, studying him across the small table, Weighed both the man and +the situation. + +"Two hundred dollars in American green-backs," he announced as he drew +out his wallet. He could see McGlade moisten his flaccid lips. He +could see the faded eyes fasten on the bills as they were counted out. +He knew where the money would go, how little good it would do. But +that, he knew, was not his funeral. All he wanted was Binhart. + +"Binhart's in Guayaquil," McGlade suddenly announced. + +"How d' you know that?" promptly demanded Blake. + +"I know the man who sneaked him out from Balboa. He got sixty dollars +for it. I can take you to him. Binhart 'd picked up a medicine-chest +and a bag of instruments from a broken-down doctor at Colon. He went +aboard a Pacific liner as a doctor himself. + +"What liner?" + +"He went aboard the _Trunella_. He thought he 'd get down to Callao. +But they tied the _Trunella_ up at Guayaquil." + +"And you say he 's there now?" + +"Yes!" + +"And aboard the _Trunella_?" + +"Sure! He's got to be aboard the _Trunella_!" + +"Then why d' you say I can't get at him?" + +"Because Guayaquil and the _Trunella_ and the whole coast down there is +tied up in quarantine. That whole harbor's rotten with yellow-jack. +It's tied up as tight as a drum. You could n't get a boat on all the +Pacific to touch that port these days!" + +"But there's got to be _something_ going there!" contended Blake. + +"They daren't do it! They couldn't get clearance--they couldn't even +get _pratique_! Once they got in there they 'd be held and given the +blood-test and picketed with a gunboat for a month! And what's more, +they 've got that Alfaro revolution on down there! They 've got +boat-patrols up and down the coast, keeping a lookout for gun-runners!" + +Blake, at this last word, raised his ponderous head. + +"The boat-patrols wouldn't phase me," he announced. His thoughts, in +fact, were already far ahead, marshaling themselves about other things. + +"You 've a weakness for yellow fever?" inquired the ironic McGlade. + +"I guess it 'd take more than a few fever germs to throw me off that +trail," was the detective's abstracted retort. He was recalling +certain things that the russet-faced Pip Tankred had told him. And +before everything else he felt that it would be well to get in touch +with that distributor of bridge equipment and phonograph records. + +"You don't mean you 're going to try to get into Guayaquil?" demanded +McGlade. + +"If Connie Binhart 's down there I 've got to go and get him," was +Never-Fail Blake's answer. + + * * * * * * + +The following morning Blake, having made sure of his ground, began one +of his old-time "investigations" of that unsuspecting worthy known as +Pip Tankred. + +This investigation involved a hurried journey back to Colon, the +expenditure of much money in cable tolls, the examination of records +that were both official and unofficial, the asking of many questions +and the turning up of dimly remembered things on which the dust of time +had long since settled. + +It was followed by a return to Panama, a secret trip several miles up +the coast to look over a freighter placidly anchored there, a +dolorous-appearing coast-tramp with unpainted upperworks and a rusty +red hull. The side-plates of this red hull, Blake observed, were as +pitted and scarred as the face of an Egyptian obelisk. Her ventilators +were askew and her funnel was scrofulous and many of her rivet-heads +seemed to be eaten away. But this was not once a source of +apprehension to the studious-eyed detective. + +The following evening he encountered Tankred himself, as though by +accident, on the veranda of the Hotel Angelini. The latter, at Blake's +invitation, sat down for a cocktail and a quiet smoke. + +They sat in silence for some time, watching the rain that deluged the +city, the warm devitalizing rain that unedged even the fieriest of +Signer Angelini's stimulants. + +"Pip," Blake very quietly announced, "you 're going to sail for +Guayaquil to-morrow!" + +"Am I?" queried the unmoved Pip. + +"You 're going to start for Guayaquil tomorrow," repeated Blake, "and +you 're going to take me along with you!" + +"My friend," retorted Pip, emitting a curling geyser of smoke as long +and thin as a pool-que, "you 're sure laborin' under the +misapprehension this steamer o' mine is a Pacific mailer! But she +ain't, Blake!" + +"I admit that," quietly acknowledged the other man. "I saw her +yesterday!" + +"And she don't carry no passengers--she ain't allowed to," announced +her master. + +"But she 's going to carry me," asserted Blake, lighting a fresh cigar. + +"What as?" demanded Tankred. And he fixed Blake with a belligerent eye +as he put the question. + +"As an old friend of yours!" + +"And then what?" still challenged the other. + +"As a man who knows your record, in the next place. And on the next +count, as the man who 's wise to those phony bills of lading of yours, +and those doped-up clearance papers, and those cases of carbines you +'ve got down your hold labeled bridge equipment, and that nitro and +giant-caps, and that hundred thousand rounds of smokeless you 're +running down there as phonograph records!" + +Tankred continued to smoke. + +"You ever stop to wonder," he finally inquired, "if it ain't kind o' +flirtin' with danger knowin' so much about me and my freightin' +business?" + +"No, you 're doing the coquetting in this case, I guess!" + +"Then I ain't standin' for no rivals--not on this coast!" + +The two men, so dissimilar in aspect and yet so alike in their +accidental attitudes of an uncouth belligerency, sat staring at each +other. + +"You 're going to take me to Guayaquil," repeated Blake. + +"That's where you 're dead wrong," was the calmly insolent rejoinder. +"I ain't even _goin'_ to Guayaquil." + +"I say you are." + +Tankred's smile translated his earlier deliberateness into open +contempt. + +"You seem to forget that this here town you 're heefin' about lies a +good thirty-five miles up the Guayas River. And if I 'm gun-runnin' +for Alfaro, as you say, I naturally ain't navigatin' streams where they +'d be able to pick me off the bridge-deck with a fishin'-pole!" + +"But you 're going to get as close to Guayaquil as you can, and you +know it." + +"Do I?" said the man with the up-tilted cigar. + +"Look here, Pip," said Blake, leaning closer over the table towards +him. "I don't give a tinker's dam about Alfaro and his two-cent +revolution. I 'm not sitting up worrying over him or his junta or how +he gets his ammunition. But I want to get into Guayaquil, and this is +the only way I can do it!" + +For the first time Tankred turned and studied him. + +"What d' you want to get into Guayaquil for?" he finally demanded. +Blake knew that nothing was to be gained by beating about the bush. + +"There's a man I want down there, and I 'm going down to get him!" + +"Who is he?" + +"That's my business," retorted Blake. + +"And gettin' into Guayaquil's your business!" Tankred snorted back. + +"All I 'm going to say is he 's a man from up North--and he 's not in +your line of business, and never was and never will be!" + +"How do I know that?" + +"You 'll have my word for it!" + +Tankred swung round on him. + +"D' you realize you 'll have to sneak ashore in a _lancha_ and pass a +double line o' patrol? And then crawl into a town that's reekin' with +yellow-jack, a town you 're not likely to crawl out of again inside o' +three months?" + +"I know all that!" acknowledged Blake. + +For the second time Tankred turned and studied the other man. + +"And you're still goin' after your gen'leman friend from up North?" he +inquired. + +"Pip, I 've got to get that man!" + +"You've got 'o?" + +"I 've got to, and I 'm going to!" + +Tankred threw his cigar-end away and laughed leisurely and quietly. + +"Then what're we sittin' here arguin' about, anyway? If it's settled, +it's settled, ain't it?" + +"Yes, I think it's settled!" + +Again Tankred laughed. + +"But take it from me, my friend, you'll sure see some rough goin' this +next few days!" + + + + +XII + +As Tankred had intimated, Blake's journey southward from Panama was +anything but comfortable traveling. The vessel was verminous, the food +was bad, and the heat was oppressive. It was a heat that took the life +out of the saturated body, a thick and burdening heat that hung like a +heavy gray blanket on a gray sea which no rainfall seemed able to cool. + +But Blake uttered no complaint. By day he smoked under a sodden +awning, rained on by funnel cinders. By night he stood at the rail. +He stood there, by the hour together, watching with wistful and haggard +eyes the Alpha of Argo and the slowly rising Southern Cross. Whatever +his thoughts, as he watched those lonely Southern skies, he kept them +to himself. + +It was the night after they had swung about and were steaming up the +Gulf of Guayaquil under a clear sky that Tankred stepped down to +Blake's sultry little cabin and wakened him from a sound sleep. + +"It's time you were gettin' your clothes on," he announced. + +"Getting my clothes on?" queried Blake through the darkness. + +"Yes, you can't tell what we 'll bump into, any time now!" + +The wakened sleeper heard the other man moving about in the velvety +black gloom. + +"What 're you doing there?" was his sharp question as he heard the +squeak and slam of a shutter. + +"Closin' this dead-light, of course," explained Tankred. A moment +later he switched on the electric globe at the bunkhead. "We 're +gettin' in pretty close now and we 're goin' with our lights doused!" + +He stood for a moment, staring down at the sweat-dewed white body on +the bunk, heaving for breath in the closeness of the little cabin. His +mind was still touched into mystery by the spirit housed in that +uncouth and undulatory flesh. He was still piqued by the vast sense of +purpose which Blake carried somewhere deep within his seemingly +tepid-willed carcass, like the calcinated pearl at the center of an +oyster. + +"You 'd better turn out!" he called back as he stepped into the +engulfing gloom of the gangway. + +Blake rolled out of his berth and dressed without haste or excitement. +Already, overhead, he could hear the continuous tramping of feet, with +now and then a quiet-noted order from Tankred himself. He could hear +other noises along the ship's side, as though a landing-ladder were +being bolted and lowered along the rusty plates. + +When he went up on deck he found the boat in utter darkness. To that +slowly moving mass, for she was now drifting ahead under quarter-speed, +this obliteration of light imparted a sense of stealthiness. This note +of suspense, of watchfulness, of illicit adventure was reflected in the +very tones of the motley deckhands who brushed past him in the humid +velvety blackness. + +As he stood at the rail, staring ahead through this blackness, Blake +could see a light here and there along the horizon. These lights +increased in number as the boat steamed slowly on. Then, far away in +the roadstead ahead of them, he made out an entire cluster of lights, +like those of a liner at anchor. Then he heard the tinkle of a bell +below deck, and he realized that the engines had stopped. + +In the lull of the quieted ship's screw he could hear the wash of +distant surf, faint and phantasmal above the material little near-by +boat-noises. Then came a call, faint and muffled, like the complaining +note of a harbor gull. A moment later the slow creak of oars crept up +to Blake's straining ears. Then out of the heart of the darkness that +surrounded him, not fifty feet away, he saw emerge one faint point of +light, rising and falling with a rhythm as sleepy as the slow creak of +the oars. On each side of it other small lights sprang up. They were +close beside the ship, by this time, a flotilla of lights, and each +light, Blake finally saw, came from a lantern that stood deep in the +bottom of a boat, a lantern that had been covered with a square of +matting or sail-cloth, until some prearranged signal from the drifting +steamer elicited its answering flicker of light. Then they swarmed +about the oily water, shifting and swaying on their course like a +cluster of fireflies, alternately dark and luminous in the dip and rise +of the ground-swell. Within each small aura of radiance the watcher at +the rail could see a dusky and quietly moving figure, the faded blue of +a denim garment, the brown of bare arms, or the sinews of a straining +neck. Once he caught the whites of a pair of eyes turned up towards +the ship's deck. He could also see the running and wavering lines of +fire as the oars puddled and backed in the phosphorescent water under +the gloomy steel hull. Then he heard a low-toned argument in Spanish. +A moment later the flotilla of small boats had fastened to the ship's +side, like a litter of suckling pigs to a sow's breast. Every light +went out again, every light except a faint glow as a guide to the first +boat at the foot of the landing-ladder. Along this ladder Blake could +hear barefooted figures padding and grunting as cases and bales were +cautiously carried down and passed from boat to boat. + +He swung nervously about as he felt a hand clutch his arm. He found +Tankred speaking quietly into his ear. + +"There 'll be one boat over," that worthy was explaining. "One +boat--you take that--the last one! And you 'd better give the +_guinney_ a ten-dollar bill for his trouble!" + +"All right! I 'm ready!" was Blake's low-toned reply as he started to +move forward with the other man. + +"Not yet! Not yet!" was the other's irritable warning, as Blake felt +himself pushed back. "You stay where you are! We 've got a +half-hour's hard work ahead of us yet!" + +As Blake leaned over the rail again, watching and listening, he began +to realize that the work was indeed hard, that there was some excuse +for Tankred's ill-temper. Most men, he acknowledged, would feel the +strain, where one misstep or one small mistake might undo the work of +months. Beyond that, however, Blake found little about which to +concern himself. Whether it was legal or illegal did not enter his +mind. That a few thousand tin-sworded soldiers should go armed or +unarmed was to him a matter of indifference. It was something not of +his world. It did not impinge on his own jealously guarded circle of +activity, on his own task of bringing a fugitive to justice. And as +his eyes strained through the gloom at the cluster of lights far ahead +in the roadstead he told himself that it was there that his true goal +lay, for it was there that the _Trunella_ must ride at anchor and +Binhart must be. + +Then he looked wonderingly back at the flotilla under the rail, for he +realized that every movement and murmur of life there had come to a +sudden stop. It was a cessation of all sound, a silence as ominously +complete as that of a summer woodland when a hawk soars overhead. Even +the small light deep in the bottom of the first _lancha_ tied to the +landing-ladder had been suddenly quenched. + +Blake, staring apprehensively out into the gloom, caught the sound of a +soft and feverish throbbing. His disturbed mind had just registered +the conclusion that this sound must be the throbbing of a passing +marine-engine, when the thought was annihilated by a second and more +startling occurrence. + +Out across the blackness in front of him suddenly flashed a white saber +of light. For one moment it circled and wavered restlessly about, +feeling like a great finger along the gray surface of the water. Then +it smote full on Blake and the deck where he stood, blinding him with +its glare, picking out every object and every listening figure as +plainly as a calcium picks out a scene on the stage. + +Without conscious thought Blake dropped lower behind the ship's rail. +He sank still lower, until he found himself down on his hands and knees +beside a rope coil. As he did so he heard the call of a challenging +Spanish voice, a murmur of voices, and then a repeated command. + +There was no answer to this challenge. Then came another command and +then silence again. Then a faint thrill arrowed through Blake's +crouching body, for from somewhere close behind him a gun-shot rang out +and was repeated again and again. Blake knew, at that sound, that +Tankred or one of his men was firing straight into the dial of the +searchlight, that Tankred himself intended to defy what must surely be +an Ecuadorean gunboat. The detective was oppressed by the thought that +his own jealously nursed plan might at any moment get a knock on the +head. + +At almost the same time the peevishly indignant Blake could hear the +tinkle of the engine-room bell below him and then the thrash of the +screw wings. The boat began to move forward, dangling the knocking and +rocking flotilla of _lanchas_ and surf-boats at her side, like a +deer-mouse making off with its young. Then came sharp cries of +protest, in Spanish, and more cries and curses in harbor-English, and a +second engine-room signal and a cessation of the screw thrashings. +This was followed by a shower of carbine-shots and the plaintive whine +of bullets above the upper-works, the crack and thud of lead against +the side-plates. At the same time Blake heard the scream of a +denim-clad figure that suddenly pitched from the landing-ladder into +the sea. Then came an answering volley, from somewhere close below +Blake. He could not tell whether it was from the boat-flotilla or from +the port-holes above it. But he knew that Tankred and his men were +returning the gunboat's fire. + +Blake, by this time, was once more thinking lucidly. Some of the cases +in those surf-boats, he remembered, held giant-caps and dynamite, and +he knew what was likely to happen if a bullet struck them. He also +remembered that he was still exposed to the carbine fire from behind +the searchlight. + +He stretched out, flat on the deck-boards, and wormed his way slowly +and ludicrously aft. He did not bring those uncouth vermiculations to +a stop until he was well back in the shelter of a rusty capstan, cut +off from the light by a lifeboat swinging on its davits. As he +clambered to his feet again he saw this light suddenly go out and then +reappear. As it did so he could make out a patrol-boat, gray and +low-bodied, slinking forward through the gloom. He could see that boat +crowded with men, men in uniform, and he could see that each man +carried a carbine. He could also see that it would surely cut across +the bow of his own steamer. A moment later he knew that Tankred +himself had seen this, for high above the crack and whine of the +shooting and the tumult of voices he could now hear Tankred's +blasphemous shouts. + +"Cut loose those boats!" bellowed the frantic gun-runner. Then he +repeated the command, apparently in Spanish. And to this came an +answering babel of cries and expostulations and counter-cries. But +still the firing from behind the searchlight kept up. Blake could see +a half-naked seaman with a carpenter's ax skip monkey-like down the +landing-ladder. He saw the naked arm strike with the ax, the two hands +suddenly catch at the bare throat, and the figure fall back in a huddle +against the red-stained wooden steps. + +Blake also saw, to his growing unrest, that the firing was increasing +in volume, that at the front of the ship sharp volley and +counter-volley was making a pandemonium of the very deck on which he +knelt. For by this time the patrol-boat with the carbineers had +reached the steamer's side and a boarding-ladder had been thrown across +her quarter. And Blake began to comprehend that he was in the most +undesirable of situations. He could hear the repeated clang of the +engine-room telegraph and Tankred's frenzied and ineffectual bellow of +"Full steam ahead! For the love o' Christ, full ahead down there!" + +Through all that bedlam Blake remained resentfully cool, angrily +clear-thoughted. He saw that the steamer did not move forward. He +concluded the engine-room to be deserted. And he saw both the futility +and the danger of remaining where he was. + +He crawled back to where he remembered the rope-coil lay, dragging the +loose end of it back after him, and then lowering it over the ship's +side until it touched the water. Then he shifted this rope along the +rail until it swung over the last of the line of surf-boats that bobbed +and thudded against the side-plates of the gently rolling steamer. +About him, all the while, he could hear the shouts of men and the +staccato crack of the rifles. But he saw to it that his rope was well +tied to the rail-stanchion. Then he clambered over the rail itself, +and with a double twist of the rope about his great leg let himself +ponderously down over the side. + +He swayed there, for a moment, until the roll of the ship brought him +thumping against the rusty plates again. At the same moment the +shifting surf-boat swung in under him. Releasing his hold, he went +tumbling down between the cartridge-cases and the boat-thwarts. + +This boat, he saw, was still securely tied to its mate, one of the +larger-bodied _lanchas_, and he had nothing with which to sever the +rope. His first impulse was to reach for his revolver and cut through +the manilla strands by means of a half-dozen quick shots. But this, he +knew, would too noisily announce his presence there. So he fell on his +knees and peered and prodded about the boat bottom. There, to his +surprise, he saw the huddled body of a dead man, face down. This body +he turned over, running an exploring hand along the belt-line. As he +had hoped, he found a heavy nine-inch knife there. + +He was dodging back to the bow of the surf-boat when a uniformed figure +carrying a rifle came scuttling and shouting down the landing-ladder. +Blake's spirits sank as he saw that figure. He knew now that his +movement had been seen and understood. He knew, too, as he saw the +figure come scrambling out over the rocking boats, what capture would +mean. + +He had the last strand of the rope severed before the Ecuadorean with +the carbine reached the _lancha_ next to him. He still felt, once he +was free, that he could use his revolver and get away. But before +Blake could push off a sinewy brown hand reached out and clutched the +gunwale of the liberated boat. Blake ignored the clutching hand. But, +relying on his own sheer strength, he startled the owning of the hand +by suddenly flinging himself forward, seizing the carbine barrel, and +wresting it free. A second later it disappeared beneath the surface of +the water. + +That impassioned brown hand, however, still clung to the boat's +gunwale. It clung there determinedly, blindly--and Blake knew there +was no time for a struggle. He brought the heavy-bladed knife down on +the clinging fingers. It was a stroke like that of a cleaver on a +butcher's block. In the strong white light that still played on them +he could see the flash of teeth in the man's opened mouth, the upturn +of the staring eye-balls as the severed fingers fell away and he +screamed aloud with pain. + +But with one quick motion of his gorilla-like arms Blake pushed his +boat free, telling himself there was still time, warning himself to +keep cool and make the most of every chance. Yet as he turned to take +up the oars he saw that he had been discovered by the Ecuadoreans on +the freighter's deck, that his flight was not to be as simple as he had +expected. He saw the lean brown face, picked out by the white light, +as a carbineer swung his short-barreled rifle out over the rail--and +the man in the surf-boat knew by that face what was coming. + +His first impulse was to reach into his pocket for his revolver. But +that, he knew, was already too late, for a second man had joined the +first and a second rifle was already swinging round on him. His next +thought was to dive over the boat's side. This thought had scarcely +formulated itself, however, before he heard the bark of the rifle and +saw the puff of smoke. + +At the same moment he felt the rip and tug of the bullet through the +loose side-folds of his coat. And with that rip and tug came a third +thought, over which he did not waver. He threw up his hands, sharply, +and flung himself headlong across the body of the dead man in the +bottom of the surf-boat. + +He fell heavily, with a blow that shook the wind from his body. But as +he lay there he knew better than to move. He lay there, scarcely +daring to breathe, dreading that the rise and fall of his breast would +betray his ruse, praying that his boat would veer about so his body +would be in the shadow. For he knew the two waiting carbines were +still pointed at him. + +He lay there, counting the seconds, knowing that he and his slowly +drifting surf-boat were still in the full white fulgor of the wavering +searchlight. He lay there as a second shot came whistling overhead, +spitting into the water within three feet of him. Then a third bullet +came, this time tearing through the wood of the boat bottom beside him. +And he still waited, without moving, wondering what the next shot would +do. He still waited, his passive body horripilating with a vast +indignation at the thought of the injustice of it all, at the thought +that he must lie there and let half-baked dagoes shower his +unprotesting back with lead. But he lay there, still counting the +seconds, as the boat drifted slowly out on the quietly moving tide. + +Then a new discovery disturbed him. It obliterated his momentary joy +at the thought that they were no longer targeting down at him. He +could feel the water slowly rising about his prostrate body. He +realized that the boat in which he lay was filling. He calmly figured +out that with the body of the dead man and the cartridge-cases about +him it was carrying a dead weight of nearly half a ton. And through +the bullet hole in its bottom the water was rushing in. + +Yet he could do nothing. He could make no move. For at the slightest +betrayal of life, he knew, still another volley would come from that +ever-menacing steamer's deck. He counted the minutes, painfully, +methodically, feeling the water rise higher and higher about his body. +The thought of this rising water and what it meant did not fill him +with panic. He seemed more the prey of a deep and sullen resentment +that his plans should be so gratuitously interfered with, that his +approach to the _Trunella_ should be so foolishly delayed, that so many +cross-purposes should postpone and imperil his quest of Binhart. + +He knew, by the slowly diminishing sounds, that he was drifting further +and further away from Tankred and his crowded fore-deck. But he was +still within the area of that ever-betraying searchlight. Some time, +he knew, he must drift beyond it. But until that moment came he dare +make no move to keep himself afloat. + +By slowly turning his head an inch or two he was able to measure the +height of the gunwale above the water. Then he made note of where an +oar lay, asking himself how long he could keep afloat on a timber so +small, wondering how far he could be from land. Then he suddenly fell +to questioning if the waters of that coast were shark infested. + +He was still debating the problem when he became conscious of a change +about him. A sudden pall of black fell like balm on his startled face. +The light was no longer there. He found himself engulfed in a +relieving, fortifying darkness, a darkness that brought him to his feet +in the slowly moving boat. He was no longer visible to the rest of the +world. At a breath, almost, he had passed into eclipse. + +His first frantic move was to tug and drag the floating body at his +feet to the back of the boat and roll it overboard. Then he waded +forward and one by one carefully lifted the cases of ammunition and +tumbled them over the side. One only he saved, a smaller wooden box +which he feverishly pried open with his knife and emptied into the sea. +Then he flung away the top boards, placing the empty box on the seat in +front of him. Then he fell on his hands and knees, fingering along the +boat bottom until he found the bullet-hole through which the water was +boiling up. + +Once he had found it he began tearing at his clothes like a madman, for +the water was now alarmingly high. These rags and shreds of clothing +he twisted together and forced into the hole, tamping them firmly into +place with his revolver-barrel. + +Then he caught up the empty wooden box from the boat seat and began to +bale. He baled solemnly, as though his very soul were in it. He was +oblivious of the strange scene silhouetted against the night behind +him, standing out as distinctly as though it were a picture thrown on a +sheet from a magic-lantern slide--a circle of light surrounding a +drifting and rusty-sided ship on which tumult had turned into sudden +silence. He was oblivious of his own wet clothing and his bruised body +and the dull ache in his leg wound of many months ago. He was intent +only on the fact that he was lowering the water in his surf-boat, that +he was slowly drifting further and further away from the enemies who +had interfered with his movements, and that under the faint spangle of +lights which he could still see in the offing on his right lay an +anchored liner, and that somewhere on that liner lay a man for whom he +was looking. + + + + +XIII + +Once assured that his surf-boat would keep afloat, Blake took the oars +and began to row. But even as he swung the boat lumberingly about he +realized that he could make no headway with such a load, for almost a +foot of water still surged along its bottom. So he put down the oars +and began to bale again. He did not stop until the boat was emptied. +Then he carefully replugged the bullet-hole, took up the oars again, +and once more began to row. + +He rowed, always keeping his bow towards the far-off spangle of lights +which showed where the _Trunella_ lay at anchor. + +He rowed doggedly, determinedly. He rowed until his arms were tired +and his back ached. But still he did not stop. It occurred to him, +suddenly, that there might be a tide running against him, that with all +his labor he might be making no actual headway. Disturbed by this +thought, he fixed his attention on two almost convergent lights on +shore, rowing with renewed energy as he watched them. He had the +satisfaction of seeing these two lights slowly come together, and he +knew he was making some progress. + +Still another thought came to him as he rowed doggedly on. And that +was the fear that at any moment, now, the quick equatorial morning +might dawn. He had no means of judging the time. To strike a light +was impossible, for his matches were water-soaked. Even his watch, he +found, had been stopped by its bath in sea-water. But he felt that +long hours had passed since midnight, that it must be close to the +break of morning. And the fear of being overtaken by daylight filled +him with a new and more frantic energy. + +He rowed feverishly on, until the lights of the _Trunella_ stood high +above him and he could hear the lonely sound of her bells as the watch +was struck. Then he turned and studied the dark hull of the steamer as +she loomed up closer in front of him. He could see her only in +outline, at first, picked out here and there by a light. But there +seemed something disheartening, something intimidating, in her very +quietness, something suggestive of a plague-ship deserted by crew and +passengers alike. That dark and silent hull at which he stared seemed +to house untold possibilities of evil. + +Yet Blake remembered that it also housed Binhart. And with that +thought in his mind he no longer cared to hesitate. He rowed in under +the shadowy counter, bumping about the rudder-post. Then he worked his +way forward, feeling quietly along her side-plates, foot by foot. + +He had more than half circled the ship before he came to her +landing-ladder. The grilled platform at the bottom of this row of +steps stood nearly as high as his shoulders, as though the ladder-end +had been hauled up for the night. + +Blake balanced himself on the bow of his surf-boat and tugged and +strained until he gained the ladder-bottom. He stood there, recovering +his breath, for a moment or two, peering up towards the inhospitable +silence above him. But still he saw no sign of life. No word or +challenge was flung down at him. Then, after a moment's thought, he +lay flat on the grill and deliberately pushed the surf-boat off into +the darkness. He wanted no more of it. He knew, now, there could be +no going back. + +He climbed cautiously up the slowly swaying steps, standing for a +puzzled moment at the top and peering about him. Then he crept along +the deserted deck, where a month of utter idleness, apparently, had +left discipline relaxed. He shied away from the lights, here and +there, that dazzled his eyes after his long hours of darkness. With an +instinct not unlike that which drives the hiding wharf-rat into the +deepest corner at hand, he made his way down through the body of the +ship. He shambled and skulked his way down, a hatless and ragged and +uncouth figure, wandering on along gloomy gangways and corridors until +he found himself on the threshold of the engine-room itself. + +He was about to back out of this entrance and strike still deeper when +he found himself confronted by an engineer smoking a short brier-root +pipe. The pale blue eyes of this sandy-headed engineer were wide with +wonder, startled and incredulous wonder, as they stared at the ragged +figure in the doorway. + +"Where in the name o' God did _you_ come from?" demanded the man with +the brier-root pipe. + +"I came out from Guayaquil," answered Blake, reaching searchingly down +in his wet pocket. "And I can't go back." + +The sandy-headed man backed away. + +"From the fever camps?" + +Blake could afford to smile at the movement. + +"Don't worry--there 's no fever 'round me. _That 's_ what I 've been +through!" And he showed the bullet-holes through his tattered +coat-cloth. + +"How'd you get here?" + +"Rowed out in a surf-boat--and I can't go back!" + +The sandy-headed engineer continued to stare at the uncouth figure in +front of him, to stare at it with vague and impersonal wonder. And in +facing that sandy-headed stranger, Blake knew, he was facing a judge +whose decision was to be of vast moment in his future destiny, whose +word, perhaps, was to decide on the success or failure of much +wandering about the earth. + +"I can't go back!" repeated Blake, as he reached out and dropped a +clutter of gold into the palm of the other man. The pale blue eyes +looked at the gold, looked out along the gangway, and then looked back +at the waiting stranger. + +"That Alfaro gang after you?" he inquired. + +"They 're _all_ after me!" answered the swaying figure in rags. They +were talking together, by this time, almost in whispers, like two +conspirators. The young engineer seemed puzzled. But a wave of relief +swept through Blake when in the pale blue eyes he saw almost a look of +pity. + +"What d' you want me to do?" he finally asked. + +Blake, instead of answering that question, asked another. + +"When do you move out of here?" + +The engineer put the coins in his pocket. + +"Before noon to-morrow, thank God! The _Yorktown_ ought to be here by +morning--she 's to give us our release!" + +"Then you'll sail by noon?" + +"We 've _got_ to! They 've tied us up here over a month, without +reason. They worked that old yellow-jack gag--and not a touch of fever +aboard all that time!" + +A great wave of contentment surged through Blake's weary body. He put +his hand up on the smaller man's shoulder. + +"Then you just get me out o' sight until we 're off, and I 'll fix +things so you 'll never be sorry for it!" + +The pale-eyed engineer studied the problem. Then he studied the figure +in front of him. + +"There's nothing crooked behind this?" + +Blake forced a laugh from his weary lungs. "I 'll prove that in two +days by wireless--and pay first-class passage to the next port of call!" + +"I 'm fourth engineer on board here, and the Old Man would sure fire +me, if--" + +"But you needn't even know about me," contended Blake. "Just let me +crawl in somewhere where I can sleep!" + +"You need it, all right, by that face of yours!" + +"I sure do," acknowledged the other as he stood awaiting his judge's +decision. + +"Then I 'd better get you down to my bunk. But remember, I can only +stow you there until we get under way--perhaps not that long!" + +He stepped cautiously out and looked along the gangway. "This is your +funeral, mind, when the row comes. You 've got to face that, yourself!" + +"Oh, I 'll face it, all right!" was Blake's calmly contented answer. +"All I want now is about nine hours' sleep!" + +"Come on, then," said the fourth engineer. And Blake followed after as +he started deeper down into the body of the ship. And already, deep +below him, he could hear the stokers at work in their hole. + + + + +XIV + +After seven cataleptic hours of unbroken sleep Blake awakened to find +his shoulder being prodded and shaken by the pale-eyed fourth engineer. +The stowaway's tired body, during that sleep, had soaked in renewed +strength as a squeezed sponge soaks up water. He could afford to blink +with impassive eyes up at the troubled face of the young man wearing +the oil-stained cap. + +"What's wrong?" he demanded, awakening to a luxurious comprehension of +where he was and what he had escaped. Then he sat up in the narrow +berth, for it began to dawn on him that the engines of the _Trunella_ +were not in motion. "Why are n't we under way?" + +"They 're having trouble up there, with the _Commandante_. We can't +get off inside of an hour--and anything's likely to happen in that +time. That's why I 've got to get you out of here!" + +"Where 'll you get me?" asked Blake. He was on his feet by this time, +arraying himself in his wet and ragged clothing. + +"That's what I 've been talking over with the Chief," began the young +engineer. Blake wheeled about and fixed him with his eye. + +"Did you let your Chief in on this?" he demanded, and he found it hard +to keep his anger in check. + +"I had to let him in on it," complained the other. "If it came to a +hue up or a searching party through here, they 'd spot you first thing. +You 're not a passenger; you 're not signed; you're not anything!" + +"Well, supposing I 'm not?" + +"Then they 'd haul you back and give you a half year in that +_Lazaretto_ o' theirs!" + +"Well, what do I have to do to keep from being hauled back?" + +"You 'll have to be one o' the workin' crew, until we get off. The +Chief says that, and I think he's right!" + +A vague foreboding filled Blake's soul. He had imagined that the +ignominy and agony of physical labor was a thing of the past with him. +And he was still sore in every sinew and muscle of his huge body. + +"You don't mean stoke-hole work?" he demanded. + +The fourth engineer continued to look worried. + +"You don't happen to know anything about machinery, do you?" he began. + +"Of course I do," retorted Blake, thinking gratefully of his early days +as a steamfitter. + +"Then why could n't I put you in a cap and jumper and work you in as +one of the greasers?" + +"What do you mean by greasers?" + +"That's an oiler in the engine-room. It--it may not be the coolest +place on earth, in this latitude, but it sure beats the stoke-hole!" + +And it was in this way, thirty minutes later, that Blake became a +greaser in the engine-room of the _Trunella_. + +Already, far above him, he could hear the rattle and shriek of +winch-engines and the far-off muffled roar of the whistle, rumbling its +triumph of returning life. Already the great propeller engines +themselves had been tested, after their weeks of idleness, languidly +stretching and moving like an awakening sleeper, slowly swinging their +solemn tons forward through their projected cycles and then as solemnly +back again. + +About this vast pyramid-shaped machinery, galleried like a Latin +house-court, tremulous with the breath of life that sang and hissed +through its veins, the new greaser could see his fellow workers with +their dripping oil-cans, groping gallery by gallery up towards the +square of daylight that sifted down into the oil-scented pit where he +stood. He could see his pale-eyed friend, the fourth engineer, spanner +in hand, clinging to a moving network of steel like a spider to its +tremulous web--and in his breast, for the first time, a latent respect +for that youth awakened. He could see other greasers wriggling about +between intricate shafts and wheels, crawling cat-like along narrow +steel ledges, mounting steep metal ladders guarded by hot hand rails, +peering into oil boxes, "worrying" the vacuum pump, squatting and +kneeling about iron floors where oil-pits pooled and pump-valves +clacked and electric machines whirred and the antiphonal song of the +mounting steam roared like music in the ears of the listening Blake, +aching as he was for the first relieving throb of the screws. Stolidly +and calmly the men about him worked, threatened by flailing steel, +hissed at by venomously quiescent powers, beleaguered by mysteriously +moving shafts, surrounded by countless valves and an inexplicable +tangle of pipes, hemmed in by an incomprehensible labyrinth of copper +wires, menaced by the very shimmering joints and rods over which they +could run such carelessly affectionate fingers. + +Blake could see the assistant engineers, with their eyes on the +pointers that stood out against two white dials. He could see the +Chief, the Chief whom he would so soon have to buy over and placate, +moving about nervous and alert. Then he heard the tinkle of the +telegraph bell, and the repeated gasp of energy as the engineers threw +the levers. He could hear the vicious hum of the reversing-engines, +and then the great muffled cough of power as the ponderous valve-gear +was thrown into position and the vaster machinery above him was coerced +into a motion that seemed languid yet relentless. + +He could see the slow rise and fall of the great cranks. He could hear +the renewed signals and bells tinkles, the more insistent clack of +pumps, the more resolute rise and fall of the ponderous cranks. And he +knew that they were at last under way. He gave no thought to the heat +of the oil-dripping pit in which he stood. He was oblivious of the +perilous steel that whirred and throbbed about him. He was unconscious +of the hot hand rails and the greasy foot-ways and the mingling odor of +steam and parching lubricant and ammonia-gas from a leaking "beef +engine." He quite forgot the fact that his dungaree jumper was wet +with sweat, that his cap was already fouled with oil. All he knew was +that he and Binhart were at last under way. + +He was filled with a new lightness of spirit as he felt the throb of +"full speed ahead" shake the steel hull about which he so contentedly +climbed and crawled. He found something fortifying in the thought that +this vast hull was swinging out to her appointed sea lanes, that she +was now intent on a way from which no caprice could turn her. There +seemed something appeasingly ordered and implacable in the mere +revolutions of the engines. And as those engines settled down to their +labors the intent-eyed men about him fell almost as automatically into +the routines of toil as did the steel mechanism itself. + +When at the end of the first four-houred watch a gong sounded and the +next crew filed cluttering in from the half-lighted between-deck +gangways and came sliding down the polished steel stair rails, Blake +felt that his greatest danger was over. + +There would still be an occasional palm to grease, he told himself, an +occasional bit of pad money to be paid out. But he could meet those +emergencies with the fortitude of a man already inured to the exactions +of venal accomplices. + +Then a new discovery came to him. It came as he approached the chief +engineer, with the object in view of throwing a little light on his +presence there. And as he looked into that officer's coldly indignant +eye he awakened to the fact that he was no longer on land, but afloat +on a tiny world with an autocracy and an authority of its own. He was +in a tiny world, he saw, where his career and his traditions were not +to be reckoned with, where he ranked no higher than conch-niggers and +beach-combers and _cargadores_. He was a _dungaree_-clad greaser in an +engine-room, and he was promptly ordered back with the rest of his +crew. He was not even allowed to talk. + +When his watch came round he went on duty again. He saw the futility +of revolt, until the time was ripe. He went through his appointed +tasks with the solemn precision of an apprentice. He did what he was +commanded to do. Yet sometimes the heat would grow so intense that the +great sweating body would have to shamble to a ventilator and there +drink in long drafts of the cooler air. The pressure of invisible +hoops about the great heaving chest would then release itself, the +haggard face would regain some touch of color, and the new greaser +would go back to his work again. One or two of the more observant +toilers about him, experienced in engine-room life, marveled at the +newcomer and the sense of mystery which hung over him. One or two of +them fell to wondering what inner spirit could stay him through those +four-houred ordeals of heat and labor. + +Yet they looked after him with even more inquisitive eyes when, on the +second day out, he was peremptorily summoned to the Captain's room. +What took place in that room no one in the ship ever actually knew. + +But the large-bodied stowaway returned below-decks, white of face and +grim of jaw. He went back to his work in silence, in dogged and +unbroken silence which those about him knew enough to respect. + +It was whispered about, it is true, that among other things a large and +ugly-looking revolver had been taken from his clothing, and that he had +been denied the use of the ship's wireless service. A steward outside +the Captain's door, it was also whispered, had overheard the +shipmaster's angry threat to put the stowaway in irons for the rest of +the voyage and return him to the Ecuadorean authorities. It was +rumored, too, that late in the afternoon of the same day, when the new +greaser had complained of faintness and was seeking a breath of fresh +air at the foot of a midships deck-ladder, he had chanced to turn and +look up at a man standing on the promenade deck above him. + +The two men stood staring at each other for several moments, and for +all the balmy air about him the great body of the stranger just up from +the engine-room had shivered and shaken, as though with a malarial +chill. + +What it meant, no one quite knew. Nor could anything be added to that +rumor, beyond the fact that the first-class passenger, who was known to +be a doctor and who had stared so intently down at the quiet-eyed +greaser, had turned the color of ashes and without a word had slipped +away. And the bewilderment of the entire situation was further +increased when the _Trunella_ swung in at Callao and the large-bodied +man of mystery was peremptorily and none too gently put ashore. It was +noted, however, that the first-class passenger who had stared down at +him from the promenade-deck remained aboard the vessel as she started +southward again. It was further remarked that he seemed more at ease +when Callao was left well behind, although he sat smoking side by side +with the operator in the wireless room until the _Trunella_ had steamed +many miles southward on her long journey towards the Straits of +Magellan. + + + + +XV + +Seven days after the _Trunella_ swung southward from Callao Never-Fail +Blake, renewed as to habiliments and replenished as to pocket, embarked +on a steamer bound for Rio de Janeiro. + +He watched the plunging bow as it crept southward. He saw the heat and +the gray sea-shimmer left behind him. He saw the days grow longer and +the nights grow colder. He saw the Straits passed and the northward +journey again begun. But he neither fretted nor complained of his fate. + +After communicating by wireless with both Montevideo and Buenos Ayres +and verifying certain facts of which he seemed already assured, he +continued on his way to Rio. And over Rio he once more cast and pursed +up his gently interrogative net, gathering in the discomforting +information that Binhart had already relayed, from that city to a +Lloyd-Brazileiro steamer. This steamer, he learned, was bound for +Ignitos, ten thousand dreary miles up the Amazon. + +Five days later Blake followed in a Clyde-built freighter. When well +up the river he transferred to a rotten-timbered sidewheeler that had +once done duty on the Mississippi, and still again relayed from river +boat to river boat, move by move falling more and more behind his +quarry. + +The days merged into weeks, and the weeks into months. He suffered +much from the heat, but more from the bad food and the bad water. For +the first time in his life he found his body shaken with fever and was +compelled to use quinin in great quantities. The attacks of insects, +of insects that flew, that crawled, that tunneled beneath the skin, +turned life into a torment. His huge triple-terraced neck became raw +with countless wounds. But he did not stop by the way. His eyes +became oblivious of the tangled and overcrowded life about him, of the +hectic orchids and huge butterflies and the flaming birds-of-paradise, +of the echoing aisle ways between interwoven jungle growths, of the +arching aerial roofs of verdure and the shadowy hanging-gardens from +which by day parakeets chattered and monkeys screamed and by night +ghostly armies of fireflies glowed. He was no longer impressed by that +world of fierce appetites and fierce conflicts. He seemed to have +attained to a secret inner calm, to an obsessional impassivity across +which the passing calamities of existence only echoed. He merely +recalled that he had been compelled to eat of disagreeable things and +face undesirable emergencies, to drink of the severed Water-vine, to +partake of monkey-steak and broiled parrot, to sleep in poisonous +swamplands. His spirit, even with the mournful cry of night birds in +his ears, had been schooled into the acceptance of a loneliness that to +another might have seemed eternal and unendurable. + +By the time he had reached the Pacific coast his haggard hound's eyes +were more haggard than ever. His skin hung loose on his great body, as +though a vampire bat had drained it of its blood. But to his own +appearance he gave scant thought. For new life came to him when he +found definite traces of Binhart. These traces he followed up, one by +one, until he found himself circling back eastward along the valley of +the Magdalena. And down the Magdalena he went, still sure of his +quarry, following him to Bogota, and on again from Bogota to +Barranquilla, and on to Savanilla, where he embarked on a +Hamburg-American steamer for Limon. + +At Limon it was not hard to pick up the lost trail. But Binhart's +movements, after leaving that port, became a puzzle to the man who had +begun to pride himself on growing into knowledge of his adversary's +inmost nature. For once Blake found himself uncertain as to the +other's intentions. The fugitive now seemed possessed with an idea to +get away from the sea, to strike inland at any cost, as though water +had grown a thing of horror to him. He zigzagged from obscure village +to village, as though determined to keep away from all main-traveled +avenues of traffic. Yet, move as he might, it was merely a matter of +time and care to follow up the steps of a white man as distinctly +individualized as Binhart. + +This white man, it seemed, was at last giving way to the terror that +must have been haunting him for months past. His movements became +feverish, erratic, irrational. He traveled in strange directions and +by strange means, by bullock-cart, by burro, by dug-out, sometimes on +foot and sometimes on horseback. Sometimes he stayed over night at a +rubber-gatherers' camp, sometimes he visited a banana plantation, +bought a fresh horse, and pushed on again. When he reached the +Province of Alajuela he made use of the narrow cattle passes, pressing +on in a northwesterly direction along the valleys of the San Juan and +the San Carlos River. A madness seemed to have seized him, a madness +to make his way northward, ever northward. + +Over heartbreaking mountainous paths, through miasmic jungles, across +sun-baked plateaus, chilled by night and scorched by day, chafed and +sore, tortured by _niguas_ and _coloradillas_, mosquitoes and +_chigoes_, sleeping in verminous hay-thatched huts of bamboo bound +together with bejuco-vine, mislead by lying natives and stolen from by +peons, Blake day by day and week by week fought his way after his +enemy. When worn to lightheadedness he drank _guaro_ and great +quantities of black coffee; when ill he ate quinin. + +The mere act of pursuit had become automatic with him. He no longer +remembered why he was seeking out this man. He no longer remembered +the crime that lay at the root of that flight and pursuit. It was not +often, in fact, that his thoughts strayed back to his old life. When +he did think of it, it seemed only something too far away to remember, +something phantasmal, something belonging to another world. There were +times when all his journeying through steaming swamplands and forests +of teak and satin-wood and over indigo lagoons and mountain-passes of +moonlit desolation seemed utterly and unfathomably foolish. But he +fought back such moods, as though they were a weakness. He let nothing +deter him. He stuck to his trail, instinctively, doggedly, +relentlessly. + +It was at Chalavia that a peon named Tico Viquez came to Blake with the +news of a white man lying ill of black-water fever in a native hut. +For so much gold, Tico Viquez intimated, he would lead the senor to the +hut in question. + +Blake, who had no gold to spare, covered the startled peon with his +revolver and commanded Viquez to take him to that hut. There was that +in the white man's face which caused the peon to remember that life was +sweet. He led the way through a reptilious swamp and into the fringe +of a nispero forest, where they came upon a hut with a roof of +corrugated iron and walls of wattled bamboo. + +Blake, with his revolver in his hand and his guide held before him as a +human shield, cautiously approached the door of this hut, for he feared +treachery. Then, with equal caution, he peered through the narrow +doorway. He stood there for several moments, without moving. + +Then he slipped his revolver back into his pocket and stepped into the +hut. For there, in one corner of it, lay Binhart. He lay on a bed +made of bull-hide stretched across a rough-timbered frame. Yet what +Blake looked down on seemed more a shriveled mummy of Binhart than the +man himself. A vague trouble took possession of the detective as he +blinked calmly down at the glazed and sunken eyes, the gaunt neck, the +childishly helpless body. He stood there, waiting until the man on the +sagging bull-skin saw him. + +"Hello, Jim!" said the sick man, in little more than a whisper. + +"Hello, Connie!" was the other's answer. He picked up a palmetto frond +and fought away the flies. The uncleanness of the place turned his +stomach. + +"What's up, Connie?" he asked, sitting calmly down beside the narrow +bed. + +The sick man moved a hand, weakly, as though it were the yellow flapper +of some wounded amphibian. + +"The jig's up!" he said. The faint mockery of a smile wavered across +the painfully gaunt face. It reminded the other man of heat-lightning +on a dark skyline. "You got me, Jim. But it won't do much good. I 'm +going to cash in." + +"What makes you say that?" argued Blake, studying the lean figure. +There was a look of mild regret on his own sodden and haggard face. +"What's wrong with you, anyway?" + +The man on the bed did not answer for some time. When he spoke, he +spoke without looking at the other man. + +"They said it was black-water fever. Then they said it was +yellow-jack. But I know it's not. I think it's typhoid, or swamp +fever. It's worse than malaria. I dam' near burn up every night. I +get out of my head. I 've done that three nights. That's why the +niggers won't come near me now!" + +Blake leaned forward and fought away the flies again. + +"Then it's a good thing I got up with you." + +The sick man rolled his eyes in their sockets, so as to bring his enemy +into his line of vision. + +"Why?" he asked. + +"Because I 'm not going to let you die," was Blake's answer. + +"You can't help it, Jim! The jig 's up!" + +"I 'm going to get a litter and get you up out o' this hell-hole of a +swamp," announced Blake. "I 'm going to have you carried up to the +hills. Then I 'm going back to Chalavia to get a doctor o' some kind. +Then I 'm going to put you on your feet again!" + +Binhart slowly moved his head from side to side. Then the +heat-lightning smile played about the hollow face again. + +"It was some chase, Jim, was n't it?" he said, without looking at his +old-time enemy. + +Blake stared down at him with his haggard hound's eyes; there was no +answering smile on his heavy lips, now furzed with their grizzled +growth of hair. There seemed something ignominious in such an end, +something futile and self-frustrating. It was unjust. It left +everything so hideously incomplete. He revolted against it with a +sullen and senseless rage. + +"By God, you 're not going to die!" declared the staring and +sinewy-necked man at the bedside. "I say you 're not going to die. I +'m going to get you out o' here alive!" + +A sweat of weakness stood out on Binhart's white face. + +"Where to?" he asked, as he had asked one before. And his eyes +remained closed as put the question. + +"To the pen," was the answer which rose Blake's lips. But he did not +utter the words. Instead, he rose impatiently to his feet. But the +man on the bed must have sensed that unspoken response, for he opened +his eyes and stared long and mournfully at his heavy-bodied enemy. + +"You 'll never get me there!" he said, in little more than a whisper. +"Never!" + + + + +XVI + +Binhart was moved that night up into the hills. There he was installed +in a bungalow of an abandoned banana plantation and a doctor was +brought to his bedside. He was delirious by the time this doctor +arrived, and his ravings through the night were a source of vague worry +to his enemy. On the second day the sick man showed signs of +improvement. + +For three weeks Blake watched over Binhart, saw to his wants, journeyed +to Chalavia for his food and medicines. When the fever was broken and +Binhart began to gain strength the detective no longer made the trip to +Chalavia in person. He preferred to remain with the sick man. + +He watched that sick man carefully, jealously, hour by hour and day by +day. A peon servant was paid to keep up the vigil when Blake slept, as +sleep he must. + +But the strain was beginning to tell on him. He walked heavily. The +asthmatic wheeze of his breathing became more audible. His earlier +touch of malaria returned to him, and he suffered from intermittent +chills and fever. The day came when Blake suggested it was about time +for them to move on. + +"Where to?" asked Binhart. Little had passed between the two men, but +during all those silent nights and days each had been secretly yet +assiduously studying the other. + +"Back to New York," was Blake's indifferent-noted answer. Yet this +indifference was a pretense, for no soul had ever hungered more for a +white man's country than did the travel-worn and fever-racked Blake. +But he had his part to play, and he did not intend to shirk it. They +went about their preparations quietly, like two fellow excursionists +making ready for a journey with which they were already over-familiar. +It was while they sat waiting for the guides and mules that Blake +addressed himself to the prisoner. + +"Connie," he said, "I 'm taking you back. It does n't make much +difference whether I take you back dead or alive. But I 'm going to +take you back." + +The other man said nothing, but his slight head-movement was one of +comprehension. + +"So I just wanted to say there's no side-stepping, no four-flushing, at +this end of the trip!" + +"I understand," was Binhart's listless response. + +"I'm glad you do," Blake went on in his dully monotonous voice. +"Because I got where I can't stand any more breaks." + +"All right, Jim," answered Binhart. They sat staring at each other. +It was not hate that existed between them. It was something more +dormant, more innate. It was something that had grown ineradicable; as +fixed as the relationship between the hound and the hare. Each wore an +air of careless listlessness, yet each watched the other, every move, +every moment. + +It was as they made their way slowly down to the coast that Blake put +an unexpected question to Binhart. + +"Connie, where in hell did you plant that haul o' yours?" + +This thing had been worrying Blake. Weeks before he had gone through +every nook and corner, every pocket and crevice in Binhart's belongings. + +The bank thief laughed a little. He had been growing stronger, day by +day, and as his spirits had risen Blake's had seemed to recede. + +"Oh, I left that up in the States, where it 'd be safe," he answered. + +"What 'll you do about it?" Blake casually inquired. + +"I can't tell, just yet," was Binhart's retort. + +He rode on silent and thoughtful for several minutes. "Jim," he said +at last, "we 're both about done for. There 's not much left for +either of us. We 're going at this thing wrong. There's a lot o' +money up there, for somebody. And _you_ ought to get it!" + +"What do you mean?" asked Blake. He resented the bodily weakness that +was making burro-riding a torture. + +"I mean it's worth a hundred and fifty thousand dollars to you just to +let me drop out. I 'd hand you over that much to quit the chase." + +"It ain't me that's chasing you, Connie. It's the Law!" was Blake's +quiet-toned response. And the other man knew he believed it. + +"Well, you quit, and I 'll stand for the Law!" + +"But, can't you see, they 'd never stand for you!" + +"Oh, yes they would. I 'd just drop out, and they 'd forget about me. +And you 'd have that pile to enjoy life with!" + +Blake thought it over, ponderously, point by point. For not one +fraction of a second could he countenance the thought of surrendering +Binhart. Yet he wanted both his prisoner and his prisoner's haul; he +wanted his final accomplishment to be complete. + +"But how 'd we ever handle the deal?" prompted the tired-bodied man on +the burro. + +"You remember a woman called Elsie Verriner?" + +"Yes," acknowledged Blake, with a pang of regret which he could not +fathom, at the mention of the name. + +"Well, we could fix it through her." + +"Does Elsie Verriner know where that pile is?" the detective inquired. +His withered hulk of a body was warmed by a slow glow of anticipation. +There was a woman, he remembered, whom he could count on swinging to +his own ends. + +"No, but she could get it," was Binhart's response. + +"And what good would that do _me_?" + +"The two of us could go up to New Orleans. We could slip in there +without any one being the wiser. She could meet us. She 'd bring the +stuff with her. Then, when you had the pile in your hand, I could just +fade off the map." + +Blake rode on again in silence. + +"All right," he said at last. "I 'm willing." + +"Then how 'll you prove it? How 'd I know you 'd make good?" demanded +Binhart. + +"That's not up to me! You're the man that's got to make good!" was +Blake's retort. + +"But you 'll give me the chance?" half pleaded his prisoner. + +"Sure!" replied Blake, as they rode on again. He was wondering how +many more miles of hell he would have to ride through before he could +rest. He felt that he would like to sleep for days, for weeks, without +any thought of where to-morrow would find him or the next day would +bring him. + +It was late that day as they climbed up out of a steaming valley into +higher ground that Binhart pulled up and studied Blake's face. + +"Jim, you look like a sick man to me!" he declared. He said it without +exultation; but there was a new and less passive timber to his voice. + +"I 've been feeling kind o' mean this last day or two," confessed +Blake. His own once guttural voice was plaintive, as he spoke. It was +almost a quavering whine. + +"Had n't we better lay up for a few days?" suggested Binhart. + +"Lay up nothing!" cried Blake, and he clenched that determination by an +outburst of blasphemous anger. But he secretly took great doses of +quinin and drank much native liquor. He fought against a mental +lassitude which he could not comprehend. Never before had that ample +machinery of the body failed him in an emergency. Never before had he +known an illness that a swallow or two of brandy and a night's rest +could not scatter to the four winds. It bewildered him to find his +once capable frame rebelling against its tasks. It left him dazed, as +though he had been confronted by the sudden and gratuitous treachery of +a life-long servant. + +He grew more irritable, more fanciful. He changed guides at the next +native village, fearing that Binhart might have grown too intimate with +the old ones. He was swayed by an ever-increasing fear of intrigues. +He coerced his flagging will into a feverish watchfulness. He became +more arbitrary in his movements and exactions. When the chance came, +he purchased a repeating Lee-Enfield rifle, which he packed across his +sweating back on the trail and slept with under his arm at night. When +a morning came when he was too weak and ill to get up, he lay back on +his grass couch, with his rifle across his knees, watching Binhart, +always watching Binhart. + +He seemed to realize that his power was slipping away, and he brooded +on some plan for holding his prisoner, on any plan, no matter what it +might cost. + +He even pretended to sleep, to the end that Binhart might make an +effort to break away--and be brought down with a bullet. He prayed +that Binhart would try to go, would give him an excuse for the last +move would leave the two of them lying there together. Even to perish +there side by side, foolishly, uselessly, seemed more desirable than +the thought that Binhart might in the end get away. He seemed +satisfied that the two of them should lie there, for all time, each +holding the other down, like two embattled stags with their horns +inextricably locked. And he waited there, nursing his rifle, watching +out of sullenly feverish eyes, marking each movement of the +passive-faced Binhart. + +But Binhart, knowing what he knew, was content to wait. + +He was content to wait until the fever grew, and the poisons of the +blood narcotized the dulled brain into indifference, and then goaded it +into delirium. Then, calmly equipping himself for his journey, he +buried the repeating rifle and slipped away in the night, carrying with +him Blake's quinin and revolver and pocket-filter. He traveled +hurriedly, bearing southeast towards the San Juan. Four days later he +reached the coast, journeyed by boat to Bluefields, and from that port +passed on into the outer world, where time and distance swallowed him +up, and no sign of his whereabouts was left behind. + + + + +XVII + +It was six weeks later that a slender-bodied young Nicaraguan known as +Doctor Alfonso Sedeno (his right to that title resulting from four +years of medical study in Paris) escorted into Bluefields the flaccid +and attenuated shadow of Never-Fail Blake. Doctor Sedeno explained to +the English shipping firm to whom he handed over his patient that the +Senor Americano had been found in a dying condition, ten miles from the +camp of the rubber company for which he acted as surgeon. The Senor +Americano was apparently a prospector who had been deserted by his +partner. He had been very ill. But a few days of complete rest would +restore him. The sea voyage would also help. In the meantime, if the +shipping company would arrange for credit from the hotel, the matter +would assuredly be put right, later on, when the necessary despatches +had been returned from New York. + +For three weeks of torpor Blake sat in the shadowy hotel, watching the +torrential rains that deluged the coast. Then, with the help of a +cane, he hobbled from point to point about the town, quaveringly +inquiring for any word of his lost partner. He wandered listlessly +back and forth, mumbling out a description of the man he sought, +holding up strangers with his tremulous-noted inquiries, peering with +weak and watery eyes into any quarter that might house a fugitive. But +no hint or word of Binhart was to be gleaned from those wanderings, and +at the end of a week he boarded a fruit steamer bound for Kingston. + +His strength came back to him slowly during that voyage, and when he +landed at Kingston he was able to walk without a stick. At Kingston, +too, his draft on New York was finally honored. He was able to creep +out to Constant Spring, to buy new clothes, to ride in a carriage when +he chose, to eat a white man's food again. The shrunken body under the +flaccid skin slowly took on some semblance of its former ponderosity, +the watery eyes slowly lost their dead and vapid stare. + +And with increase of strength came a corresponding increase of mental +activity. All day long he kept turning things over in his tired brain. +Hour by silent hour he would ponder the problem before him. It was +more rumination than active thought. Yet up from the stagnating depths +of his brooding would come an occasional bubble of inspiration. + +Binhart, he finally concluded, had gone north. It was the natural +thing to do. He would go where his haul was hidden away. Sick of +unrest, he would seek peace. He would fall a prey to man's consuming +hunger to speak with his own kind again. Convinced that his enemy was +not at his heels, he would hide away somewhere in his own country. And +once reasonably assured that this enemy had died as he had left him to +die, Binhart would surely remain in his own land, among his own people. + +Blake had no proof of this. He could not explain why he accepted it as +fact. He merely wrote it down as one of his hunches. And with his +old-time faith in the result of that subliminal reasoning, he counted +what remained of his money, paid his bills, and sailed from Kingston +northward as a steerage passenger in a United Fruit steamer bound for +Boston. + +As he had expected, he landed at this New England port without +detection, without recognition. Six hours later he stepped off a train +in New York. + +He passed out into the streets of his native city like a ghost emerging +from its tomb. There seemed something spectral in the very chill of +the thin northern sunlight, after the opulent and oppressive heat of +the tropics. A gulf of years seemed to lie between him and the +actualities so close to him. A desolating sense of loneliness kept +driving him into the city's noisier and more crowded drinking-places, +where, under the lash of alcohol, he was able to wear down his hot ache +of deprivation into a dim and dreary regretfulness. Yet the very faces +about him still remained phantasmal. The commonplaces of street life +continued to take on an alien aspect. They seemed vague and far away, +as though viewed through a veil. He felt that the world had gone on, +and in going on had forgotten him. Even the scraps of talk, the talk +of his own people, fell on his ear with a strange sound. + +He found nothing companionable in that canon of life and movement known +as Broadway. He stopped to stare with haggard and wistful eyes at a +theater front buoyed with countless electric bulbs, remembering the +proud moment when he had been cheered in a box there, for in his +curtain-speech the author of the melodrama of crime being presented had +confessed that the inspiration and plot of his play had come from that +great detective, Never-Fail Blake. + +He drifted on down past the cafes and restaurants where he had once +dined and supped so well, past the familiar haunts where the appetite +of the spirit for privilege had once been as amply fed as the appetite +of the body for food. He sought out the darker purlieus of the lower +city, where he had once walked as a king and dictated dead-lines and +distributed patronage. He drifted into the underworld haunts where his +name had at one time been a terror. But now, he could see, his +approach no longer resulted in that discreet scurry to cover, that +feverish scuttling away for safety, which marks the blacksnake's +progress through a gopher-village. + +When he came to Center Street, at the corner of Broome, he stopped and +blinked up at the great gray building wherein he had once held sway. +He stood, stoop-shouldered and silent, staring at the green lamps, the +green lamps of vigilance that burned as a sign to the sleeping city. + +He stood there for some time, unrecognized, unnoticed, watching the +platoons of broad-chested "flatties" as they swung out and off to their +midnight patrols, marking the plainly clad "elbows" as they passed +quietly up and down the great stone steps. He thought of Copeland, and +the Commissioner, and of his own last hour at Headquarters. And then +his thoughts went on to Binhart, and the trail that had been lost, and +the task that stood still ahead of him. And with that memory awakened +the old sullen fires, the old dogged and implacable determination. + +In the midst of those reviving fires a new thought was fixed; the +thought that Binhart's career was in some way still involved with that +of Elsie Verriner. If any one knew of Binhart's whereabouts, he +remembered, it would surely be this woman, this woman on whom, he +contended, he could still hold the iron hand of incrimination. The +first move would be to find her. And then, at any cost, the truth must +be wrung from her. + +Never-Fail Blake, from the obscure down-town hotel, into which he crept +like a sick hound shunning the light, sent out his call for Elsie +Verriner. He sent his messages to many and varied quarters, feeling +sure that some groping tentacle of inquiry would eventually come in +touch with her. + +Yet the days dragged by, and no answer came back to him. He chafed +anew at this fresh evidence that his power was a thing of the past, +that his word was no longer law. He burned with a sullen and +self-consuming anger, an anger that could be neither expressed in +action nor relieved in words. + +Then, at the end of a week's time, a note came from Elsie Verriner. It +was dated and postmarked "Washington," and in it she briefly explained +that she had been engaged in Departmental business, but that she +expected to be in New York on the following Monday. Blake found +himself unreasonably irritated by a certain crisp assurance about this +note, a certain absence of timorousness, a certain unfamiliar tone of +independence. But he could afford to wait, he told himself. His hour +would come, later on. And when that hour came, he would take a crimp +out of this calm-eyed woman, or the heavens themselves would fall! And +finding further idleness unbearable, he made his way to a +drinking-place not far from that juncture of First Street and the +Bowery, known as Suicide Corner. In this new-world _Cabaret de Neant_ +he drowned his impatience of soul in a Walpurgis Night of five-cent +beer and fusel-oil whiskey. But his time would come, he repeated +drunkenly, as he watched with his haggard hound's eyes the meretricious +and tragic merriment of the revelers about him--his time would come! + + + + +XVIII + +Blake did not look up as he heard the door open and the woman step into +the room. There was an echo of his old-time theatricalism in that +dissimulation of stolid indifference. But the old-time stage-setting, +he knew, was no longer there. Instead of sitting behind an oak desk at +Headquarters, he was staring down at a beer-stained card-table in the +dingy back room of a dingy downtown hotel. + +He knew the woman had closed the door and crossed the room to the other +side of the card-table, but still he did not look up at her. The +silence lengthened until it became acute, epochal, climactic. + +"You sent for me?" his visitor finally said. + +And as Elsie Verriner uttered the words he was teased by a vague sense +that the scene had happened before, that somewhere before in their +lives it had been duplicated, word by word and move by move. + +"Sit down," he said with an effort at the gruffness of assured +authority. But the young woman did not do as he commanded. She +remained still standing, and still staring down at the face of the man +in front of her. + +So prolonged was this stare that Blake began to be embarrassingly +conscious of it, to fidget under it. When he looked up he did so +circuitously, pretending to peer beyond the white face and the staring +eyes of the young woman confronting him. Yet she ultimately coerced +his unsteady gaze, even against his own will. And as he had expected, +he saw written on her face something akin to horror. + +As he, in turn, stared back at her, and in her eyes saw first +incredulity, and then, what stung him more, open pity itself, it came +home to him that he must indeed have altered for the worse, that his +face and figure must have changed. For the first time it flashed over +him: he was only the wreck of the man he had once been. Yet at the +core of that wreck burned the old passion for power, the ineradicable +appetite for authority. He resented the fact that she should feel +sorry for him. He inwardly resolved to make her suffer for that pity, +to enlighten her as to what life was still left in the battered old +carcass which she could so openly sorrow over. + +"Well, I 'm back," he announced in his guttural bass, as though to +bridge a silence that was becoming abysmal. + +"Yes, you 're back!" echoed Elsie Verriner. She spoke absently, as +though her mind were preoccupied with a problem that seemed +inexplicable. + +"And a little the worse for wear," he pursued, with his mirthless croak +of a laugh. Then he flashed up at her a quick look of resentment, a +look which he found himself unable to repress. "While you're all +dolled up," he said with a snort, as though bent on wounding her, +"dolled up like a lobster palace floater!" + +It hurt him more than ever to see that he could not even dethrone that +fixed look of pity from her face, that even his abuse could not thrust +aside her composure. + +"I 'm not a lobster palace floater," she quietly replied. "And you +know it." + +"Then what are you?" he demanded. + +"I 'm a confidential agent of the Treasury Department," was her +quiet-toned answer. + +"Oho!" cried Blake. "So that's why we 've grown so high and mighty!" + +The woman sank into the chair beside which she had been standing. She +seemed impervious to his mockery. + +"What do you want me for?" she asked, and the quick directness of her +question implied not so much that time was being wasted on side issues +as that he was cruelly and unnecessarily demeaning himself in her eyes. + +It was then that Blake swung about, as though he, too, were anxious to +sweep aside the trivialities that stood between him and his end, as +though he, too, were conscious of the ignominy of his own position. + +"You know where I 've been and what I 've been doing!" he suddenly +cried out. + +"I 'm not positive that I do," was the woman's guarded answer. + +"That's a lie!" thundered Blake. "You know as well as I do!" + +"What have you been doing?" asked the woman, almost indulgently. + +"I 've been trailing Binhart, and you know it! And what's more, you +know where Binhart is, now, at this moment!" + +"What was it you wanted me for?" reiterated the white-faced woman, +without looking at him. + +Her evasions did more than anger Blake; they maddened him. For years +now he had been compelled to face her obliquities, to puzzle over the +enigma of her ultimate character, and he was tired of it all. He made +no effort to hold his feelings in check. Even into his voice crept +that grossness which before had seemed something of the body alone. + +"I want to know where Binhart is!" he cried, leaning forward so that +his head projected pugnaciously from his shoulders like the head of a +fighting-cock. + +"Then you have only wasted time in sending for me," was the woman's +obdurate answer. Yet beneath her obduracy was some vague note of +commiseration which he could not understand. + +"I want that man, and I 'm going to get him," was Blake's impassioned +declaration. "And before you get out of this room you 're going to +tell me where he is!" + +She met his eyes, studiously, deliberately, as though it took a great +effort to do so. Their glances seemed to close in and lock together. + +"Jim!" said the woman, and it startled him to see that there were +actual tears in her eyes. But he was determined to remain superior to +any of her subterfuges. His old habit returned to him, the old habit +of "pounding" a prisoner. He knew that one way to get at the meat of a +nut was to smash the nut. And in all his universe there seemed only +one issue and one end, and that was to find his trail and get his man. +So he cut her short with his quick volley of abuse. + +"I 've got your number, Elsie Verriner, alias Chaddy Cravath," he +thundered out, bringing his great withered fist down on the table top. +"I 've got every trick you ever turned stowed away in cold storage. I +'ve got 'em where they 'll keep until the cows come home. I don't care +whether you 're a secret agent or a Secretary of War. There 's only +one thing that counts with me now. And I 'm going to win out. I 'm +going to win out, in the end, no matter what it costs. If you try to +block me in this I 'll put you where you belong. I 'll drag you down +until you squeal like a cornered rat. I 'll put you so low you 'll +never even stand up again!" + +The woman leaned a little forward, staring into his eyes. + +"I did n't expect this of you, Jim," she said. Her voice was tremulous +as she spoke, and still again he could see on her face that odious and +unfathomable pity. + +"There 's lots of things were n't expected of me. But I 'm going to +surprise you all. I 'm going to get what I 'm after or I 'm going to +put you where I ought to have put you two years ago!" + +"Jim," said the woman, white-lipped hut compelling herself to calmness, +"don't go on like this! Don't! You're only making it worse, every +minute!" + +"Making what worse?" demanded Blake. + +"The whole thing. It was a mistake, from the first. I could have told +you that. But you did then what you 're trying to do now. And see +what you 've lost by it!" + +"What have I lost by it?" + +"You 've lost everything," she answered, and her voice was thin with +misery. "Everything--just as they counted on your doing, just as they +expected!" + +"As who expected?" + +"As Copeland and the others expected when they sent you out on a blind +trail." + +"I was n't sent out on a blind trail." + +"But you found nothing when you went out. Surely you remember that." + +It seemed like going back to another world to another life, as he sat +there coercing his memory to meet the past, the abysmal and embittered +past which he had grown to hate. + +"Are you trying to say this Binhart case was a frame up?" he suddenly +cried out. + +"They wanted you out of the way. It was the only trick they could +think of." + +"That's a lie!" declared Blake. + +"It's not a lie. They knew you 'd never give up. They even +handicapped you--started you wrong, to be sure it would take time, to +be positive of a clear field." + +Blake stared at her, almost stupidly. His mind was groping about, +trying to find some adequate motive for this new line of duplicity. He +kept warning himself that she was not to be trusted. Human beings, all +human beings, he had found, moved only by indirection. He was too old +a bird to have sand thrown in his eyes. + +"Why, you welched on Binhart yourself. You put me on his track. You +sent me up to Montreal!" + +"They made me do that," confessed the unhappy woman. "He was n't in +Montreal. He never had been there!" + +"You had a letter from him there, telling you to come to 881 King +Edward when the coast was clear." + +"That letter was two years old. It was sent from a room in the King +Edward Hotel. That was part of their plant." + +He sat for a long time thinking it over, point by point. He became +disturbed by a sense of instability in the things that had once seemed +most enduring, the sickening cataclysmic horror of a man who finds the +very earth under his feet shaken by its earthquake. His sodden face +appeared to age even as he sat there laboriously reliving the past, the +past that seemed suddenly empty and futile. + +"So you sold me out!" he finally said, studying her white face with his +haggard hound's eyes. + +"I could n't help it, Jim. You forced it on me. You wouldn't give me +the chance to do anything else. I wanted to help you--but you held me +off. You put the other thing before my friendship!" + +"What do _you_ know about friendship?" cried the gray-faced man. + +"We were friends once," answered the woman, ignoring the bitter mockery +in his cry. + +He stared at her, untouched by the note of pathos in her voice. There +was something abstracted about his stare, as though his mind had not +yet adjusted itself to a vast new discovery. His inner vision seemed +dazzled, just as the eye itself may be dazzled by unexpected light. + +"So you sold me out!" he said for a third time. He did not move, but +under that lava-like shell of diffidence were volcanic and coursing +fires which even he himself could not understand. + +"Jim, I would have done anything for you, once," went on the unhappy +woman facing him. "You could have saved me--from him, from myself. +But you let the chance slip away. I couldn't go on. I saw where it +would end. So I had to save myself. I had to save myself--in the only +way I could. Oh, Jim, if you 'd only been kinder!" + +She sat with her head bowed, ashamed of her tears, the tears which he +could not understand. He stared at her great crown of carefully coiled +and plaited hair, shining in the light of the unshaded electric-bulb +above them. It took him back to other days when he had looked at it +with other eyes. And a comprehension of all he had lost crept slowly +home to him. Poignant as was the thought that she had seemed beautiful +to him and he might have once possessed her, this thought was +obliterated by the sudden memory that in her lay centered everything +that had caused his failure. She had been the weak link in his life, +the life which he had so wanted to crown with success. + +"You welcher!" he suddenly gasped, as he continued to stare at her. +His very contemplation of her white face seemed to madden him. In it +he seemed to find some signal and sign of his own dissolution, of his +lost power, of his outlived authority. In her seemed to abide the +reason for all that he had endured. To have attained to a +comprehension of her own feelings was beyond him. Even the effort to +understand them would have been a contradiction of his whole career. +She only angered him. And the hot anger that crept through his body +seemed to smoke out of some inner recess of his being a hate that was +as unreasonable as it was animal-like. All the instincts of existence, +in that moment, reverted to life's one primordial problem, the problem +of the fighting man to whom every other man must be an opponent, the +problem of the feral being, as to whether it should kill or be killed. + +Into that unreasoning blind rage flared all the frustration of months, +of years, all the disappointments of all his chase, all the defeat of +all his career. Even as she sat there in her pink and white frailty +she knew and nursed the secret for which he had girdled the world. He +felt that he must tear it from her, that he must crush it out of her +body as the pit is squeezed from a cherry. And the corroding part of +it was that he had been outwitted by a woman, that he was being defied +by a physical weakling, a slender-limbed thing of ribbons and laces +whose back he could bend and break across his great knee. + +He lurched forward to his feet. His great crouching body seemed drawn +towards her by some slow current which he could not control. + +"Where's Binhart?" he suddenly gasped, and the explosive tensity of +that wheezing cry caused her to look up, startled. He swayed toward +her as she did so, swept by some power not his own. There was +something leonine in his movement, something leonine in his snarl as he +fell on her. He caught her body in his great arms and shook it. He +moved without any sense of movement, without any memory of it. + +"Where 's Binhart?" he repeated, foolishly, for by this time his great +hand had closed on her throat and all power of speech was beyond her. +He swung her about and bore her back across the table. She did not +struggle. She lay there so passive in his clutch that a dull pride +came to him at the thought of his own strength. This belated sense of +power seemed to intoxicate him. He was swept by a blind passion to +crush, to obliterate. It seemed as though the rare and final moment +for the righting of vast wrongs, for the ending of great injustices, +were at hand. His one surprise was that she did not resist him, that +she did not struggle. + +From side to side he twisted and flailed her body about, in his +madness, gloating over her final subserviency to his will, marveling +how well adapted for attack was this soft and slender column of the +neck, on which his throttling fingers had fastened themselves. +Instinctively they had sought out and closed on that slender column, +guided to it by some ancestral propulsion, by some heritage of the +brute. It was made to get a grip on, a neck like that! And he grunted +aloud, with wheezing and voluptuous grunts of gratification, as he saw +the white face alter and the wide eyes darken with terror. He was +making her suffer. He was no longer enveloped by that mild and +tragically inquiring stare that had so discomforted him. He was no +longer stung by the thought that she was good to look on, even with her +head pinned down against a beer-stained card-table. He was converting +her into something useless and broken, into something that could no +longer come between him and his ends. He was completely and finally +humiliating her. He was breaking her. He was converting her into +something corrupt. . . . Then his pendulous throat choked with a +falsetto gasp of wonder. _He was killing her_! + +Then, as suddenly as it had come, the smoke of that mental explosion +seemed to clear away. Even as he gaped into the white face so close to +his own he awoke to reason. The consciousness of how futile, of how +odious, of how maniacal, it all was swept over him. He had fallen low, +but he had never dreamed that he could fall so low as this. + +A reaction of physical nausea left him weak and dizzy. The flexor +muscles of his fingers relaxed. An ague of weakness crept through his +limbs. A vertiginous faintness brought him half tumbling and half +rolling back into his chair, wheezing and moist with sweat. He sat +there looking about him, like a sheep killer looking up from the ewe it +has captured. + +Then his great chest heaved and shook with hysterical sobbing. When, a +little later, he heard the shaken woman's antiphonal sobs, the +realization of how low he had fallen kept him from looking at her. A +great shame possessed him. He stumbled out of the room. He groped his +way down to the open streets, a haggard and broken man from whom life +had wrung some final hope of honor. + + + + +XIX + +No catastrophe that was mental in its origin could oppress for long a +man so essentially physical as Blake. For two desolate hours, it is +true, he wandered about the streets of the city, struggling to medicine +his depression of the mind by sheer weariness of the body. Then the +habit of a lifetime of activity reasserted itself. He felt the need of +focusing his resentment on something tangible and material. And as a +comparative clarity of vision returned to him there also came back +those tendencies of the instinctive fighter, the innate protest against +injustice, the revolt against final surrender, the forlorn claim for at +least a fighting chance. And with the thought of his official downfall +came the thought of Copeland and what Copeland had done to him. + +Out of that ferment of futile protest arose one sudden decision. Even +before he articulated the decision he found it unconsciously swaying +his movements and directing his steps. He would go and see Copeland! +He would find that bloodless little shrimp and put him face to face +with a few plain truths. He would confront that anemic +Deputy-Commissioner and at least let him know what one honest man +thought of him. + +Even when Blake stood before Copeland's brownstone-fronted house, the +house that seemed to wear a mask of staid discretion in every drawn +blind and gloomy story, no hesitation came to him. His naturally +primitive mind foresaw no difficulties in that possible encounter. He +knew it was late, that it was nearly midnight, but even that did not +deter him. The recklessness of utter desperation was on him. His +purpose was something that transcended the mere trivialities of +every-day intercourse. And he must see him. To confront Copeland +became essential to his scheme of things. + +He went ponderously up the brown stone steps and rang the bell. He +waited patiently until his ring was answered. It was some time before +the door swung open. Inside that door Blake saw a solemn-eyed servant +in a black spiked-tailed service-coat and gray trousers. + +"I want to see Mr. Copeland," was Blake's calmly assured announcement. + +"Mr. Copeland is not at home," answered the man in the service-coat. +His tone was politely impersonal. His face, too, was impassive. But +one quick glance seemed to have appraised the man on the doorstep, to +have judged him, and in some way to have found him undesirable. + +"But this is important," said Blake. + +"I'm sorry, sir," answered, the impersonal-eyed servant. Blake made an +effort to keep himself in perfect control. He knew that his unkempt +figure had not won the good-will of that autocratic hireling. + +"I 'm from Police Headquarters," the man on the doorstep explained, +with the easy mendacity that was a heritage of his older days. + +He produced the one official card that remained with him, the one worn +and dog-eared and once water-soaked Deputy-Commissioner's card which +still remained in his dog-eared wallet. "I 've got to see him on +business, Departmental business!" + +"Mr. and Mrs. Copeland are at the Metropolitan, sir," explained the +servant. "At the Opera. And they are not back yet." + +"Then I 'll wait for him," announced Blake, placated by the humbler +note in the voice of the man in the service-coat. + +"Very good, sir," announced the servant. And he led the way upstairs, +switching on the electrics as he went. + +Blake found himself in what seemed to be a library. About this softly +hung room he peered with an acute yet heavy disdain, with an +indeterminate envy which he could not control. It struck him as being +feminine and over fine, that shadowy room with all its warm hangings +and polished wood. It stood for a phase of life with which he had no +patience. And he kept telling himself that it had not been come by +honestly, that on everything about him, from the silver desk ornaments +to the marble bust glimmering out of its shadowy background, he himself +had some secret claim. He scowled up at a number of signed etchings +and a row of diminutive and heavily framed canvases, scowled up at them +with quick contempt. Then he peered uncomfortably about at the shelves +of books, mottled streaks of vellum and morocco stippled with gold, +crowded pickets of soft-lettered color which seemed to stand between +him and a world which he had never cared to enter. It was a foolish +world, that world of book reading, a lackadaisical region of unreality, +a place for women and children, but never meant for a man with a man's +work to do. + +His stolidly contemptuous eyes were still peering about the room when +the door opened and closed again. There was something so +characteristically guarded and secretive in the movement that Blake +knew it was Copeland even before he let his gaze wheel around to the +newcomer. About the entire figure, in fact, he could detect that +familiar veiled wariness, that enigmatic and self-concealing +cautiousness which had always had the power to touch him into a quick +irritation. + +"Mr. Blake, I believe," said Copeland, very quietly. He was in full +evening dress. In one hand he held a silk hat and over one arm hung a +black top-coat. He held himself in perfect control, in too perfect +control, yet his thin face was almost ashen in color, almost the +neutral-tinted gray of a battle-ship's side-plates. And when he spoke +it was with the impersonal polite unction with which he might have +addressed an utter stranger. + +"You wished to see me!" he said, as his gaze fastened itself on Blake's +figure. The fact that he remained standing imparted a tentativeness to +the situation. Yet his eyes remained on Blake, studying him with the +cold and mildly abstracted curiosity with which he might view a mummy +in its case. + +"I do!" said Blake, without rising from his chair. + +"About what?" asked Copeland. There was an acidulated crispness in his +voice which hinted that time might be a matter of importance to him. + +"You know what it's about, all right," was Blake's heavy retort. + +"On the contrary," said Copeland, putting down his hat and coat, "I 'm +quite in the dark as to how I can be of service to you." + +Both his tone and his words angered Blake, angered him unreasonably. +But he kept warning himself to wait, to hold himself in until the +proper moment arrived. + +"I expect no service from you," was Blake's curtly guttural response. +He croaked out his mirthless ghost of a laugh. "You 've taught me +better than that!" + +Copeland, for all his iciness, seemed to resent the thrust. + +"We have always something to learn," retorted, meeting Blake's stolid +stare enmity. + +"I guess I've learned enough!" said Blake. + +"Then I hope it has brought you what you are looking for!" Copeland, +as he spoke, stepped over to a chair, but he still remained on his feet. + +"No, it has n't brought me what I 'm after," said the other man. "Not +yet! But it's going to, in the end, Mr. Copeland, or I 'm going to +know the reason why!" + +He kept warning himself to be calm, yet he found his voice shaking a +little as he spoke. The time was not yet ripe for his outbreak. The +climactic moment was still some distance away. But he could feel it +emerging from the mist just as a pilot sights the bell-buoy that marks +his changing channel. + +"Then might I ask what you are after?" inquired Copeland. He folded +his arms, as though to fortify himself behind a pretense of +indifferency. + +"You know what I 've been after, just as I know what you 've been +after," cried Blake. "You set out to get my berth, and you got it. +And I set out to get Binhart, to get the man your whole push could n't +round up--and I 'm going to get him!" + +"Blake," said Copeland, very quietly, "you are wrong in both instances." + +"Am I!" + +"You are," was Copeland's answer, and he spoke with a studious patience +which his rival resented even more than his open enmity. "In the first +place, this Binhart case is a closed issue." + +"Not with me!" cried Blake, feeling himself surrendering to the tide +that had been tugging at him so long. "They may be able to buy off you +cuff-shooters down at Headquarters. They may grease your palm down +there, until you see it pays to keep your hands off. They may pull a +rope or two and make you back down. But nothing this side o' the gates +o' hell is going to make _me_ back down. I began this man-hunt, and _I +'m going to end it_!" + +He took on a dignity in his own eyes. He felt that in the face of +every obstacle he was still the instrument of an ineluctable and +incorruptible Justice. Uncouth and buffeted as his withered figure may +have been, it still represented the relentlessness of the Law. + +"That man-hunt is out of our hands," he heard Copeland saying. + +"But it's not out of _my_ hands!" reiterated the detective. + +"Yes, it's out of your hands, too," answered Copeland. He spoke with a +calm authority, with a finality, that nettled the other man. + +"What are you driving at?" he cried out. + +"This Binhart hunt is ended," repeated Copeland, and in the eyes +looking down at him Blake saw that same vague pity which had rested in +the gaze of Elsie Verriner. + +"By God, it's not ended!" Blake thundered back at him. + +"It is ended," quietly contended the other. "And precisely as you have +put it--Ended by God!" + +"It's what?" cried Blake. + +"You don't seem to be aware of the fact, Blake, that Binhart is +dead--dead and buried!" + +Blake stared up at him. + +"Is what?" his lips automatically inquired. + +"Binhart died seven weeks ago. He died in the town of Toluca, out in +Arizona. He's buried there." + +"That's a lie!" cried Blake, sagging forward in his chair. + +"We had the Phoenix authorities verify the report in every detail. +There is no shadow of doubt about it." + +Still Blake stared up at the other man. + +"I don't believe it," he wheezed. + +Copeland did not answer him. He stepped to the end of the desk and +with his scholarly white finger touched a mother-of-pearl bell button. +Utter silence reigned in the room until the servant answered his +summons. + +"Bridley, go to my secretary and bring me the portfolio in the second +drawer." + +Blake heard and yet did not hear the message. A fog-like sense of +unreality seemed to drape everything about him. The earth itself +seemed to crumble away and leave him poised alone in the very emptiness +of space. Binhart was dead! + +He could hear Copeland's voice far away. He could see the returning +figure of the servant, but it seemed as gray and ghostlike as the +entire room about him. In his shaking fingers he took the official +papers which Copeland handed over to him. He could read the words, he +could see the signatures, but they seemed unable to impart any +clear-cut message to his brain. His dazed eyes wandered over the +newspaper clippings which Copeland thrust into his unsteady fingers. +There, too, was the same calamitous proclamation, as final as though he +had been reading it on a tombstone. Binhart was dead! Here were the +proofs of it; here was an authentic copy of the death certificate, the +reports of the police verification; here in his hands were the final +and indisputable proofs. + +But he could not quite comprehend it. He tried to tell himself it was +only that his old-time enemy was playing some new trick on him, a trick +which he could not quite fathom. Then the totality of it all swept +home to him, swept through his entire startled being as a tidal-wave +sweeps over a coast-shoal. + +Blake, in his day, had known desolation, but it had seldom been +desolation of spirit. It had never been desolation like this. He +tried to plumb it, to its deepest meaning, but consciousness seemed to +have no line long enough. He only knew that his world had ended. He +saw himself as the thing that life had at last left him--a solitary and +unsatisfied man, a man without an aim, without a calling, without +companionship. + +"So this ends the music!" he muttered, as he rose weakly to his feet. +And yet it was more than the end of the music, he had to confess to +himself. It was the collapse of the instruments, the snapping of the +last string. It was the ultimate end, the end that proclaimed itself +as final as the stabbing thought of his own death itself. + +He heard Copeland asking if he would care for a glass of sherry. +Whether he answered that query or not he never knew. He only knew that +Binhart was dead, and that he himself was groping his way out into the +night, a broken and desolate man. + + + + +XX + +Several days dragged away before Blake's mental clarity returned to +him. Then block by unstable block he seemed to rebuild a new world +about him, a new world which was both narrow and empty. But it at +least gave him something on which to plant his bewildered feet. + +That slow return to the substantialities of life was in the nature of a +convalescence. It came step by languid step; he knew no power to hurry +it. And as is so often the case with convalescents, he found himself +in a world from which time seemed to have detached him. Yet as he +emerged from that earlier state of coma, his old-time instincts and +characteristics began to assert themselves. Some deep-seated inner +spirit of dubiety began to grope about and question and challenge. His +innate skepticism once more became active. That tendency to cynical +unbelief which his profession had imposed upon him stubbornly +reasserted itself. His career had crowned him with a surly +suspiciousness. And about the one thing that remained vital to that +career, or what was left of it, these wayward suspicions arrayed +themselves like wolves, about a wounded stag. + +His unquiet soul felt the need of some final and personal proof of +Binhart's death. He asked for more data than had been given him. He +wanted more information than the fact that Binhart, on his flight +north, had fallen ill of pneumonia in New Orleans, had wandered on to +the dry air of Arizona with a "spot" on his lungs, and had there +succumbed to the tubercular invasion for which his earlier sickness had +laid him open. Blake's slowly awakening and ever-wary mind kept +telling him that after all there might be some possibility of trickery, +that a fugitive with the devilish ingenuity of Binhart would resort to +any means to escape being further harassed by the Law. + +Blake even recalled, a few days later, the incident of the Shattuck +jewel-robbery, during the first weeks of his regime as a Deputy +Commissioner. This diamond-thief named Shattuck had been arrested and +released under heavy bail. Seven months later Shattuck's attorney had +appeared before the District Attorney's office with a duly executed +certificate of death, officially establishing the fact that his client +had died two weeks before in the city of Baltimore. On this he had +based a demand for the dismissal of the case. He had succeeded in +having all action stopped and the affair became, officially, a closed +incident. Yet two months later Shattuck had been seen alive, and the +following winter had engaged in an Albany hotel robbery which had +earned for him, under an entirely different name, a nine-year sentence +in Sing Sing. + +From the memory of that case Never-Fail Blake wrung a thin and ghostly +consolation. The more he brooded over it the more morosely disquieted +he became. The thing grew like a upas tree; it spread until it +obsessed all his waking hours and invaded even his dreams. Then a time +came when he could endure it no more. He faced the necessity of +purging his soul of all uncertainty. The whimpering of one of his +unkenneled "hunches" merged into what seemed an actual voice of +inspiration to him. + +He gathered together what money he could; he arranged what few matters +still remained to engage his attention, going about the task with that +valedictory solemnity with which the forlornly decrepit execute their +last will and testament. Then, when everything was prepared, he once +more started out on the trail. + + * * * * * * + +Two weeks later a rough and heavy-bodied man, garbed in the rough +apparel of a mining prospector, made his way into the sun-steeped town +of Toluca. There he went quietly to the wooden-fronted hotel, hired a +pack-mule and a camp-outfit and made purchase, among other things, of a +pick and shovel. To certain of the men he met he put inquiries as to +the best trail out to the Buenavista Copper Camp. Then, as he waited +for the camp-partner who was to follow him into Toluca, he drifted with +amiable and ponderous restlessness about the town, talking with the +telegraph operator and the barber, swapping yarns at the livery-stable +where his pack-mule was lodged, handing out cigars in the +wooden-fronted hotel, casually interviewing the town officials as to +the health of the locality and the death-rate of Toluca, acquainting +himself with the local undertaker and the lonely young doctor, and even +dropping in on the town officials and making inquiries about +main-street building lots and the need of a new hotel. + +To all this amiable and erratic garrulity there seemed to be neither +direction nor significance. But in one thing the town of Toluca +agreed; the ponderous-bodied old new-comer was a bit "queer" in his +head. + +A time came, however, when the newcomer announced that he could wait no +longer for his belated camp-partner. With his pack-mule and a pick and +shovel he set out, late one afternoon, for the Buenavista Camp. Yet by +nightfall, for some strange reason, any one traveling that lonely trail +might have seen him returning towards Toluca. He did not enter the +town, however, but skirted the outer fringe of sparsely settled houses +and guardedly made his way to a close-fenced area, in which neither +light nor movement could be detected. This silent place awakened in +him no trace of either fear or repugnance. With him he carried his +pick and shovel, and five minutes later the sound of this pick and +shovel might have been heard at work as the ponderous-bodied man +sweated over his midnight labor. When he had dug for what seemed an +interminable length of time, he tore away a layer of pine boards and +released a double row of screw-heads. Then he crouched low down in the +rectangular cavern which he had fashioned with his spade, struck a +match, and peered with a narrow-eyed and breathless intentness at what +faced him there. + +One glance at that tragic mass of corruption was enough for him. He +replaced the screw-heads and the pine boards. He took up his shovel +and began restoring the earth, stolidly tramping it down, from time to +time, with his great weight. + +When his task was completed he saw that everything was orderly and as +he had found it. Then he returned to his tethered packmule and once +more headed for the Buenavista Camp, carrying with him a discovery +which made the night air as intoxicating as wine to his weary body. + +Late that night a man might have been heard singing to the stars, +singing in the midst of the wilderness, without rhyme or reason. And +in the midst of that wilderness he remained for another long day and +another long night, as though solitude were necessary to him, that he +might adjust himself to some new order of things, that he might digest +some victory which had been too much for his shattered nerves. + +On the third day, as he limped placidly back into the town of Toluca, +his soul was torn between a great peace and a great hunger. He hugged +to his breast the fact that somewhere in the world ahead of him a man +once known as Binhart still moved and lived. He kept telling himself +that somewhere about the face of the globe that restless spirit whom he +sought still wandered. + +Day by patient day, through the drought and heat and alkali of an +Arizona summer, he sought some clue, some inkling, of the direction +which that wanderer had taken. But about Binhart and his movements, +Toluca and Phoenix and all Arizona itself seemed to know nothing. + +Nothing, Blake saw in the end, remained to be discovered there. So in +time the heavy-bodied man with the haggard hound's eyes took his leave, +passing out into the world which in turn swallowed him up as completely +as it had swallowed up his unknown enemy. + + + + +XXI + +Three of the busiest portions of New York, varying with the various +hours of the day, may safely be said to lie in that neighborhood where +Nassau Street debouches into Park Row, and also near that point where +Twenty-third Street intercepts Fourth Avenue, and still again not far +from where Broadway and Fifth Avenue meet at the southeast corner of +Madison Square. + +About these three points, at certain hours of the day and on certain +days of the week, an observant stranger might have noticed the +strangely grotesque figure of an old cement seller. So often had this +old street-peddler duly appeared at his stand, from month to month, +that the hurrying public seemed to have become inured to the +grotesqueness of his appearance. Seldom, indeed, did a face turn to +inspect him as he blinked out at the lighted street like a Pribiloff +seal blinking into an Arctic sun. Yet it was only by a second or even +a third glance that the more inquisitive might have detected anything +arresting in that forlornly ruminative figure with the pendulous and +withered throat and cheek-flaps. + +To the casual observer he was merely a picturesque old street-peddler, +standing like a time-stained statue beside a carefully arrayed exhibit +of his wares. This exhibit, which invariably proved more interesting +than his own person, consisted of a frame of gas-piping in the form of +an inverted U. From the top bar of this iron frame swung two heavy +pieces of leather cemented together. Next to this coalesced leather +dangled a large Z made up of three pieces of plate glass stuck together +at the ends, and amply demonstrating the adhesive power of the +cementing mixture to be purchased there. + +Next to the glass Z again were two rows of chipped and serrated plates +and saucers, plates and saucers of all kinds and colors, with holes +drilled in their edges, and held together like a suspended chain-gang +by small brass links. At some time in its career each one of these +cups and saucers had been broken across or even shattered into +fragments. Later, it had been ingeniously and patiently glued +together. And there it and its valiant brothers in misfortune swung +together in a double row, with a cobblestone dangling from the bottom +plate, reminding the passing world of remedial beneficences it might +too readily forget, attesting to the fact that life's worst fractures +might in some way still be made whole. + +Yet so impassively, so stolidly statuesque, did this figure stand +beside the gas-pipe that to all intents he might have been cemented to +the pavement with his own glue. He seldom moved, once his frame had +been set up and his wares laid out. When he did move it was only to +re-awaken the equally plethoric motion of his slowly oscillating links +of cemented glass and chinaware. Sometimes, it is true, he disposed of +a phial of his cement, producing his bottle and receiving payment with +the absorbed impassivity of an automaton. + +Huge as his figure must once have been, it now seemed, like his +gibbeted plates, all battered and chipped and over-written with the +marks of time. Like his plates, too, he carried some valiant sense of +being still intact, still stubbornly united, still oblivious of every +old-time fracture, still bound up into personal compactness by some +power which defied the blows of destiny. + +In all seasons, winter and summer, apparently, he wore a long and +loose-fitting overcoat. This overcoat must once have been black, but +it had faded to a green so conspicuous that it made him seem like a +bronze figure touched with the mellowing _patina_ of time. + +It was in the incredibly voluminous pockets of this overcoat that the +old peddler carried his stock in trade, paper-wrapped bottles of +different sizes, and the nickels and dimes and quarters of his daily +trafficking. And as the streams of life purled past him, like water +past a stone, he seemed to ask nothing of the world on which he looked +out with such deep-set and impassive eyes. He seemed content with his +lot. He seemed to have achieved a Nirvana-like indifferency towards +all his kind. + +Yet there were times, as he waited beside his stand, as lethargic as a +lobster in a fish-peddler's window, when his flaccid, exploring fingers +dug deeper into one of those capacious side-pockets and there came in +contact with two oddly shaped wristlets of polished steel. At such +times his intent eyes would film, as the eyes of a caged eagle +sometimes do. Sometimes, too, he would smile with the half-pensive +Castilian smile of an uncouth and corpulent Cervantes. + +But as a rule his face was expressionless. About the entire moss-green +figure seemed something faded and futile, like a street-lamp left +burning after sunrise. At other times, as the patrolman on the beat +sauntered by in his authoritative blue stippled with its metal buttons, +the old peddler's watching eyes would wander wistfully after the +nonchalant figure. At such times a meditative and melancholy +intentness would fix itself on the faded old face, and the stooping old +shoulders would even unconsciously heave with a sigh. + +As a rule, however, the great green-clad figure with its fringe of +white hair--the fringe that stood blithely out from the faded hat brim +like the halo of some medieval saint on a missal--did not permit his +gaze to wander so far afield. + +For, idle as that figure seemed, the brain behind it was forever +active, forever vigilant and alert. The deep-set eyes under their lids +that hung as loose as old parchment were always fixed on the life that +flowed past them. No face, as those eyes opened and closed like the +gills of a dying fish, escaped their inspection. Every man who came +within their range of vision was duly examined and adjudicated. Every +human atom of that forever ebbing and flowing tide of life had to pass +through an invisible screen of inspection, had in some intangible way +to justify itself as it proceeded on its unknown movement towards an +unknown end. And on the loose-skinned and haggard face, had it been +studied closely enough, could have been seen a vague and wistful note +of expectancy, a guarded and muffled sense of anticipation. + +Yet to-day, as on all other days, nobody stopped to study the old +cement-seller's face. The pink-cheeked young patrolman, swinging back +on his beat, tattooed with his ash night-stick on the gas-pipe frame +and peered indifferently down at the battered and gibbeted crockery. + +"Hello, Batty," he said as he set the exhibit oscillating with a push +of the knee. "How 's business?" + +"Pretty good," answered the patient and guttural voice. But the eyes +that seemed as calm as a cow's eyes did not look at the patrolman as he +spoke. + +He had nothing to fear. He knew that he had his license. He knew that +under the faded green of his overcoat was an oval-shaped +street-peddler's badge. He also knew, which the patrolman did not, +that under the lapel of his inner coat was a badge of another shape and +design, the badge which season by season the indulgent new head of the +Detective Bureau extended to him with his further privilege of a +special officer's license. For this empty honor "Batty" Blake--for as +"Batty" he was known to nearly all the cities of America--did an +occasional bit of "stooling" for the Central Office, a tip as to a +stray yeggman's return, a hint as to a "peterman's" activities in the +shopping crowds, a whisper that a till tapper had failed to respect the +Department's dead-lines. + +Yet nobody took Batty Blake seriously. It was said, indeed, that once, +in the old regime, he had been a big man in the Department. But that +Department had known many changes, and where life is unduly active, +memory is apt to be unduly short. + +The patrolman tapping on the gas-pipe arch with his idle night-stick +merely knew that Batty was placid and inoffensive, that he never +obstructed traffic and always carried a license-badge. He knew that in +damp weather Batty limped and confessed that his leg pained him a bit, +from an old hurt he 'd had in the East. And he had heard somewhere +that Batty was a sort of Wandering Jew, patroling the whole length of +the continent with his broken plates and his gas-pipe frame and his +glue-bottles, migrating restlessly from city to city, striking out as +far west as San Francisco, swinging round by Denver and New Orleans and +then working his way northward again up to St. Louis and Chicago and +Pittsburgh. + +Remembering these things the idle young "flatty" turned and looked at +the green-coated and sunken-shouldered figure, touched into some rough +pity by the wordless pathos of an existence which seemed without aim or +reason. + +"Batty, how long 're yuh going to peddle glue, anyway?" he suddenly +asked. + +The glue-peddler, watching the crowds that drifted by him, did not +answer. He did not even look about at his interrogator. + +"D' yuh _have_ to do this?" asked the wide-shouldered youth in uniform. + +"No," was the peddler's mild yet guttural response. + +The other prodded with his night-stick against the capacious overcoat +pockets. Then he laughed. + +"I'll bet yuh 've got about forty dollars stowed away in there," he +mocked. "Yuh have now, have n't yuh?" + +"I don' know!" listlessly answered the sunken-shouldered figure. + +"Then what 're yuh sellin' this stuff for, if it ain't for money?" +persisted the vaguely piqued youth. + +"I don' know!" was the apathetic answer. + +"Then who does?" inquired the indolent young officer, as he stood +humming and rocking on his heels and swinging his stick by its +wrist-thong. + +The man known as Batty may or may not have been about to answer him. +His lips moved, but no sound came from them. His attention, +apparently, was suddenly directed elsewhere. For approaching him from +the east his eyes had made out the familiar figure of old McCooey, the +oldest plain-clothes man who still came out from Headquarters to "pound +the pavement." + +And at almost the same time, approaching him from the west, he had +caught sight of another figure. + +It was that of a dapper and thin-faced man who might have been anywhere +from forty to sixty years of age. He walked, however, with a quick and +nervous step. Yet the most remarkable thing about him seemed to be his +eyes. They were wide-set and protuberant, like a bird's, as though +years of being hunted had equipped him with the animal-like faculty of +determining without actually looking back just who might be following +him. + +Those alert and wide-set eyes, in fact, must have sighted McCooey at +the same time that he fell under the vision of the old cement seller. +For the dapper figure wheeled quietly and quickly about and stooped +down at the very side of the humming patrolman. He stooped and +examined one of the peddler's many-fractured china plates. He squinted +down at it as though it were a thing of intense interest to him. + +As he stooped there the humming patrolman was the witness of a +remarkable and inexplicable occurrence. From the throat of the +huge-shouldered peddler, not two paces away from him, he heard come a +hoarse and brutish cry, a cry strangely like the bawl and groan of a +branded range-cow. At the same moment the gigantic green-draped figure +exploded into sudden activity. He seemed to catapult out at the +stooping dapper figure, bearing it to the sidewalk with the sheer +weight of his unprovoked assault. + +There the struggle continued. There the two strangely diverse bodies +twisted and panted and writhed. There the startlingly agile dapper +figure struggled to throw off his captor. The arch of gas-pipe went +over. Glue-bottles showered amid the shattered glass and crockery. +But that once placid-eyed old cement seller struck to the unoffending +man he had so promptly and so gratuitously attacked, stuck to him as +though he had been glued there with his own cement. And before the +patrolman could tug the combatants apart, or even wedge an arm into the +fight, the exulting green-coated figure had his enemy on his back along +the curb, and, reaching down into his capacious pocket, drew out two +oddly shaped steel wristlets. Forcing up his captive's arm, he +promptly snapped one steel wring on his own wrist, and one on the wrist +of the still prostrate man. + +"What 're yuh tryin' to do?" demanded the amazed officer, still tugging +at the great figure holding down the smaller man. In the encounter +between those two embattled enemies had lurked an intensity of passion +which he could not understand, which seemed strangely akin to insanity +itself. + +It was only when McCooey pushed his way in through the crowd and put a +hand on his shoulder that the old cement seller slowly rose to his +feet. He was still panting and blowing. But as he lifted his face up +to the sky his body rumbled with a Jove-like sound that was not +altogether a cough of lungs overtaxed nor altogether a laugh of triumph. + +"I got him!" he gasped. + +About his once placid old eyes, which the hardened tear-ducts no longer +seemed able to drain of their moisture, was a look of exultation that +made the gathering street-crowd take him for a panhandler gone mad with +hunger. + +"Yuh got _who_?" cried the indignant young officer, wheeling the bigger +man about on his feet. As the cement seller, responding to that tug, +pivoted about, it was noticeable that the man to whom his wrist was +locked by the band of steel duly duplicated the movement. He moved +when the other moved; he drew aside when the other drew aside, as +though they were now two parts of one organism. + +"I got him!" calmly repeated the old street-peddler. + +"Yuh got _who_?" demanded the still puzzled young patrolman, oblivious +of the quiescent light in the bewildered eyes of McCooey, close beside +him. + +"Binhart!" answered Never-Fail Blake, with a sob. "_I 've got +Binhart_!" + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEVER-FAIL BLAKE*** + + +******* This file should be named 18671.txt or 18671.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/6/7/18671 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. 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