I'd enjoy meeting him again."
"What does he look like?"
Mr. Williams rattled off a description of Kirk Anthony so
photographic that the consul suddenly saw a great light.
"Yes, I know him all right," he confessed, warmly. "He's a good
friend of mine, too; in fact, he lived with me for a while."
Misconstruing the eager expression that came to his caller's face,
he rose heavily and thrust out a thick, wet hand. "Don't let's
beat about the bush, Mr. Anthony; your son is safe and well and
making a name for himself. I'm happy to say I helped him--not
much, to be sure, but all I could--yes, sir, I acknowledge the
corn--and I'm glad to meet you at last. I have been waiting for
you to arrive, and I'm glad you dropped in on me. I have a lot of
things to talk about."
But the other stared upward impatiently. "No, no! You've got me
wrong. I'm a detective, and I'm after your friend Wellar, alias
Locke, alias Anthony. He's wanted for embezzlement and assault and
a few other things, and I'm going to take him." The indistinctive
Mr. Williams spoke sharply, and his pale blue eyes were suddenly
hard and bright.
Weeks stared open-mouthed for an instant. "Then you're really not
Darwin K. Anthony?" he gasped.
"Certainly not.
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