Here's the warrant. I'm sorry this chap is your
pal, but--"
"My pal! Hell, I hate him like the smallpox. Good thing you spoke
or I'd have sold you a cocoanut grove. I KNEW he was wrong.
Embezzler, eh? Well, well!"
"Eighty thousand, that's all, and he's got it on him."
"You're wrong there; he was broke when he landed. I ought to
know."
"Oh no! He came down on the Santa Cruz; I've seen the purser. He
travelled under the name of Jefferson Locke. There's no mistake,
and he couldn't have blown it all. No, it's sewed into his shirt,
and I'm here to grab it."
Weeks whistled in amazement. "He IS a shrewd one. Eighty thou--
Lord, I wish I'd known that! He's here, all right, working for the
railroad and living at Panama. He's made good, too, and got some
influential friends. Oh, this is great!"
"Working, hey? Clever stall! Do you see that?" Williams inclined
his head for a fuller display of the disfiguration over his ear.
"He hung that on me, with a bottle. I damn near died." He laughed
disagreeably. "He'll go back, and he'll go back quick. How do I
get to Panama?"
Weeks consulted his watch hastily.
"You've missed the last train; but we'll go over together in the
morning. I want to have a hand in this arrest for reasons of my
own; I don't like him or his influential friends.
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