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)