"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.