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