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Updated: May 24, 2025
But Binhart's movements, after leaving that port, became a puzzle to the man who had begun to pride himself on growing into knowledge of his adversary's inmost nature. For once Blake found himself uncertain as to the other's intentions. The fugitive now seemed possessed with an idea to get away from the sea, to strike inland at any cost, as though water had grown a thing of horror to him.
His unquiet soul felt the need of some final and personal proof of Binhart's death. He asked for more data than had been given him.
She looked at him with grave yet casual curiosity, as tourists look at a ruin that has been pointed out to them as historic. "You did n't give me back Connie Binhart's note," she reminded him as she paused with her gloved finger-tips resting on the desk edge. "D' you want it?" he queried with simulated indifference, as he made a final and lingering study of it.
It was then that something deep within his nature, something he could never quite define, whispered its first faint doubt to him. This doubt persisted even when late that night a Teal Agency operative wired him from Calgary, stating that a man answering Binhart's description had just left the Alberta Hotel for Banff.
It does n't make much difference whether I take you back dead or alive. But I 'm going to take you back." The other man said nothing, but his slight head-movement was one of comprehension. "So I just wanted to say there's no side-stepping, no four-flushing, at this end of the trip!" "I understand," was Binhart's listless response. "I'm glad you do," Blake went on in his dully monotonous voice.
He 'll take you out to a sampan, to put you aboard Binhart's boat. But the three of them will cut your throat, cut your throat, and then drop you overboard. He 's to get so much in gold. Get out of here with him. Let him think you 're going. But drop away, somewhere, before you get to the beach. And watch them all the way."
He revolted against it with a sullen and senseless rage. "By God, you 're not going to die!" declared the staring and sinewy-necked man at the bedside. "I say you 're not going to die. I 'm going to get you out o' here alive!" A sweat of weakness stood out on Binhart's white face. "Where to?" he asked, as he had asked one before. And his eyes remained closed as put the question.
All he wanted was Binhart. "Binhart's in Guayaquil," McGlade suddenly announced. "How d' you know that?" promptly demanded Blake. "I know the man who sneaked him out from Balboa. He got sixty dollars for it. I can take you to him. Binhart 'd picked up a medicine-chest and a bag of instruments from a broken-down doctor at Colon. He went aboard a Pacific liner as a doctor himself. "What liner?"
"Does Elsie Verriner know where that pile is?" the detective inquired. His withered hulk of a body was warmed by a slow glow of anticipation. There was a woman, he remembered, whom he could count on swinging to his own ends. "No, but she could get it," was Binhart's response. "And what good would that do me?" "The two of us could go up to New Orleans.
"What do you want, Jim?" asked Binhart, almost querulously. "I want that gun you 've got up there under your liver pad," was Blake's impassive answer. "Is that all?" asked Binhart. But he made no move to produce the gun. "Then I want you," calmly announced Blake. A look of gentle expostulation crept over Binhart's gaunt face. "You can't do it, Jim," he announced.
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