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Updated: May 13, 2025
"That's Saint Poalo there you can just make it out, up high, see. And those lights are the Boundary Gate. And this sweep of lights below here is the Praya. Now look where I 'm pointing. That's the Luiz Camoes lodging-house. You see the second window with the light in it?" "Yes, I see it." "Well, Binhart 's inside that window." "You know it?" "I know it."
And as they stood smoking together Blake tenderly and cautiously put out the usual feelers, plying the familiar questions and meeting with the too-familiar lack of response. Like all the rest of them, he soon saw, Pip Tankred knew nothing of Binhart or his whereabouts. And with that discovery his interest in Pip Tankred ceased.
Two days of hard work, however, convinced Blake that Binhart had sailed from Fiume to Naples. He started southward by train, at once, vaguely surprised at the length of Italy, vaguely disconcerted by the unknown tongue and the unknown country which he had to face. It was not until he arrived at Naples that he seemed to touch solid ground again. That city, he felt, stood much nearer home.
"What are you going to do?" she asked. "I 'm going to get Binhart," was Blake's answer. He could hear her little childlike murmur of laughter. "You 're brave, white man," she said, with a hand on his arm. She was silent for a moment, before she added; "And I think you 'll get him." "Of course I 'll get him," retorted Blake, buttoning his coat.
A nervous tug-of-war was taking place between her right and left hand, with a twisted-up pair of ecru gloves for the cable. "You know me," he began again in his deliberate and abdominal bass. "And I know you. I 've got 'o get this man Binhart. I 've got 'o! He 's been out for seven months, now, and they 're going to put it up to me, to me, personally. Copeland tried to get him without me.
"Where 's Binhart?" he repeated, foolishly, for by this time his great hand had closed on her throat and all power of speech was beyond her. He swung her about and bore her back across the table. She did not struggle. She lay there so passive in his clutch that a dull pride came to him at the thought of his own strength. This belated sense of power seemed to intoxicate him.
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. 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.
His one remaining resource was a Canadian Pacific steamer from Victoria. This, he figured out, would get him to Hong Kong even earlier than the steamer which he had already missed. He had a hunch that Hong Kong was the port he wanted. Just why, he could not explain. But he felt sure that Binhart would not drop off at Manila. Once on the run, he would keep out of American quarters.
It was something no longer to be reckoned with. The only thing that counted was the fact that he had decided to "get" Binhart, that he was the pursuer and Binhart was the fugitive. It had long since resolved itself into a personal issue between him and his enemy. Three hours after he had disembarked from his steamer at Rio, Blake was breakfasting at the Café Britto in the Ovidor.
And before everything else he felt that it would be well to get in touch with that distributor of bridge equipment and phonograph records. "You don't mean you 're going to try to get into Guayaquil?" demanded McGlade. "If Connie Binhart 's down there I 've got to go and get him," was Never-Fail Blake's answer.
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