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That stolid practicality which had made Blake a successful operativeasserted itself in the matter of his approach to the Luiz Camoes house,the house which had been pointed out to him as holding Binhart.
He circled promptly about to the front of that house, pressed a gold coinin the hand of the half-caste Portuguese servant who opened the door, andasked to be shown to the room of the English tea merchant.
That servant, had he objected, would have been promptly taken possessionof by the detective, and as promptly put in a condition where he could dono harm, for Blake felt that he was too near the end of his trail to beput off by any mere side issue. But the coin and the curt explanationthat the merchant must be seen at once admitted Blake to the house.
The servant was leading him down the length of the half-lit hall whenBlake caught him by the sleeve.
"You tell my rickshaw boy to wait! Quick, before he gets away!"
Blake knew that the last door would be the one leading to Binhart's room.The moment he was alone in the hall he tiptoed to this door and pressedan ear against its panel. Then with his left hand, he slowly turned theknob, caressing it with his fingers that it might not click when thelatch was released. As he had feared, it was locked.
He stood for a second or two, thinking. Then with the knuckle of onefinger he tapped on the door, lightly, almost timidly.
A man's voice from within cried out, "Wait a minute! Wait a minute!" ButBlake, who had been examining the woodwork of the door-frame, did notchoose to wait a minute. Any such wait, he felt, would involve too muchrisk. In one minute, he knew, a fugitive could either be off and away, orcould at least prepare himself for any one intercepting that flight. SoBlake took two quick steps back, and brought his massive shoulder againstthe door. It swung back, as though nothing more than a parlor match hadheld it shut. Blake, as he stepped into the room, dropped his right handto his coat pocket.
Facing him, at the far side of the room, he saw Binhart.
The fugitive sat in a short-legged reed chair, with a grip-sack open onhis knees. His coat and vest were off, and the light from the oil lamp athis side made his linen shirt a blotch of white.
He had thrown his head up, at the sound of the opening door, and he stillsat, leaning forward in the low chair in an attitude of startledexpectancy. There was no outward and apparent change on his face as hiseyes fell on Blake's figure. He showed neither fear nor bewilderment. Hiscareer had equipped him with histrionic powers that were exceptional. Asa bank-sneak and confidence-man he had long since learned perfect controlof his features, perfect composure even under the most discomfortingcircumstances.
"Hello, Connie!" said the detective facing him. He spoke quietly, and hisattitude seemed one of unconcern. Yet a careful observer might havenoticed that the pulse of his beefy neck was beating faster than usual.And over that great body, under its clothing, were rippling tremorsstrangely like those that shake the body of a leashed bulldog at thesight of a street cat.
"Hello, Jim!" answered Binhart, with equal composure. He had aged sinceBlake had last seen him, aged incredibly. His face was thin now, withplum-colored circles under the faded eyes.
He made a move as though to lift down the valise that rested on hisknees. But Blake stopped him with a sharp movement of his right hand.
"That's all right," he said. "Don't get up!"
Binhart eyed him. During that few seconds of silent tableau each man wasappraising, weighing, estimating the strength of the other.
"What do you want, Jim?" asked Binhart, almost querulously.
"I want that gun you've got up there under your liver pad," was Blake'simpassive 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. "You can't take me away from here."
"But I'm going to," retorted Blake.
"How?"
"I'm just going to take you."
He crossed the room as he spoke.
"Give me the gun," he commanded.
Binhart still sat in the low reed chair. He made no movement in responseto Blake's command.
"What's the good of getting rough-house," he complained.
"Gi' me the gun," repeated Blake.
"Jim, I hate to see you act this way," but as Binhart spoke he slowlydrew the revolver from its flapped pocket. Blake's revolver barrel wastouching the white shirt-front as the movement was made. It remainedthere until he had possession of Binhart's gun. Then he backed away,putting his own revolver back in his pocket.
"Now, get your clothes on," commanded Blake.
"What for?" temporized Binhart.
"You're coming with me!"
"You can't do it, Jim," persisted the other. "You couldn't get me down tothe water-front, in this town. They'd get you before you were two hundredyards away from that door."
"I'll risk it," announced the detective.
"And I'd fight you myself, every move. This ain't Manhattan Borough, youknow, Jim; you can't kidnap a white man. I'd have you in irons forabduction the first ship we struck. And at the first port of call I'dhave the best law sharps money could get. You can't do it, Jim. It ain'tlaw!"
"What t' hell do I care for law," was Blake's retort. "I want you andyou're going to come with me."
"Where am I going?"
"Back to New York."
Binhart laughed. It was a laugh without any mirth in it.
"Jim, you're foolish. You couldn't get me back to New York alive, anymore than you could take Victoria Peak to New York!"
"All right, then, I'll take you along the other way, if I ain't going totake you alive. I've followed you a good many thousand miles, Connie, anda little loose talk ain't going to make me lie down at this stage of thegame."
Binhart sat studying the other man for a moment or two.
"Then how about a little real talk, the kind of talk that money makes?"
"Nothing doing!" declared Blake, folding his arms.
Binhart flickered a glance at him as he thrust his own right hand downinto the hand-bag on his knees.
"I want to show you what you could get out of this," he said, leaningforward a little as he looked up at Blake.
When his exploring right hand was lifted again above the top of the bagBlake firmly expected to see papers of some sort between its fingers. Hewas astonished to see something metallic, something which glitteredbright in the light from the wall lamp. The record of this discovery hadscarcely been carried back to his brain, when the silence of the roomseemed to explode into a white sting, a puff of noise that felt like awhip lash curling about Blake's leg. It seemed to roll off in a shiftingand drifting cloud of smoke.
It so amazed Blake that he fell back against the wall, trying tocomprehend it, to decipher the source and meaning of it all. He was stillhuddled back against the wall when a second surprise came to him. It wasthe discovery that Binhart had caught up a hat and a coat, and wasrunning away, running out through the door while his captor stared afterhim.
It was only then Blake realized that his huddled position was not a thingof his own volition. Some impact had thrown him against the wall like atoppled nine-pin. The truth came to him, in a sudden flash; Binhart hadshot at him. There had been a second revolver hidden away in the handbag, and Binhart had attempted to make use of it.
A great rage against Binhart swept through him. A still greater rage atthe thought that his enemy was running away brought Blake lurching andscrambling to his feet. He was a little startled to find that it hurt himto run. But it hurt him more to think of losing Binhart.
He dove for the door, hurling his great bulk through it, tossing asidethe startled Portuguese servant who stood at the outer entrance. He ranfrenziedly out into the night, knowing by the staring faces of thestreet-corner group that Binhart had made the first turning and wasr
unning towards the water-front. He could see the fugitive, as he came tothe corner; and like an unpenned bull he swung about and made after him.His one thought was to capture his man. His one obsession was to hauldown Binhart.
Then, as he ran, a small trouble insinuated itself into his mind. Hecould not understand the swishing of his right boot, at every hurryingstride. But he did not stop, for he could already smell the odorouscoolness of the water-front and he knew he must close in on his manbefore that forest of floating sampans and native house-boats swallowedhim up.
A lightheadedness crept over him as he came panting down to the water'sedge. The faces of the coolies about him, as he bargained for a sampan,seemed far away and misty. The voices, as the flat-bottomed little skiffwas pushed off in pursuit of the boat which was hurrying Binhart out intothe night, seemed remote and thin, as though coming from across foggywater. He was bewildered by a sense of dampness in his right leg. Hepatted it with his hand, inquisitively, and found it wet. He stooped downand felt his boot. It was full of blood. It was overrunning with blood.He remembered then. Binhart had shot him, after all.
He could never say whether it was this discovery, or the actual loss ofblood, that filled him with a sudden giddiness. He fell forward on hisface, on the bottom of the rocking sampan.
He must have been unconscious for some time, for when he awakened he wasdimly aware that he was being carried up the landing-ladder of a steamer.He heard English voices about him. A very youthful-looking ship's surgeoncame and bent over him, cut away his trouser-leg, and whistled.
"Why, he's been bleeding like a stuck pig!" he heard a startled voice,very close to him, suddenly exclaim. And a few minutes later, after beingmoved again, he opened his eyes to find himself in a berth and theboyish-looking surgeon assuring him it was all right.
"Where's Binhart?" asked Blake.
"That's all right, old chap, you just rest up a bit," said the placatoryyouth.
At nine the next morning Blake was taken ashore at Hong Kong.
After eleven days in the English hospital he was on his feet again. Hewas quite strong by that time. But for several weeks after that his legwas painfully stiff.
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