ke took two quick steps back, and brought his massive
shoulder against the door. It swung back, as though nothing more than
a parlor match had held it shut. Blake, as he stepped into the room,
dropped his right hand to 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 on
his knees. His coat and vest were off, and the light from the oil lamp
at his side made his linen shirt a blotch of white.

He had thrown his head up, at the sound of the opening door, and he
still sat, leaning forward in the low chair in an attitude of startled
expectancy. There was no outward and apparent change on his face as
his eyes fell on Blake's figure. He showed neither fear nor
bewilderment. His career had equipped him with histrionic powers that
were exceptional. As a bank-sneak and confidence-man he had long since
learned perfect control of his features, perfect composure even under
the most discomforting circumstances.

"Hello, Connie!" said the detective facing him. He spoke quietly, and
his attitude seemed one of unconcern. Yet a careful observer might
have noticed that the pulse of his beefy neck was beating faster than
usual. And over that great body, under its clothing, were rippling
tremors strangely like those that shake the body of a leashed bulldog
at the sight of a street cat.

"Hello, Jim!" answered Binhart, with equal composure. He had aged
since Blake had last seen him, aged incredibly. His face was thin now,
with plum-colored circles under the faded eyes.

He made a move as though to lift down the valise that rested on his
knees. 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
was appraising, 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'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. "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 gu