It was considerably after dark on Saturday evening that John Weeks, American Consul at Colon, received a caller who came to him direct from the Royal Mail steamer just docked. At first sight the stranger did not impress Mr. Weeks as a man of particular importance. His face was insignificant, and his pale-blue eyes showed little force. His only noticeable feature was displayed when he removed his hat. Then it could be seen that a wide, white scar ran from just over his temple to a point back of his right ear. He made his name known as Williams, which, of course, meant nothing to the consul, and while drinking one of Weeks' high-balls, inquired idly about the country, the climate, and the people, as if in no hurry to come to his point. Weeks watched him shrewdly, convinced at last by his visitor's excessive caution that his first judgment had been wrong, and that the man was more knowing than he seemed. Mr. Williams was likewise studying the fat man, and when he had satisfied himself, came out openly with these words: "I'm looking for a chap named Wellar. He landed here some time late in November." "Friend of yours?" "Um--m--not exactly." Mr. Williams ran a hand meditatively over the ragged scar on his scalp, as if from force of habit. "Wellar? I never heard of him." "He may have travelled under another name. Ever hear of a fellow called Locke?" The consul's moist lips drew together, his red eyes gleamed watchfully. "Maybe I have, and maybe I haven't," said he. "Why do you want him?" "I heard he was here. I'd enjoy meeting him again." "What does he look like?" Mr. Williams rattled off a description of Kirk Anthony so photographic that the consul suddenly saw a great light. "Yes, I know him all right," he confessed, warmly. "He's a good friend of mine, too; in fact, he lived with me for a while." Misconstruing the eager expression that came to his caller's face, he rose heavily and thrust out a thick, wet hand. "Don't let's beat about the bush, Mr. Anthony; your son is safe and well and making a name for himself. I'm happy to say I helped him--not much, to be sure, but all I could--yes, sir, I acknowledge the corn--and I'm glad to meet you at last. I have been waiting for you to arrive, and I'm glad you dropped in on me. I have a lot of things to talk about." But the other stared upward impatiently. "No, no! You've got me wrong. I'm a detective, and I'm after your friend Wellar, alias Locke, alias Anthony. He's wanted for embezzlement and assault and a few other things, and I'm going to take him." The indistinctive Mr. Williams spoke sharply, and his pale blue eyes were suddenly hard and bright. Weeks stared open-mouthed for an instant. "Then you're really not Darwin K. Anthony?" he gasped. "Certainly not. Here's the warrant. I'm sorry this chap is your pal, but--" "My pal! Hell, I hate him like the smallpox. Good thing you spoke or I'd have sold you a cocoanut grove. I KNEW he was wrong. Embezzler, eh? Well, well!"