"Stop a minute. You say you saw this gray-headed beach-comber in Guayaquil one time? So did I, my son. I know him. He is bad medicine for young Goodwin to interfere with, but he has a decent streak in him. Quesada sounds a good deal worse to me. He's a yellow pup all the way through. Come along, Señor Alfaro. Grab your hat and follow me. I need you to sling the Spanish language." "You are going to consult with the police?" queried the Colombian. "Not on your life. I'll round up this Quesada-Brincker outfit all by myself. I am kind of responsible for Goodwin. I feel like a godfather by brevet to him. It will do no harm to look into this thing. I am just naturally suspicious of Panamanians in general and of Quesada in particular. Good-by, Doc. I'll keep you posted." They were lucky enough to find a cab in the hospital grounds and, as the _cochero_ plied the whip, Alfaro added the details of his meeting with Goodwin on the wharf. Devlin listened grimly. He had become taciturn. He was no longer the jovial, swaggering steam-shovel man bragging of the prowess of "old Twenty-six" but a two-fisted American of the frontier breed, schooled to think and to act in tight places. "I intend to get into General Quesada's house and look his game over," said he. "But he has a revolver. He tried to kill me with it," cried Alfaro. "Pshaw, I never found one of you Spanish-Americans that could shoot straight," was the impolite comment. They left the cab at the nearest corner. Devlin strode ahead, Alfaro peering warily about for unfriendly policemen of the Panama force. In front of the house Devlin halted and said: "You are a professional diplomat. Better stay outside and jolly the Spiggoty police if a row breaks loose inside. They will try to help Quesada. If I need you I'll sing out good and loud." "But I am not a coward," earnestly protested the Colombian. "I am not afraid to go in with you. Goodwin saved my life. I will do anything for him." "You do as you're told, young man, or I may get peevish with you," was the decisive reply. Devlin rang the bell. When the door was opened by some one dimly visible in the unlighted vestibule, he demanded in very bad Spanish: "I wish to see General Quesada. It is important." A strong voice answered in excellent English: "The general will not be home to-night. What is your business?" Devlin shoved the other man aside and advanced into the hallway, at the further end of which an electric bulb was aglow. The other man quickly followed and locked the door behind him. "Pretty exclusive, aren't you?" said Devlin. "Why, hello, Captain Brincker. I'm looking for a young friend of mine named Goodwin. What have you done with him?" Gazing hard at the bold intruder, the soldier of fortune answered: "There is no young man in the house. You are Jack Devlin."