"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.
