thing had to do with the movements or the whereabouts of Connie Binhart.
One night, as he sat placidly playing his game of "cut-throat" in his shirt-sleeves, he looked up and saw a russet-faced figure as stolid as his own. This figure, he perceived, was discreetly studying him as he sat under the glare of the light. Blake went on with his game. In a quarter of an hour, however, he got up from the table and bought a fresh supply of "green" Havana cigars. Then he sauntered out to where the russet-faced stranger stood watching the street crowds.
"Pip, what 're you doing down in these parts?" he casually inquired. He had recognized the man as Pip Tankred, with whom he had come in contact five long years before. Pip, on that occasion, was engaged in loading an East River banana-boat with an odd ton or two of cartridges designed for Castro's opponents in Venezuela.
"Oh, I 'm freightin' bridge equipment down the West Coast," he solemnly an-
