JACK DEVLIN IN ACTION
facing each other in the wicker chairs while the hours dragged their slow length along. The house was otherwise deserted. The servants had been dismissed earlier in the day. The thick stone walls shut out the street sounds, but the open windows overlooking the bay admitted the murmuring noise of the waves on the beach.
At length Devlin heard the staccato explosions of a launch's engine, diminishing in the distance. He hoped that Alfaro was on his way. The tense excitement of the situation had slackened. Devlin was feeling the nervous strain, and with a yawn he suggested:
"What about making some black coffee, Captain Brincker? You and I are in for a late session to-night. Shall I convoy you into the kitchen? I will poke the gun at you no more than I can help."
The prisoner complied rather grumpily. His sense of humor was in eclipse. For a compulsory cook, he brewed a most excellent pot of coffee which Devlin complimented in friendly terms. As an experienced judge of men and their motives, he observed, after reflection:
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