He had slight doubt of Greenfield’s final destination, for the flight of the criminal is a blind instinct for the south as though a frantic return to barbarism.  At this time Chile and the Argentine had not yet accepted the principle of extradition, and remained the Mecca of the lawbreakers of the world.

Yet though Frawley felt certain of Greenfield’s objective, he did not at once strike for the Argentine.  The Honorable Secretary of Justice had eliminated the necessity for considering time.  Frawley had no need to guess, nor to risk.  He had simply to become a wheel in the machinery of the law, to grind slowly, tirelessly, and inexorably.  This idea suited admirably his temperament and his desires.

He arrived at Colon, took train for Panama across the laborious path where a thousand little men were scratching endlessly, and on the brink of the Pacific began his search.  No one had heard of Greenfield.

At the end of a week’s waiting he boarded a steamer and crawled down the western coast of South America, investigating every port, braving the yellow fever at Guayaquil, Ecuador, and facing a riot at Callao, Peru, before he found at Lima the trail of the fugitive.  Greenfield had passed the day there and left for Chile.  Dragging each intermediate port with the same caution, Frawley followed the trail to Valparaiso.  Greenfield had stayed a week and again departed.

Frawley at once took steamer for the Argentine, passed down the tongue of South America, through the Straits of Magellan, and arrived at length in the harbor of Buenos Ayres.

An hour later, as he took his place at the table in the Criterion Gardens, a hand fell on his shoulder and some one at his back said: 

“Well, Bub!”

He turned.  A thin man of medium height, with blue eyes and yellow complexion, was laughing in expectation of his discomfiture.  Frawley laid down the menu carefully, raised his head, and answered quietly: 

“Why, how d’ye do, Bucky?”

III

“We shake, of course,” said Greenfield, holding out his hand.

“Why not?  Sit down.”

The fugitive slid into a chair and hung his arms over the back, asking immediately: 

“What took you so long?  You’re after me, of course?”

“Am I?” Frawley answered, looking at him steadily.  Greenfield, with a twitch of his shoulders, returned to his question: 

“What took you so long?  Didn’t you guess I’d come direct?”

“I’m not guessing,” said Frawley.

“What do you say to dining on me?” said Greenfield with a malicious smile.  “I owe you that.  I clipped your vacation pretty short.  Besides—­guess you know it yourself—­you can’t touch me here.  Why not talk things over frankly?  Say, Bub, shall it be on me?”

“I’m willing.”

A waiter sidled up and took the order that Greenfield gave without hesitation.