Then at length dusk began to fall, and instead of slacking with the day the fury of the storm increased.  It was then that “the Admiral” capitulated, seeing fate plainly in league with his tailor; and wigwagging the decision to us beside him, he led the way down the stairs and dived into the world awash.

Wet?  We had not taken the third step before we were streaming like fire hose.  There was nearly an hour of it, splashing knee-deep through what had been when we came out little dry sandy hollows; steering by guess, for the eye could make out nothing fifty yards ahead, even before the cheese-thick darkness fell; bowed like nonogenarians under the burden of water; staggering back and forth as the storm caught us crosswise or the earth gave way under us.  “The Admiral’s” patent-leather shoes—­but why go into painful details?  Those who were in Panama on that memorable afternoon can picture it all for themselves, and the others will never know.  The wall of water was as thick as ever when we fought our bowed and weary way up over the railroad bridge and, summoning up the last strength, splurged tottering into “Angelini’s.”

When our streaming had so far subsided that they recognised us for solvent human beings, encouraging concoctions were set before us.  Bridgley, fearing the after effects, acquired a further quart bottle of protection, and when we had gathered force for the last dash we plunged out once more toward our several goals.  As the door of 111 slammed behind me, the downpour suddenly slackened.  As I paused before my room to drain, it stopped raining.

I supped on bread, beer, and cheese from over the frontier—­we had arrived thirty seconds too late for Ancon police mess.  Then when I had saved what was salvable from the wreckage and reclad in such wardrobe as had luckily remained at home, I strolled over toward the police station to put in a serene and quiet evening.

But it has long since been established that troubles flock together.  As I crunched up the gravel walk between the hedge-rows, wild riot broke on my ear.  Ancon police station was in eruption.  From the Lieutenant to the newest uniformless “rookie” every member of the force was swarming in and out of the building.  The Zone and Panama telephones were ringing in their two opposing dialects, the deskman was shouting his own peculiar brand of Spanish into one receiver and bawling English at the other, all hands were diving into old clothes, the most apathetic of the force were girding up their loins with the adventurous fire of the old Moro-hunting days in their eyes, and all, some ahorse, more afoot, were dashing one by one out into the night and the jungle.

It was several minutes before I could catch the news.  At last it was shouted at me over a telephone.  Murder!  A white Greek—­who ever heard of a colored Greek?—­with a white shirt on had shot a man at Pedro Miguel at 6:35.  Every road and bypath of escape to Panama was already blocked, armed men would meet the assassin whatever way he might take.  I went down to meet the evening train, resolved after that to strike out into the night in the random hope of having my share in the chase.  It had begun to rain again, but only moderately, as if it realized it could never again equal the afternoon record.