“I’m looking for a chap named Wellar.  He landed here some time late in November.”

“Friend of yours?”

“Um—­m—­not exactly.”  Mr. Williams ran a hand meditatively over the ragged scar on his scalp, as if from force of habit.

“Wellar?  I never heard of him.”

“He may have travelled under another name.  Ever hear of a fellow called Locke?”

The consul’s moist lips drew together, his red eyes gleamed watchfully.  “Maybe I have, and maybe I haven’t,” said he.  “Why do you want him?”

“I heard he was here.  I’d enjoy meeting him again.”

“What does he look like?”

Mr. Williams rattled off a description of Kirk Anthony so photographic that the consul suddenly saw a great light.

“Yes, I know him all right,” he confessed, warmly.  “He’s a good friend of mine, too; in fact, he lived with me for a while.”  Misconstruing the eager expression that came to his caller’s face, he rose heavily and thrust out a thick, wet hand.  “Don’t let’s beat about the bush, Mr. Anthony; your son is safe and well and making a name for himself.  I’m happy to say I helped him—­not much, to be sure, but all I could—­yes, sir, I acknowledge the corn—­and I’m glad to meet you at last.  I have been waiting for you to arrive, and I’m glad you dropped in on me.  I have a lot of things to talk about.”

But the other stared upward impatiently.  “No, no!  You’ve got me wrong.  I’m a detective, and I’m after your friend Wellar, alias Locke, alias Anthony.  He’s wanted for embezzlement and assault and a few other things, and I’m going to take him.”  The indistinctive Mr. Williams spoke sharply, and his pale blue eyes were suddenly hard and bright.

Weeks stared open-mouthed for an instant.  “Then you’re really not Darwin K. Anthony?” he gasped.

“Certainly not.  Here’s the warrant.  I’m sorry this chap is your pal, but—­”

“My pal!  Hell, I hate him like the smallpox.  Good thing you spoke or I’d have sold you a cocoanut grove.  I knew he was wrong.  Embezzler, eh?  Well, well!”

“Eighty thousand, that’s all, and he’s got it on him.”

“You’re wrong there; he was broke when he landed.  I ought to know.”

“Oh no!  He came down on the Santa Cruz; I’ve seen the purser.  He travelled under the name of Jefferson Locke.  There’s no mistake, and he couldn’t have blown it all.  No, it’s sewed into his shirt, and I’m here to grab it.”

Weeks whistled in amazement.  “He is a shrewd one.  Eighty thou—­ Lord, I wish I’d known that!  He’s here, all right, working for the railroad and living at Panama.  He’s made good, too, and got some influential friends.  Oh, this is great!”

“Working, hey?  Clever stall!  Do you see that?” Williams inclined his head for a fuller display of the disfiguration over his ear.  “He hung that on me, with a bottle.  I damn near died.”  He laughed disagreeably.  “He’ll go back, and he’ll go back quick.  How do I get to Panama?”