“What for?”

“Gentlemen, you will be so kind as to geeve the names, yes?  The jodge will desire to make inquiries regarding those sopper to Senor Cortlan’ las’ night.”

“What am I arrested for?” Kirk demanded.

“Come!  You are arrest’.  That is enough.”

At that moment the building began to shake and reverberate, as No. 5 rolled in from Colon, bearing John Weeks, American Consul, and Mr. Williams, of St. Louis, in one of the forward coaches.  As the two hurried out through the turnstiles, they found the street blocked by a considerable crowd, evidently interested in something quite apart from the arrival of the morning train.  But before they could learn the cause, out from the near-by building came Ramon Alfarez, accompanied by several policemen and a group of railroad employes, among whom was Kirk Anthony.

“There he is!” wheezed the consul, clutching at his companion’s arm.  “Get him now, before his friends.”  But Williams had been even quicker of eye than his fat guide, and was plunging through the crowd toward his quarry.  He thrust the policemen and the curious onlookers aside and, laying hold of Anthony, cried in triumph: 

“Well, Mr. Jefferson Locke, I want you.”

“Hello, Williams!  You got around finally, didn’t you?” Kirk smiled at him.

A little man in blue uniform was attempting to take the prisoner in charge, but the detective disregarded him.

“It won’t do you any good to resist,” he went on.  “I’ve come to get you.”

Runnels elbowed his way forward with a question.

“Oh, I’ve got a warrant for him,” Williams declared.  “What for?  Well, for one thing he embezzled eighty thousand dollars, and I’m going to take him back.”

“Eh?  W’at is this?” Alfarez bustled into the conversation.  “Embezzle?  He is then a t’ief?”

“Exactly.  If you’re the inspector I’ll ask you to make this arrest for me.  I believe we’re on foreign ground.”

“That’s right, Alfarez,” came the voice of John Weeks, anxious to have a word in the affair.  “I’ll vouch for Mr. Williams.  This chap is a smooth one, but his name isn’t Anthony at all, nor Locke, either; it’s Wellar; and he’s wanted for other things besides embezzlement.”  Turning his triumphant little red eyes upon the prisoner, he puffed, “Got you, didn’t we?”

“I regret you ‘ave arrive’ so late,” smirked Alfarez.  “The gentleman is already arrest’ for the murder of Senor Cortlan’.  He will first answer to that, I assure you.”

Kirk nodded.  “Too bad, Williams!  I’m sorry you didn’t come last night.”

They went on down the street, leaving the detective staring and Weeks open-mouthed.

“Cortlandt murdered!” the consul gasped.  “Lord!  And to think I nourished that viper at my breast.”

Williams wheeled and cursed the fat man furiously.  It was during the lunch-hour that Ramon Alfarez called at the Garavel home, finding the banker and his daughter still loitering over their midday meal and discussing the topic that had electrified the whole city.