Facing him, at the far side of the room, he saw Binhart.
The fugitive sat in a short-legged reed chair, with a grip-sack open on his knees. His coat and vest were off, and the light from the oil lamp at his side made his linen shirt a blotch of white.
He had thrown his head up, at the sound of the opening door, and he still sat, leaning forward in the low chair in an attitude of startled expectancy. There was no outward and apparent change on his face as his eyes fell on Blake’s figure. He showed neither fear nor bewilderment. His career had equipped him with histrionic powers that were exceptional. As a bank-sneak and confidence-man he had long since learned perfect control of his features, perfect composure even under the most discomforting circumstances.
“Hello, Connie!” said the detective facing him. He spoke quietly, and his attitude seemed one of unconcern. Yet a careful observer might have noticed that the pulse of his beefy neck was beating faster than usual. And over that great body, under its clothing, were rippling tremors strangely like those that shake the body of a leashed bulldog at the sight of a street cat.
“Hello, Jim!” answered Binhart, with equal composure. He had aged since Blake had last seen him, aged incredibly. His face was thin now, with plum-colored circles under the faded eyes.
He made a move as though to lift down the valise that rested on his knees. But Blake stopped him with a sharp movement of his right hand.
“That’s all right,” he said. “Don’t get up!”
Binhart eyed him. During that few seconds of silent tableau each man was appraising, weighing, estimating the strength of the other.
“What do you want, Jim?” asked Binhart, almost querulously.
“I want that gun you’ve got up there under your liver pad,” was Blake’s impassive answer.