It is a simple matter for the experienced detective to keep the Cubans in sight, especially as they never once take pains to glance backward. They have traversed several streets, when the detective observes that they have halted and are apparently loitering near a larger and rather more elaborate cafe than the majority.
“So the American is in that cafe,” reflects Barker; “now, which is the better plan, to go in and endeavor to pick out my fellow-countryman and warn him, or keep in the rear of these chaps and swoop down on them at the proper moment? The latter I guess is the safer. We’ll see what we will see.”
The wait is not a long one. Evidently the Cubans are familiar with the habits of the person they are seeking, for within fifteen minutes a rather tall young man emerges from the cafe, stopping a moment to light a cigar, and then starts down the shadowy street. Barker, after the first glance, pays little heed to the newcomer, for his quick eye notes that he wears the undress uniform of a Spanish officer. To his surprise, however, he perceives that the two Cubans are stealthily following the man.
“So it is not an American after all,” thinks Barker, as he steals silently along. “But I can’t stand back and see a human killed in cold blood, whatever his nationality, and I won’t!”
It is nearly 10 o’clock now and the street is deserted. As the form of the officer emerges into a clear patch of moonlight, Barker perceives that the Cubans have narrowed the distance that separates them from their prey, and he hastens to close up the gap between himself and the trio.
He is not too soon. When less than two rods from the Cubans he sees the flash of steel in the hand of the foremost of the pair.
“Look out!” Barker’s voice rings out in English, loud and clear, and with the words he springs forward with a speed that rivals his sprinting in his football days.
“Tackle low!” The whimsical thought flashes through his brain as he clears the intervening space. And he does. The nearest Cuban goes down with a bone-breaking thud, the moonlight glitters for a second on something bright in Barker’s hand, there is a sharp click, and the detective springs to his feet.
But there is no further need for his services. The other Cuban is speeding like the wind down the street.
“I owe you one for this, my friend,” says the cause of the exciting episode in excellent English, as he strides up to Barker and warmly presses his hand. “But for your timely shout I should now be lying face downward there with the stiletto ornamenting my back. But what have you done to this scoundrel? He lies like a log.”