He forsook his cab and walked slowly along the street. The row of houses resembled an extended wall of stone pierced by windows and doors. It was puzzling to make certain into which of them the suspected young man had gone. Walter counted the doors from the corner to verify his observation and paused to scan the entrance, hoping to find a street number or name-plate.
He might ask questions of a policeman, but this was impracticable for three reasons: first, he could not speak Spanish; second, he had no fondness for Panama policemen; third, there was no policeman to be found. Feeling rather foolish, he waylaid a barefooted boy and fished for information with earnest gestures, but the youngster shook his head and fled into the nearest alley.
"I should have brought Alfaro with me," sighed Walter. "I am as helpless as a stranded fish. These people ought to be compelled to learn English."
Still standing in front of the house and wearing an absent-minded, worried manner, Walter had forgotten for the moment that he was playing a game which required wit and vigilance. From around the nearest corner, no more than a few yards away, appeared the robust figure of Captain Brincker. At sight of the youth with the bandaged arm, he stopped in his tracks, muttered something, and gazed with open unfriendliness.
Intuition told Walter that this formidable man had better be avoided. He felt like taking to his heels, but he was boyishly reluctant to show the white feather. Undecided, he failed to retreat until it was too late.
Captain Brincker advanced swiftly, confronted him, and asked in a heavy voice:
"Were you looking for somebody?"
"Yes, but I don't need him just now," stammered Walter, trying to brazen it out. "Another time will do just as well, thank you. I must be going."
"Wait a minute," growled the soldier of fortune, and he grasped Walter's left arm with a grip of iron. "I have seen you at Balboa this afternoon, on the wharf, on the Chilean steamer, on the train. Are you not old enough to mind your own business?"