"You have my approval. Command me if I can aid you. Adios."
Hastening from the hotel, Alfaro took the shortest road to the Ancon hospital, for Goodwin had told him that he was staying there for the present as a guest. After considerable trouble, he found the young surgeon of the accident ward, who was off duty in his quarters.
"Yes," said he, "the base-ball pitcher with a game wing is supposed to be bunking with me, but he flew the coop this afternoon and I haven't seen him since. He said he was going to Balboa to sniff the breezes. You look worried. Anything wrong?"
"I am a little afraid for him," answered Alfaro. "He was to dine with me. I think he may have gone into Panama and got himself into trouble. He has mixed himself up with some people who would be very glad to do him harm."
The surgeon looked perturbed in his turn.
"I am fond of the youngster," said he. "He is not in fit condition to take care of himself. If you have reason to fret about him, suppose we try to look him up. Shall I telephone the Zone police department? Have you any clews?"
A solid foot-fall sounded on the screened porch, and the big frame of Jack Devlin, the steam-shovel man, loomed at the door. His pugnacious, redly tanned face beamed good-naturedly as he said in greeting:
"Howdy, Doc! I dropped in to see my young pal Goodwin, but he's not in the ward. What have you done with him? Is he all mended?"
"We have sort of mislaid him. This is his friend, Señor Alfaro. He can explain the circumstances."
Devlin gripped the slim fingers of the Colombian in his calloused paw and exclaimed: