"Glad to meet you. Goodwin told me how you played a star part in the one-act piece of the parrot and the broomstick. What's on your mind?"
"Goodwin has not come back, and we think General Quesada may have caught him in Panama."
"Quesada, eh?" and Devlin scowled ferociously. "I wouldn't mind taking a crack at that fat crook myself. What's the evidence? Put me next."
Alfaro explained in his vehement, impassioned manner, and at the mention of Captain Brincker the steam-shovel man raised a hand and interrupted:
"Stop a minute. You say you saw this gray-headed beach-comber in Guayaquil one time? So did I, my son. I know him. He is bad medicine for young Goodwin to interfere with, but he has a decent streak in him. Quesada sounds a good deal worse to me. He's a yellow pup all the way through. Come along, Señor Alfaro. Grab your hat and follow me. I need you to sling the Spanish language."
"You are going to consult with the police?" queried the Colombian.
"Not on your life. I'll round up this Quesada-Brincker outfit all by myself. I am kind of responsible for Goodwin. I feel like a godfather by brevet to him. It will do no harm to look into this thing. I am just naturally suspicious of Panamanians in general and of Quesada in particular. Good-by, Doc. I'll keep you posted."
They were lucky enough to find a cab in the hospital grounds and, as the cochero plied the whip, Alfaro added the details of his meeting with Goodwin on the wharf. Devlin listened grimly. He had become taciturn. He was no longer the jovial, swaggering steam-shovel man bragging of the prowess of "old Twenty-six" but a two-fisted American of the frontier breed, schooled to think and to act in tight places.
"I intend to get into General Quesada's house and look his game over," said he.