"Yes, Blanchard, the Blanchard we 've been looking for, for seven
months now, the Blanchard who chloroformed Ezra Newcomb and carried off
a hundred and eighteen thousand dollars."

"Newcomb?" again meditated the woman.

"The Blanchard who shot down the bank detective in Newcomb's room when
the rest of the bank was listening to a German band playing in the side
street, a band hired for the occasion."

"When was that?" demanded the woman.

"That was last October," he answered with a sing-song weariness
suggestive of impatience at such supererogative explanations.

"I was at Monte Carlo all last autumn," was the woman's quick retort.

Blake moved his heavy body, as though to shoulder away any claim as to
her complicity.

"I know that," he acknowledged. "And you went north to Paris on the
twenty-ninth of November. And on the third of December you went to
Cherbourg; and on the ninth you landed in New York. I know all that.
That's not what I 'm after. I want to know where Connie Binhart is,
now, to-day."

Their glances at last came together. No move was made; no word was
spoken. But a contest took place.