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."
"Oh, he'll be all right in a few moments," replies Barker, carelessly glancing down at the prostrate figure. "He went down so hard the wind was knocked out of him. Then I handcuffed him. Are there any policemen handy? If so, we can notify them and have him arrested."
