"Do you know anything about this Locombian mixup?" was McKinnon's casual question as he peered momentarily down at the sheet in his hand.
"Not a whole lot," guardedly answered the man in the raincoat. "And what's more, I don't want to. They're all the same, those tropical revolutions; the same fireworks, the same brass bands, the same bad ammunition and gold braid and bombast, and the same eternal countryful of starving peons!"
McKinuon, watching him covertly and closely, was a little disappointed at his enemy's apathy. The red-rimmed eyes seemed to grow no more alert or alarmed, the heavy lips continued to chew the end of the unlighted and thick-waisted cigar. Yet time was slipping away minute by minute.
"I seem to have picked up pretty bad news from down there," began the operator, waving his message-sheet.
"You mean bad news for me?" mildly inquired the other, with a languid uplift of his shaggy, iron-grey eyebrows. The two men looked directly at each other for a silent moment or two. McKinnon had a twofold end in view, and his line of advance was not an easy one.
