"There's been hard fighting in Locombia," he slowly asserted.
Again the pajama-clad figure merely nodded.
"I've picked up a Savannah liner bound north; she relays the news from an Atlas fruiter. They've got this revolution of Ganley's in full swing."
The speaker did not allow his eyes to stray from the other's face. Yet he could still detect no unusual betrayal of concern. Beyond the spasmodic and habitual working of the heavy iron-grey eyebrows, the huddled hulk of a body in the steamer-chair made no movement that could be interpreted as a sign of surprise.
"They report that the revolutionary forces under De Brigard met the government forces under Ulloa on Tuesday."
"Where!" asked the other, casually enough.
"It was twenty miles southwest of Puerto Locombia; De Brigard was convoying eight mountain-guns up towards Guariqui."
McKinnon stopped and waited. The other man slowly took his cigar from his lips and looked at the tattered end. Any current of emotion that may have been awakened in him remained shrouded and subterranean. Whatever he might be, concluded McKinnon, he was at least a consummate actor.
"Well?" the stolid and guarded figure de-
