new he was dismissed.

Cunningham paced the room for a few moments, then rang for a messenger.
He wrote a note and gave it to the boy to be delivered. Then he left
the club.

From Seventeenth Street he walked across to the Paradox Apartments
where he lived. He found a note propped up against a book on the table
of his living-room. It had been written by the Japanese servant he
shared with two other bachelors who lived in the same building.

Mr. Hull he come see you. He sorry you not here. He say maybe perhaps
make honorable call some other time.

It was signed, "S. Horikawa."

Cunningham tossed the note aside. He had no wish to see Hull. The
fellow was becoming a nuisance. If he had any complaint he could go to
the courts with it. That was what they were for.

The doorbell rang. The promoter opened to a big, barrel-bodied man who
pushed past him into the room.

"What you want, Hull?" demanded Cunningham curtly.

The man thrust his bull neck forward. A heavy roll of fat swelled over
the collar. "You know damn well what I want. I want what's comin' to
me. My share of the Dry Valley clean-up. An' I'm gonna have it. See?"

"You've had every cent you'll get. I told you that before."

Tiny red capillaries seamed the beefy face of the fat man. "An' I told
you I was gonna have a divvy. An' I am. You can't throw down Cass
Hull an' get away with it. Not none." The shallow protuberant eyes
glittered threateningly.

"Thought you knew me better," Cunningham retorted contemptuously.
"When I say I won't, I won't. Go to a lawyer if you think you've got a
case. Don't come belly-aching to me."

The face of the fat man was apoplectic. "Like sin I'll go to a lawyer.
You'd like that fine, you double-crossin' sidewinder. I'll come with a
six-gun. That's how I'll come. An' soon. I'll give you two days to
come through. Two days. If you don't--hell sure enough will cough."

Whatever else could be said about Cunningham he was no coward. He met
the raving man eye to eye.

"I don't scare worth a cent, Hull. Get out. _Pronto_. And don't come
back unless you want me to turn you over to the police for a
blackmailing crook."

Cunningham was past fifty-five and his hair was streaked with gray.
But he stood straight as an Indian, six feet in his socks. The sap of
strength still rang strong in him. In the days when he had ridden the
range he had been famous for his stamina and he was even yet a