is mouth, who stepped from behind the bar, carrying a tin
tray with two full glasses upon it. It was Bristol Bob, ex-pugilist, the
proprietor.

"How're you, Larry?" grunted the man, with what he meant to be a smile.

Jimmie Dale was standing in the doorway of a passage that prefaced a
rear exit to the lane. He moved aside to allow the other to pass.

"'Ello, Bristol," he returned dispassionately.

Bristol Bob went on along down the passage, and Jimmie Dale shuffled
slowly after him. He had intended to leave the place by the rear
door--it obviated the possibility of an undesirable acquaintance joining
company with him if he went out by the main entrance. But now his
eyes were fixed on the proprietor's back with a sort of speculative
curiosity. There was a private room off the passage, with a window on
the lane; but they must be favoured customers indeed that Bristol Bob
would condescend to serve personally--any one who knew Bristol Bob knew
that.

Jimmie Dale slowed his shuffling gait, then quickened it again. Bristol
Bob opened the door and passed into the private room--the door was just
closing as Jimmie Dale shuffled by. He had had only a glance inside--but
it was enough. They were favoured customers indeed! It was no wonder
that Bristol Bob himself was on the job! Two men were in the room:
Lannigan of headquarters, rated the smartest plain-clothes man in the
country--and, across the table from Lannigan, Whitey Mack, as clever,
finished and daring a crook as was to be found in the Bad Lands, whose
particular "line" was diamonds, or, in the vernacular of his ilk, "white
stones," that had earned him the sobriquet of "Whitey." Lannigan of
headquarters, Whitey Mack of the underworld, sworn enemies those two--in
secret session! Bristol Bob might well play the part of outer guard. If
a choice few of those outside in the dance hall could get a glimpse into
that private room it would be "good-night" to Whitey Mack.

Jimmie Dale's eyes were narrowed a little as he shuffled on down the
passage. Lannigan and Whitey Mack with their heads together! What was
the game? There was nothing in common between the two men. Lannigan, it
was well known, could not be "reached." Whitey Mack, with his ingenious
cleverness, coupled with a cold-blooded fearlessness that had made him
an object of unholy awe and respect in the eyes of the underworld, was a
thorn that was sore beyond measure in the side of the police.
Certainly, it was no ord