e would appear,
and what would be the result of such an action.

As he looked the waiter approached for his order.

Burke took the menu, decorated with dancing figures which would have
seemed more appropriate for some masquerade ball poster, for the Latin
Quarter, and began to read the _entrees_.

As he looked down two men brushed past his table, and a sidelong glance
gave him view of a face which made him quickly forget the choice of
food.

It was Jimmie the Monk, flashily dressed, debonnaire as one to the
manor born, talking with Craig, the companion of Baxter.

Burke held the menu card before his face. He was curious to hear the
topic of their conversation. When he did so--the words were clear and
distinct, as Baxter and Jimmie sat down at a table behind him--his
heart bounded with horror.

"Who's dis new skirt, Craig?"

"Oh, it's a kid Baxter picked up in Monnarde's candy store. It's the
best one he's landed yet, but we nearly got in Dutch to-night when we
went up to her flat to bring her out. Her old man and her sister were
there with some nut, and they didn't want her to go. But Baxter
"lamped" her, and she fell for his eyes and sneaked out anyway. You
better keep off, Jimmie, for you don't look like a college boy--and
that's the gag Baxter's been giving her. She thinks she's going to a
dance at the Yale Club next week. It's harder game than the last one,
but we'll get it fixed to-night. You better send word to Izzie to
bring up his taxi--in about an hour."

"I'll go now, Craig. Tell Baxter dat it'll be fixed. Where'll he take
her?"

Craig replied in a low tone, which thwarted Burke's attempt to
eavesdrop.

CHAPTER VI

THE WORK OF THE GANGSTERS

Bobbie Burke's eyes sparkled with the flame of battle spirit, yet he
maintained an outward calm. He turned his face toward the wall of the
restaurant while Jimmie the Monk tripped nonchalantly out into the
street. Burke did not wish to be recognized too soon. The negro
musicians struck up a livelier tune than before. The dancing couples
bobbed and writhed in the sensuous, shameless intimacies of the
demi-mondaine bacchante. The waiters merrily juggled trays, stacked
skillfully with vari-colored drinks, and bumped the knees of the
close-sitting guests with silvered champagne buckets. Popping corks
resounded like the distant musketry of the crack sharp-shooters of the
Devil's Own. Indeed, this was an ambuscade of the greatest, oldest,