of his chips out, putting half of them on number eight
and the rest on seventeen. His object was to lose his stack
immediately and be free to go. To his annoyance the whirling ball
dropped into the pocket labeled eight.

"Let's get out of this hole," he said to Lindsay in a low voice. "I
don't like it."

"Suits me," agreed the other.

As Bromfield was cashing his chips Clay came rigidly to attention. Two
men had just come into the room. One of them was "Slim" Jim Collins,
the other Gorilla Dave. As yet they had not seen him. He did not look
at them, but at his host. There was a question in his mind he wanted
solved. The clubman's gaze passed over both the newcomers without the
least sign of recognition.

"I didn't know what this joint was like or I'd never have brought you,"
apologized Clarendon. "A friend of mine told me about it. He's got a
queer fancy if he likes this frazzled dive."

Clay acquitted Bromfield of conspiracy. He must have been tailed here
by Durand's men. His host had nothing to do with it. What for? They
could not openly attack him.

"Slim" Jim's eyes fell on him. He nudged Dave. Both of them, standing
near the entrance, watched Lindsay steadily.

Some one outside the door raised the cry, "The bulls are comin'."

Instantly the room leaped to frenzied excitement. Men dived for the
doors, bets forgotten and chips scattered over the floor. Chairs were
smashed as they charged over them, tables overturned. The unwary were
trodden underfoot.

Bromfield went into a panic. Why had he been fool enough to trust
Durand? No doubt the fellow would ruin him as willingly as he would
Lindsay. The raid was fifteen minutes ahead of schedule time. The
ward politician had betrayed him. He felt sure of it. All the
carefully prepared plans agreed upon he jettisoned promptly. His sole
thought was to save himself, not to trap his rival.

Lindsay caught him by the arm. "Let's try the back room."

He followed Clay, Durand's gangmen at his heels.

The lights went out.

The Westerner tried the window. It was heavily barred outside. He
turned to search for a door.

Brought up by the partition, Bromfield was whimpering with fear as he
too groped for a way of escape. A pale moon shone through the window
upon his evening clothes.

In the dim light Clay knew that tragedy impended. "Slim" Jim had his
automatic out.

"I've got you good," the chauffeur snarled.

The gun cracked. Br