ding glare straight down on the heads of the dancers
and drinkers and onlookers.

Business was brisk, and shouts of "Want the waiter!" indicated the
insistence with which trade was encouraged and even insisted upon. No
sooner had Terabon and his companions seated themselves than a burly
flat-face with a stained white apron came and inflicted his determined
gaze upon them. He sniffed when Terabon ordered plain soda.

"We got a man's drink."

"I'm on the water wagon for awhile," Terabon smiled, and the waiter
nodded, sympathetically. A tip of a quarter mollified his air of surly
expectancy completely, and as he put the glasses down he said:

"The Boss is sick the way he's bein' treated. They ain't goin' to git
away wit' stickin' a bull in front of his door like he was a crook."

Terabon heard a woman at a near-by table making her protest against the
policeman out in front. No other topic was more than mentioned, and the
buzz and burr of voices vied with the sound of the band till it ended.
Then there was a hush.

"Palura!" a whisper rippled in all directions.

Terabon saw a man about 5 feet 10 inches tall, compactly built, square
shouldered, and just a trifle pursy at the waist line, approaching along
the dancing floor. He was light on his small feet, his shoulders worked
with feline grace, but his face was a face as hard as limestone and of
about the same colour--bluish gray. His eyes were the colour of ice,
with a greenish tinge. Smooth-shaven cheeks, close-cropped hair,
wing-like ears, and a little round head were details of a figure that
might have been heroic--for his jaw was square, his nose large, and his
forehead straight and broad.

Everyone knew he was going out to throw the policeman, Laddam, into the
street. The policeman had not hurt business a pennyworth as yet, but
Palura felt the insult. Palura knew the consequences of failing to meet
the challenge.

"Give 'im hell!" someone called.

Palura turned and nodded, and a little yelping cheer went up, which
ceased instantly. Terabon, observing details, saw that Palura's coat
sagged on the near side--in the shape of an automatic pistol. He saw,
too, that the man's left sleeve sagged round and hard--a slingshot or
black-jack.

There was no delay; Palura went straight through to his purpose. He
disappeared in the dark and narrow entrance way and not a sound was
audible except the scuffling of feet.

"Palura's killed four men," the cotton broker whispe