in your professional honour," P. Sybarite
replied blandly, "up to the certain point to which we have attained
to-night. But the truth is--I need the money."

"You're unwise," said the other, and sighed profoundly. "I'm sorry.
You oblige me to go the extreme limit."

"Not I. On the contrary, I advise you against any such dangerous
course."

"Dangerous?"

"If you interfere with me, I'll go to the police."

"The police?" Penfield elaborated an inflexion of derision. "I keep
this precinct in my vest pocket."

"Possibly--so far as concerns your maintenance of a gambling house.
But murder--that's another matter."

"Meaning, you refuse to submit without extreme measures?"

"Meaning just that, sir!"

Again the gambler sighed. "What must be, must," said he, rising.
Moving to the wall, he pressed a call-button, and simultaneously
whipped a revolver into view. "I hope you're not armed," he protested
sincerely. "It would only make things messy. And then I hate to have
my employees run any risk--"

"You are summoning a posse, I take it?" enquired P. Sybarite, likewise
on his feet.

"Half a dozen huskies," assented the other. "If you know your little
book, you'll come through at once and save yourself a manhandling."

"It's too bad," P. Sybarite regretted pensively--and cast a desperate
glance round the room.

What he saw afforded him no comfort. The one door was unquestionably
guarded on the farther side. The windows, though curtained, were as
indubitably locked and further protected by steel outside blinds.
Besides, Penfield bulked big and near at hand, a weapon of the most
deadly calibre steadily levelled at the head of his guest.

But exactly at the moment when despair entered into the heart of the
little man--dispossessing altogether his cool assumption of confidence
in his star--there rang through the house a crash so heavy that its
muffled thunder penetrated even the closed door of the lounge. Another
followed it instantly, and at deliberate intervals a third and fourth.

Penfield blenched. His eyes wavered. He punched the bell-button a
second time.

The door was thrown wide and--with the instantaneous effect of a
jack-in-the-box--Pete showed a dirty-grey face of fright on the
threshold.

"Good Lord, boss!" he yelled. "Run for yo' life! We's raided!"

He vanished....

With an oath, Penfield started toward the door--and instantly P.
Sybarite shot at his gun hand like a terrier at the throat of a rat.