“That you, Lefty? Here’s a hell of a mix-up—that dog-gone fool Heine’s got himself pinched—and in Jersey City too! I told him t’ stay around here till things was quiet! It’s goin’ t’ be a hell of a job t’ fix things for him over there—’t ain’t like N’ York. But we got t’ fix things for him or chance him squealing on th’ rest of us, but what beats me is—”

M’Ginnis’s teeth clicked together, and the paper tore suddenly between his hands as, glancing up at last, he beheld two keen, grey eyes that watched him and a mouth, grim and close-lipped, that curled in the smile Spider didn’t like.

For a long, tense moment they stood motionless, eye to eye, then, reaching behind him, M’Ginnis locked the door, and drawing out the key, thrust it into his pocket.

“So—I got ye at last—have I?” said he slowly.

“And I’ve got you,” said Ravenslee pleasantly; “we seem to have got each other, don’t we?”

“See here, you,” said M’Ginnis, his massive shoulders squared, his big chin viciously outthrust, “you’re goin’ t’ leave Mulligan’s, see?”

“Am I?” said Ravenslee, lounging upon a corner of the battered desk.

“You sure are,” nodded M’Ginnis. “Hell’s Kitchen ain’t big enough for you an’ me, I guess; you’re goin’ because I say so, an’ you’re goin’ t’night!”

“You surprise me!” said Ravenslee sleepily.

“You’re goin’ t’ quit Hell’s Kitchen for good and—you ain’t comin’ back!”

“You amaze me!” and Ravenslee yawned behind his hand.

“An’ now you’re goin’ t’ listen why an’ wherefore—if you can keep awake a minute!”

“I’ll try, Mr. Flowers, I’ll try.”

M’Ginnis thrust clenched hands into his pockets and surveyed Ravenslee with scornful eyes—his lounging figure and stooping shoulders, his long, white hands and general listless air.

“God!” he exclaimed, “that she should trouble t’ look twice at such a nancy-boy!” and he spat, loud and contemptuously.

“Almost think you’re trying to be rude, Mr. Flowers.”

“Aw—I couldn’t be, to a—thing like you! An’ see here—me name’s M’Ginnis!”

“But then,” sighed Ravenslee, “I prefer to call you Flowers—a fair name for a foul thing—”

M’Ginnis made a swift step forward and halted, hard-breathing and menacing.

“How much?” he demanded.

“Fair name for a very foul thing, Mr. Flowers,” repeated Ravenslee, glancing up at him from under slumberous, drooping lids—”anyway, Flowers you will remain!”

As they stared again, eye to eye, M’Ginnis edged nearer and nearer, head thrust forward, until Ravenslee could see the cords that writhed and swelled in his big throat, and he hitched forward a languid shoulder. “Don’t come any nearer, Flowers,” said he, “and don’t stick out your jaw like that—don’t do it; I might be tempted to try to—er—hit it!”

“What—you?” said M’Ginnis, and laughed hoarsely, while Ravenslee yawned again.

“An’ now, Mr. Butt-in, if you’re still awake—listen here. I guess it’s about time you stopped foolin’ around Hermy Chesterton—an’ you’re goin’ t’ quit—see!” Ravenslee’s eyes flashed suddenly, then drooped as M’Ginnis continued: “So you’re goin’ t’ sit down right here, an’ you’re goin’ t’ write a nice little note of farewell, an’ you’re goin’ t’ tell her as you love her an’ leave her because I say so—see? Ah!” he cried, suddenly hoarse and anger-choked, “d’ ye think I’ll let Hermy look at a thing like you—do ye?—do ye?” and he waited. Ravenslee sat utterly still, and when at last he spoke his voice sounded even more gentle than before.

“My good Flowers, there is just one thing you shall not do, and that is, speak her name in my hearing. You’re not fit to, and, Mr. Flowers, I’ll not permit it.”

“Is that so?” snarled M’Ginnis, “well, then, listen some more. I know as you’re always hangin’ around her flat, and if Hermy don’t care about losing her good name—”

Even as Ravenslee’s long arm shot out, M’Ginnis side-stepped the blow, and Ravenslee found himself staring into the muzzle of a revolver.

“Ah—I thought so!” he breathed, and shrank away.

“Kind of alters things, don’t it?” enquired M’Ginnis, hoarse and jeering. “Well, if you don’t want it to go off, sit down an’ write Hermy as pretty a little note as you can—no, shut that window first.”

Silent and speechless, Ravenslee crossed to the window and drew down the sash, in doing which he noticed a dark something that crouched beneath the sill.

“An’ now,” said M’Ginnis, leaning against a corner of the desk, “sit down here, nice an’ close, an’ write that letter—there’s pen an’ ink an’ paper—an’ quick about it or by—”

M’Ginnis sprang up and turned as the glass of the window splintered to fragments, and, almost with the crash, Ravenslee leapt—a fierce twist, a vicious wrench, and the deadly weapon had changed hands.

“Lucky it didn’t go off,” said Ravenslee, smiling grimly at the revolver he held, “others might have heard, and, Mr. Flowers, I want to be alone with you just a little longer. Of course, I might shoot you for the murderous beast you are, or I might walk you over to the nearest police depot for the crook I think you are—but—oh, well, of late I’ve been yearning to get my hands on you and so”—Ravenslee turned and pitched the revolver through the broken window. But, almost as the weapon left his hand, M’Ginnis was upon him, and, reeling from the blow, Ravenslee staggered blindly across the room, till stayed by the wall, and sank there, crouched and groaning, his face hidden in his hands.

With a cry hoarse and fierce, M’Ginnis followed and stooped, eager to make an end—stooped to be met by two fierce hands, sure hands and strong, that grasped his silken neckerchief as this crouching figure rose suddenly erect. So for a wild, panting moment they grappled, swaying grimly to and fro, while ever the silken neckerchief was twisted tight and tighter. Choking now, M’Ginnis felt fingers on his naked throat, iron fingers that clutched cruelly, and in this painful grip was whirled, choking, against the wall and thence borne down and down. And now M’Ginnis, lying helpless across his opponent’s knee, stared up into a face pale but grimly joyous, lips that curled back from gnashing white teeth—eyes that glared merciless. So Ravenslee bent M’Ginnis back across his knee and choked him there awhile, then suddenly relaxed his hold and let M’Ginnis sink, gasping, to the floor.

“A little—rough, Mr. Flowers,” he panted, “a trifle—rough with you—I fear—but I want you—to know that you—shall not utter—her name—in my presence. Now the key—I prefer door to window—the key, Mr. Flowers—ah, here it is!” So saying, Ravenslee stood upright, and wiping blood and sweat from him with his sleeve, turned to the door. “One other thing, Mr. Flowers; have the goodness to take off your neckerchief next time, or I—may strangle you outright.”

Halfway down the passage Ravenslee turned to see Murder close on his heels. Once he smote and twice, but nothing might stay that bull-like rush and, locked in a desperate clinch, he was borne back and back, their trampling lost in the universal din about them, as reeling, staggering, they crashed out through wrecked and splintered door and, still locked together, were swallowed in the night beyond.

Thus the Spider, crouching in the dark beneath the broken window with Spike beside him, was presently aware of the sickening sounds of furious struggling close at hand, and of a hoarse, panting voice that cursed in fierce triumph—a voice that ended all at once in a ghastly strangling choke; and recognising this voice, the Spider hunched his great shoulders and bore Spike to a remote spot where stood a solitary lamp-post. Here he waited, calm-eyed and chewing placidly, one arm about the fretful Spike.

Presently Ravenslee joined them; the shabby hat was gone, and there was a smear of blood upon his cheek, also he laboured in his breathing, but his eyes were joyous.

“Bo, what about Bud?”

“Oh, he’s lying around somewhere.”

“Hully Chee—d’ ye mean—”

“He tried gouging first, but I expected that; then he tried to throttle me, but I throttled a little harder. He’s an ugly customer, as you said, but”—Ravenslee laughed and glanced at his bloody knuckles—”I don’t think he’ll be keen to rough it with me again just yet.”

“Bo, I guess you can be pretty ugly too—say, when you laugh that way I feel—kind of sorry for Bud.”

“Why, what’s wrong with Spike?”

“Dunno—I guess they’ve been slinging dope into him. And he’s copped it pretty bad from Young Alf too—look at that eye!”

“Spike!” said Ravenslee, shaking him, “Spike, what is it? Buck up, old fellow!” But Spike only stared dazedly and moaned.

“It’s dope all right,” nodded the Spider, “or else Bud’s mixed th’ drinks on him.”

“Damn him!” said Ravenslee softly. “I wish I’d throttled a little harder!”

“I guess you give Bud all he needs for the present,” said Spider grimly, “anyway, I’m goin’ t’ see. The Kid ain’t hurt none. Get him home t’ bed, an’ he’ll be all right s’long, long, Geoff.”

“Good night, Spider, and—thank you. Oh, by the way, who’s Heine?”

“Heine’s a Deutscher, Geoff. Heine’s about as clean as dirt an’ as straight as a corkscrew; why, he’d shoot his own mother if y’ paid him, like he did—but say, what d’ you know about him, anyway?”

“Well, for one thing, I know he’s been arrested in Jersey City—”

“Heine? Pinched? Say, bo, what yer givin’ us—who says so?”

“Bud, and—”

But the Spider, waiting for no more, had turned about and was running back across the open lot.

CHAPTER XXI

HOW M’GINNIS THREATENED AND—WENT

“Mr. Geoffrey, prayer is a wonderful prop to a anxious ‘eart!” said Mrs. Trapes, leaning over the banisters to greet him as he ascended. “Mr. Geoffrey, my hands has been lifted in prayer for ye this night as so did me behoove, and here you are safe back with—that b’y. A prayer prayed proper, and prayed by them as ain’t plaguein’ the Lord constant about their souls an’ other diseases, is always dooly regarded. Yes, sir, a occasional petition is always heard and worketh wonders as the—my land, Mr. Geoffrey, look at your face!”

“I know, Mrs. Trapes. Has she come in yet?”

“Not yet—an’ glad I am. You’re all bleedin’—stoop your head a bit—there!” and very tenderly she staunched the cut below the curly hair with an apron clean and spotless as usual. “And the b’y—lord, what’s come to him?”

“A black eye—two, I’m afraid. Anyhow, I’ll look after him and get him into bed before she comes; can you keep her away till I’ve done so?”

“I’ll try. Poor lad!” she sighed, touching Spike’s drooping head with bony fingers, “if she wasn’t his sister, I’d be sorry for him!”

So Ravenslee took Spike in hand, bathing his bruised and battered features and setting ice water to his puffy lips, which the lad gulped thirstily. Thereafter he revived quickly but grew only the more morose and sulky.

“All right,” he muttered, “I’ll go t’ bed, only—leave me, see!”

“Can’t I help you?”

“No—you lemme alone. Oh, I know—you think I’m soused, but I ain’t; I—I’m not drunk, I tell ye—I wish I was. I ain’t no kid, so lemme alone—an’ I ain’t drunk. What if me legs is shaky? So ‘ud yours be if you’d got—what I got. It was dat last swing t’ d’ jaw as done me—but I ain’t drunk ‘n’ I ain’t a kid t’ be undressed—so chase ye’self an’ lemme alone!”

“All right, Spike—only get to bed like a good chap before your sister comes.”

“You leave my sister alone; she ain’t—that kind, an’ she ain’t fer you, anyway.”

“That will do, Arthur—get into bed! I’ll give you five minutes!” So saying, Ravenslee turned away, but, as he closed the door, his quick ear detected the clink of glass, and turning, he saw Spike draw a small flask from his pocket.

“Give me that stuff, old fellow.”

“Oh, you can’t con me! I ain’t a kid, so you lemme alone!” and Spike raised the flask to his lips, but in that instant it was snatched away. Spike staggered back to the wall and leaned there, passing his hand to and fro across his brow as though dazed, then stumbled out into the room beyond.

“Gimme it, Geoff, gimme it!” he panted, “you won’t keep it, no, no—Bud slipped it to me after I come to. Gimme it, Geoff. I want t’ forget—so be a sport an’ give it me—you will, won’t ye?”

Ravenslee shook his head, whereat the boy broke out more passionately:

“Oh—don’t ye see, Geoff—can’t ye understand? I—I was knocked out t’night—I took th’ count! I—I’m done for, I had me chance, an’ I didn’t make good! I—didn’t—make good!” As he spoke, the lad hid his bruised face within his hands, while great sobs shook him.

“Why, Spike! Why, Arthur, old chap—never mind—”

“Gimme th’ bottle, Geoff! Be a pal an’ gimme th’ stuff—I want t’ forget!”