A feeble moan came from the throat of the hotel keeper.  He cast one frantic glance toward the door and a still more frantic appeal centered on Ronicky Doone, but the face of the latter was as cold as stone.

“Then take your own glasses, boys,” he said, striving to smile, as he picked up his own drink.

“You drink first, and you drink alone,” declared Ronicky.  “Now!”

The movement of his hand was as ominous as if he had whipped out a revolver.  The fat man tossed off the glass of whisky and then stood with a pudgy hand pressed against his breast and the upward glance of one who awaits a calamity.  Under the astonished eyes of Bill Gregg he turned pale, a sickly greenish pallor.  His eyes rolled, and his hand on the table shook, and the arm that supported him sagged.

“Open the window,” he said.  “The air—­there ain’t no air.  I’m choking—­and—­”

“Get him some water,” cried Bill Gregg, “while I open the window.”

“Stay where you are, Bill.”

“But he looks like he’s dying!”

“Then he’s killed himself.”

“Gents,” began the fat man feebly and made a short step toward them.  The step was uncompleted.  In the middle of it he wavered, put out his arms and slumped upon his side on the floor.

Bill Gregg cried out softly in astonishment and horror, but Ronicky Doone knelt calmly beside the fallen bulk and felt the beating of his heart.

“He ain’t dead,” he said quietly, “but he’ll be tolerably sick for a while.  Now come along with me.”

“But what’s all this mean?” asked Bill Gregg in a whisper, as he picked up his suit case and hurried after Ronicky.

“Doped booze,” said Ronicky curtly.

They hurried down the stairs and came out onto the dark street.  There Ronicky Doone dropped his suit case and dived into a dark nook beside the entrance.  There was a brief struggle.  He came out again, pushing a skulking figure before him, with the man’s arm twisted behind his back.

“Take off this gent’s hat, will you?” asked Ronicky.

Bill Gregg obeyed, too dumb with astonishment to think.  “It’s the taxi driver!” he exclaimed.

“I thought so!” muttered Ronicky.  “The skunk came back here to wait till we were fixed right now.  What’ll we do with him?”

“I begin to see what’s come off” said Bill Gregg, frowning into the white, scowling face of the taxi driver.  The man was like a rat, but, in spite of his fear, he did not make a sound.

“Over there!” said Bill Gregg, nodding toward a flight of cellar steps.

They caught the man between them, rushed him to the steps and flung him headlong down.  There was a crashing fall, groans and then silence.

“He’ll have a broken bone or two, maybe,” said Ronicky, peering calmly into the darkness, “but he’ll live to trap somebody else, curse him!” And, picking up their suit cases again, they started to retrace their steps.