The diffident Jerry fingered the money in the drawer of the table uncertainly.  Ronicky Doone swept it up and thrust it into his pocket.  “We’ll split straws later,” said Ronicky.  “Main thing we need right about now is action.  This coin will start us.”

In the hall, as they took their hats, they found big Frederic Fernand in the act of dissuading several of his clients from leaving.  The incident of the evening was regrettable, most regrettable, but such things would happen when wild men appeared.  Besides, the fault had been that of McKeever.  He assured them that McKeever would never again be employed in his house.  And Fernand meant it.  He had discarded all care for the wounded man.

Ronicky Doone stepped to him and drew him aside.  “Mr. Fernand,” he said, “I’ve got to have a couple of words with you.”

“Come into my private room,” said Fernand, eager to get the fighter out of view of the rest of the little crowd.  He drew Ronicky and Jerry Smith into a little apartment which opened off the hall.  It was furnished with an almost feminine delicacy of style, with wide-seated, spindle-legged Louis XV. chairs and a couch covered with rich brocade.  The desk was a work of Boulle.  A small tapestry of the Gobelins made a ragged glow of color on the wall.  Frederic Fernand had recreated an atmosphere two hundred years old.

He seated them at once.  “And now, sir,” he said sternly to Ronicky Doone, “you are aware that I could have placed you in the hands of the police for what you’ve done tonight?”

Ronicky Doone made no answer.  His only retort was a gradually spreading smile.  “Partner,” he said at length, while Fernand was flushing with anger at this nonchalance on the part of the Westerner, “they might of grabbed me, but they would have grabbed your house first.”

“That fact,” said Fernand hotly, “is the reason you have dared to act like a wild man in my place?  Mr. Doone, this is your last visit.”

“It sure is,” said Ronicky heartily.  “D’you know what would have happened out in my neck of the woods, if there had been a game like the one tonight?  I wouldn’t have waited to be polite, but just pulled a gat and started smashing things for luck.”

“The incident is closed,” Fernand said with gravity, and he leaned forward, as if to rise.

“Not by a long sight,” said Ronicky Doone.  “I got an idea, partner, that you worked the whole deal.  This is a square house, Fernand.  Why was I picked out for the dirty work?”

It required all of Fernand’s long habits of self control to keep him from gasping.  He managed to look Ronicky Doone fairly in the eyes.  What did the youngster know?  What had he guessed?

“Suppose I get down to cases and name names?  The gent that talked to you about me was John Mark.  Am I right?” asked Ronicky.

“Sir,” said Fernand, thinking that the world was tumbling about his ears, “what infernal—­”