A man, big, hulking, thick-set and slouching, with shifty, cunning little black eyes and the face of a bruiser, his nose bent over and almost flattened down on one cheek, entered the room, carrying four glasses on a tin tray.  He set down the tray, and, as he lifted the glasses from it and placed them on the table, he leered around at the little group.

“Gee!” he said, sucking in his breath.  “De Doc, an’ Helena, an’ Pale Face, an’ de Flopper!  Gee, dis looks like de real t’ing—­dis looks like biz.”

“It does—­fifty-cents’ worth—­ten for yourself,” said Doc Madison suavely, flipping the coin into the tray.  “Now, clear out!”

“Say”—­Cleggy put his forefinger significantly to the side of his nose—­“say, can’t youse let a sport in on—­”

“Clear out!” Doc Madison broke in quite as suavely as before—­but there was a sudden glint of steel in the gray eyes as they held the bruiser’s, and Cleggy, hastily picking up the tray, scuffled from the room.

Madison watched the door close, then he began to pace slowly up and down the room.

“Pull the chairs up to the table so we can take things comfortably,” he directed.

“There ain’t but two,” grinned Pale Face Harry.

“Oh, well, never mind,” said Madison.

“Slew the couch around and pull that up—­Helena and I will sit on the head of it.”

Still pacing up and down the length of the room, his hands in his pockets, Doc Madison watched the others as they carried out his directions; and then, suddenly, as he neared the door, his hand shot out, wrenched the door open, and, quick as a panther in its spring, he was in the hall without.

There was a yell, a scuffle, the rip and crash of rending bannisters, an instant’s silence, then a heavy thud—­and then Cleggy’s voice from somewhere below in a choice and fervent flow of profanity.

Doc Madison re-entered the room, closed the door, dispassionately arranged a disordered cuff, brushed a few particles of dust from his sleeves and shoulder, and, this done, started toward the table—­and stopped.

Helena had swung herself to the table edge, and, glass in hand, dangling her neatly shod little feet, was smoking a cigarette, her brown hair with a glint of amber in it, her dark eyes veiled now by their heavy lashes; on the other side of the table Pale Face Harry coughed, as, with sleeve rolled back, he was intent on the hypodermic needle he was pushing into his arm; while the Flopper, his eyes with a dog-like admiration in them fixed on Madison, stood facing the door, a grotesque, unpleasant figure, unkempt, unshaven, furtive-faced, his rags hanging disreputably about him, his trousers with their frayed edges, now that he stood upright, reaching far above his boot tops and flagrantly exposing his wretched substitutes for socks.

Doc Madison reached thoughtfully into his pocket, brought out a silver cigarette case, and carefully selected a cigarette from amongst its fellows.