P. Sybarite shook his head:  “I’m sorry.”

The dark blood surged into Penfield’s cheeks.  “You won’t accept my word—?”

“I have every confidence 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.  Momentarily the shock of the assault staggered the gambler, and as he gave ground, reeling, P. Sybarite closed one set of sinewy fingers tight round his right wrist, and with the other seized and wrested the revolver away.  The incident was history in a twinkling:  P. Sybarite sprang back, armed, the situation reversed.