The doorbell rang.  The promoter opened to a big, barrel-bodied man who pushed past him into the room.

“What you want, Hull?” demanded Cunningham curtly.

The man thrust his bull neck forward.  A heavy roll of fat swelled over the collar.  “You know damn well what I want.  I want what’s comin’ to me.  My share of the Dry Valley clean-up.  An’ I’m gonna have it.  See?”

“You’ve had every cent you’ll get.  I told you that before.”

Tiny red capillaries seamed the beefy face of the fat man.  “An’ I told you I was gonna have a divvy.  An’ I am.  You can’t throw down Cass Hull an’ get away with it.  Not none.”  The shallow protuberant eyes glittered threateningly.

“Thought you knew me better,” Cunningham retorted contemptuously.  “When I say I won’t, I won’t.  Go to a lawyer if you think you’ve got a case.  Don’t come belly-aching to me.”

The face of the fat man was apoplectic.  “Like sin I’ll go to a lawyer.  You’d like that fine, you double-crossin’ sidewinder.  I’ll come with a six-gun.  That’s how I’ll come.  An’ soon.  I’ll give you two days to come through.  Two days.  If you don’t—­hell sure enough will cough.”

Whatever else could be said about Cunningham he was no coward.  He met the raving man eye to eye.

“I don’t scare worth a cent, Hull.  Get out. Pronto.  And don’t come back unless you want me to turn you over to the police for a blackmailing crook.”

Cunningham was past fifty-five and his hair was streaked with gray.  But he stood straight as an Indian, six feet in his socks.  The sap of strength still rang strong in him.  In the days when he had ridden the range he had been famous for his stamina and he was even yet a formidable two-fisted fighter.

But Hull was beyond prudence.  “I’ll go when I get ready, an’ I’ll come back when I get ready,” he boasted.

There came a soft thud of a hard fist on fat flesh, the crash of a heavy bulk against the door.  After that things moved fast.  Hull’s body reacted to the pain of smashing blows falling swift and sure.  Before he knew what had taken place he was on the landing outside on his way to the stairs.  He hit the treads hard and rolled on down.

A man coming upstairs helped him to his feet.

“What’s up?” the man asked.

Hull glared at him, for the moment speechless.  His eyes were venomous, his mouth a thin, cruel slit.  He pushed the newcomer aside, opened the door of the apartment opposite, went in, and slammed it after him.

The man who had assisted him to rise was dark and immaculately dressed.

“I judge Uncle James has been exercising,” he murmured before he took the next flight of stairs.

On the door of apartment 12 was a legend in Old English engraved on a calling card.  It said: 

  James Cunningham

The visitor pushed the electric bell.  Cunningham opened to him.