Bromfield bought a small stack of chips at the roulette table.

“Won’t you take a whirl at the wheel?” he asked Lindsay.

“Thanks, no, I believe not,” his guest answered.

The Westerner was a bit disgusted at his host’s lack of discrimination.  “Does he think I’m a soft mark too?” he wondered.  “If this is what he calls high life I’ve had more than enough already.”

His disgust was shared by the clubman.  Bromfield had never been in such a dive before.  His gambling had been done in gilded luxury.  While he touched shoulders with this motley crew his nostrils twitched with fastidious disdain.  He played, but his interest was not in the wheel.  Durand had promised that there would be women and that one of them should be bribed to make a claim upon Clay at the proper moment.  He had an unhappy feeling that the gang politician had thrown him down in this.  If so, what did that mean?  Had Durand some card up his sleeve?  Was he using him as a catspaw to rake in his own chestnuts?

Clarendon Bromfield began to weaken.  He and Clay were the only two men in the room in evening clothes.  His questing eye fell on tough, scarred faces that offered his fears no reassurance.  Any one or all of them might be agents of Durand.

He shoved all of his chips out, putting half of them on number eight and the rest on seventeen.  His object was to lose his stack immediately and be free to go.  To his annoyance the whirling ball dropped into the pocket labeled eight.

“Let’s get out of this hole,” he said to Lindsay in a low voice.  “I don’t like it.”

“Suits me,” agreed the other.

As Bromfield was cashing his chips Clay came rigidly to attention.  Two men had just come into the room.  One of them was “Slim” Jim Collins, the other Gorilla Dave.  As yet they had not seen him.  He did not look at them, but at his host.  There was a question in his mind he wanted solved.  The clubman’s gaze passed over both the newcomers without the least sign of recognition.

“I didn’t know what this joint was like or I’d never have brought you,” apologized Clarendon.  “A friend of mine told me about it.  He’s got a queer fancy if he likes this frazzled dive.”

Clay acquitted Bromfield of conspiracy.  He must have been tailed here by Durand’s men.  His host had nothing to do with it.  What for?  They could not openly attack him.

“Slim” Jim’s eyes fell on him.  He nudged Dave.  Both of them, standing near the entrance, watched Lindsay steadily.

Some one outside the door raised the cry, “The bulls are comin’.”

Instantly the room leaped to frenzied excitement.  Men dived for the doors, bets forgotten and chips scattered over the floor.  Chairs were smashed as they charged over them, tables overturned.  The unwary were trodden underfoot.

Bromfield went into a panic.  Why had he been fool enough to trust Durand?  No doubt the fellow would ruin him as willingly as he would Lindsay.  The raid was fifteen minutes ahead of schedule time.  The ward politician had betrayed him.  He felt sure of it.  All the carefully prepared plans agreed upon he jettisoned promptly.  His sole thought was to save himself, not to trap his rival.