Westcott laughed.

“I don’t see any cause for any,” he answered.  “But Bill might be a bit touchy.  Maybe, Dan, it might be worth while for you to hang around.  Do as you please about that.”

He turned away and went up the wooden steps to the door of the Red Dog.  The marshal’s eyes followed him solicitously until he disappeared within; then he slipped back into the alleyway, skirting the side of the building, until he reached a window near the rear.

Westcott closed the door behind him and took a swift view of the barroom.  There were not many present at that hour—­only a few habitual loafers, mostly playing cards; a porter was sweeping up sawdust and a single bartender was industriously swabbing the bar with a towel.  Westcott recognised most of the faces with a slight feeling of relief.  Neither Enright nor Beaton were present, and it was his desire to meet Lacy alone, away from the influence of these others.  He crossed over to the bar.

“Where’s Bill?” he asked.

“Back there,” and the dispenser of drinks inclined his head toward a door at the rear.  “Go on in.”

The fellow’s manner was civil enough, yet Westcott’s teeth set with a feeling that he was about to face an emergency.  Yet there was no other way; he must make Lacy talk.  He walked straight to the door, opened it, stepped into the room beyond, and turned the key in the lock, dropping it into his pocket.  Then he faced about.  He was not alone with Lacy; Enright sat beside the desk of the other and was staring at him in startled surprise.  Westcott also had a hazy impression that there was or had been another person.  The saloon-keeper rose to his feet, angry, and thrown completely off his guard by Westcott’s unexpected action.

“What the hell does that mean?” he demanded hotly.  “Why did you lock the door?”

“Naturally, to keep you in here until I am through with you,” returned the miner coldly.  “Sit down, Lacy; we’ve got a few things to talk over.  You left word for me at the hotel, and, being a polite man, I accepted your invitation.  I supposed I would find you alone.”

Lacy sank back into his chair, endeavouring to smile.

“This gentleman is a friend of mine,” he explained.  “Whatever you care to say can be said before him.”

“I am quite well aware of that and also that he is now present so that you may use him as a witness in case anything goes wrong.  This is once you have got in bad, Mr. Patrick Enright, of New York.”

The lawyer’s face whitened, and his hands gripped the arms of his chair.

“You—­you know me?”

“By reputation only,” and Westcott bowed, “but that is scarcely to your credit.  I know this, however, that for various reasons you possess no desire to advertise your presence in Haskell.  It would be rather a difficult matter to explain back in the city just what you were doing out here in such intimate association with a chorus girl and a Bowery gunman, let alone our immaculate friend, Lacy, yonder.  The courts, I believe, have not yet distributed the Cavendish money.”