“Get out—­quick!” ordered the cop.  Then, “Sit down!” he countermanded.

He took off Cork’s hat roughly and scrutinized him shrewdly.  “Your name’s McManus.”

“Bad guess,” said Cork.  “It’s Peterson.”

“Cork McManus, or something like that,” said the cop.  “You put a knife into a man in Dutch Mike’s saloon a week ago.”

“Aw, forget it!” said Cork, who perceived a shade of doubt in the officer’s tones.  “You’ve got my mug mixed with somebody else’s.”

“Have I?  Well, you’ll come to the station with me, anyhow, and be looked over.  The description fits you all right.”  The cop twisted his fingers under Cork’s collar.  “Come on!” he ordered roughly.

Cork glanced at Ruby.  She was pale, and her thin nostrils quivered.  Her quick eye danced from one man’s face to the other as they spoke or moved.  What hard luck!  Cork was thinking—­Corrigan on the briny; and Ruby met and lost almost within an hour!  Somebody at the police station would recognize him, without a doubt.  Hard luck!

But suddenly the girl sprang up and hurled herself with both arms extended against the cop.  His hold on Cork’s collar was loosened and he stumbled back two or three paces.

“Don’t go so fast, Maguire!” she cried in shrill fury.  “Keep your hands off my man!  You know me, and you know I’m givin’ you good advice.  Don’t you touch him again!  He’s not the guy you are lookin’ for—­I’ll stand for that.”

“See here, Fanny,” said the Cop, red and angry, “I’ll take you, too, if you don’t look out!  How do you know this ain’t the man I want?  What are you doing in here with him?”

“How do I know?” said the girl, flaming red and white by turns.  “Because I’ve known him a year.  He’s mine.  Oughtn’t I to know?  And what am I doin’ here with him?  That’s easy.”

She stooped low and reached down somewhere into a swirl of flirted draperies, heliotrope and black.  An elastic snapped, she threw on the table toward Cork a folded wad of bills.  The money slowly straightened itself with little leisurely jerks.

“Take that, Jimmy, and let’s go,” said the girl.  “I’m declarin’ the usual dividends, Maguire,” she said to the officer.  “You had your usual five-dollar graft at the usual corner at ten.”

“A lie!” said the cop, turning purple.  “You go on my beat again and I’ll arrest you every time I see you.”

“No, you won’t,” said the girl.  “And I’ll tell you why.  Witnesses saw me give you the money to-night, and last week, too.  I’ve been getting fixed for you.”

Cork put the wad of money carefully into his pocket, and said:  “Come on, Fanny; let’s have some chop suey before we go home.”

“Clear out, quick, both of you, or I’ll—­”

The cop’s bluster trailed away into inconsequentiality.

At the corner of the street the two halted.  Cork handed back the money without a word.  The girl took it and slipped it slowly into her hand-bag.  Her expression was the same she had worn when she entered Rooney’s that night—­she looked upon the world with defiance, suspicion and sullen wonder.