“So you are good enough to pass my appearance?”

“Sure,” said McMurdo.

“And you were told to see me?”

“I was.”

“And who told you?”

“Brother Scanlan of Lodge 341, Vermissa.  I drink your health Councillor, and to our better acquaintance.”  He raised a glass with which he had been served to his lips and elevated his little finger as he drank it.

McGinty, who had been watching him narrowly, raised his thick black eyebrows.  “Oh, it’s like that, is it?” said he.  “I’ll have to look a bit closer into this, Mister—­”

“McMurdo.”

“A bit closer, Mr. McMurdo; for we don’t take folk on trust in these parts, nor believe all we’re told neither.  Come in here for a moment, behind the bar.”

There was a small room there, lined with barrels.  McGinty carefully closed the door, and then seated himself on one of them, biting thoughtfully on his cigar and surveying his companion with those disquieting eyes.  For a couple of minutes he sat in complete silence.  McMurdo bore the inspection cheerfully, one hand in his coat pocket, the other twisting his brown moustache.  Suddenly McGinty stooped and produced a wicked-looking revolver.

“See here, my joker,” said he, “if I thought you were playing any game on us, it would be short work for you.”

“This is a strange welcome,” McMurdo answered with some dignity, “for the Bodymaster of a lodge of Freemen to give to a stranger brother.”

“Ay, but it’s just that same that you have to prove,” said McGinty, “and God help you if you fail!  Where were you made?”

“Lodge 29, Chicago.”

“When?”

“June 24, 1872.”

“What Bodymaster?”

“James H. Scott.”

“Who is your district ruler?”

“Bartholomew Wilson.”

“Hum!  You seem glib enough in your tests.  What are you doing here?”

“Working, the same as you—­but a poorer job.”

“You have your back answer quick enough.”

“Yes, I was always quick of speech.”

“Are you quick of action?”

“I have had that name among those that knew me best.”

“Well, we may try you sooner than you think.  Have you heard anything of the lodge in these parts?”

“I’ve heard that it takes a man to be a brother.”

“True for you, Mr. McMurdo.  Why did you leave Chicago?”

“I’m damned if I tell you that!”

McGinty opened his eyes.  He was not used to being answered in such fashion, and it amused him.  “Why won’t you tell me?”

“Because no brother may tell another a lie.”

“Then the truth is too bad to tell?”

“You can put it that way if you like.”

“See here, mister, you can’t expect me, as Bodymaster, to pass into the lodge a man for whose past he can’t answer.”

McMurdo looked puzzled.  Then he took a worn newspaper cutting from an inner pocket.