“So—­you were behind that!” she breathed.

“I was.  Though I couldn’t have done it if Dick Sherwood hadn’t been honestly infatuated with you.  But now I’m through with working under cover, through with indirect methods.  From now on every play’s in the open, and it’s straight to the point with everything.  So get ready.  I’m going to take you away from Barney and Old Jimmie.”

The mention of these two names had a swift and magical effect upon her.  But instead of arousing belligerency, they aroused an almost frantic agitation.

“You must leave at once, Larry.  Barney and my father were here before dinner, and they’ve just telephoned they were coming back!”

“Coming back!  That’s the best argument you could make for my staying!”

“But, Larry—­they both have keys, and Barney always carries a gun!”

“I stay here, unless you leave with me.  Listen to some more, Maggie.  I laid all the cards on the table.  Do you know the kind of people you’re tied up with?  I’ll not say anything about your father, for I guess you know all there is to know.  But Barney Palmer!  He’s the lowest kind of crook that breathes.  There’s been a lot of talk about squealers and police stools.  Well, the big squealer, the big stool, is Barney Palmer!”

“I don’t believe it!” she cried involuntarily.

“It’s true!  I’ve got it straight.  Barney wanted to smash me, because I’d made up my mind to quit the old game and because he wanted to get me out of his way with you.  So he framed it up so that I appeared to be a squealer, and started the gangmen after me.  And he put Barlow up to the idea of forcing me to be a stool, and then framing me when I refused.  It was Barney who fixed things so I had to go to jail, or be shot up, or run away.  It was Barney Palmer who squealed on Red Hannigan and Jack Rosenfeldt, and who’s been squealing on his other pals.  And that’s the sort you’re stringing along with!”

She gazed at him in appalled half conviction.  He remained silent to let his truth sink in.

They were standing so, face to face, when a key grated in the outer door of the little hallway as on the occasion of Larry’s first visit here.  And as on that occasion, Maggie sprang swiftly forward and shot home the bolt of the inner door.  Then she turned and caught Larry’s arm.

“It’s Barney—­I told you he was coming!” she whispered.  “Oh, why didn’t you go before?  Come on!”

She tried to drag him toward her bedroom door, through which she had once helped him escape.  But this time he was not to be moved.

“I stay right here,” he said to her.

There was the sound of a futile effort to turn the lock of the inner door; then Barney’s voice called out:  “What’s the matter, Maggie?  Open the door.”

Maggie, still clutching Larry’s resisting arm, stood gasping in wide-eyed consternation.

“Open the door for them, Maggie,” Larry whispered.