"Then he grabs me sudden and pulls open my collar. God, he was strong.
"'What's the matter with you?' says I. 'Lemme go or I'll mash your mug flat.' 'Lemme see your identification disc,' he barks.
"Bein' in Paris for a bat, I had exchanged with my bunkie, Bill Hanson. 'Let him look,' thinks I; and he reads Bill's check.
"'If you fool me,' says he, 'I'll folly ye and I'll do you in if it takes the rest of my life. You understand?' 'Sure,' says I, me tongue in me cheek. 'Bong! Allez vous en!' says he.
"'How the hell,' sez I, 'do I get out of here?' 'You're a Yankee soldier. The Flics don't know you were in here. You go and kick on that door and make a holler.'
"So I done it good; and a cop opens and swears at me, but when he sees a Yankee soldier was locked in the wash-room by mistake, he lets me out, you bet."
Clinch smiled a thin smile, poured out three fingers of hooch.
"What else?" asked Smith quietly.
"Nothing much. I didn't go to no roo Quinze Octobre. But I don't never want to see that fella Quintana. I've been waiting till it's safe to sell – what was in that packet."
"Sell what?"
"What was in that packet," replied Clinch thickly.
"What was in it?"
"Sparklers – since you're so nosey."
"Diamonds?"
"And then some. I dunno what they're called. All I know is I'll croak Quintana if he even turns up askin' for 'em. He frisked somebody. I frisked him. I'll kill anybody who tries to frisk me."
"Where do you keep them?" enquired Smith naïvely.
Clinch looked at him, very drunk: "None o' your dinged business," he said very softly.
The dancing had become boisterous but not unseemly, although all the men had been drinking too freely.
Smith closed the pantry bar at midnight, by direction of Eve. Now he came out into the ballroom and mixed affably with the company, even dancing with Harvey Chase's sister once – a slender hoyden, all flushed and dishevelled, with a tireless mania for dancing which seemed to intoxicate her.
She danced, danced, danced, accepting any partner offered. But Smith's skill enraptured her and she refused to let him go when her beau, a late arrival, one Charlie Berry, slouched up to claim her.
Smith, always trying to keep Clinch and Quintana's men in view, took no part in the discussion; but Berry thought he was detaining Lily Chase and pushed him aside.
"Hold on, young man!" exclaimed Smith sharply. "Keep your hands to yourself. If your girl don't want to dance with you she doesn't have to."
Some of Quintana's gang came up to listen. Berry glared at Smith.
"Say," he said, "I seen you before somewhere. Wasn't you in Russia?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Yes, you was. You was an officer! What you doing at Clinch's?"
"What's that?" growled Clinch, shoving his way forward and shouldering the crowd aside.
"Who's this man, Mike?" demanded Berry.
"Well, who do you think he is?" asked Clinch thickly.
"I think he's gettin' the goods on you, that's what I think," yelled Berry.
"G'wan home, Charlie," returned Clinch. "G'wan, all o' you. The dance is over. Go peaceable, every one. Stop that fiddle!"
The music ceased. The dance was ended; they all understood that; but there was grumbling and demands for drinks.
Clinch, drunk but impassive, herded them through the door out into the starlight. There was scuffling, horse-play, but no fighting.
The big Englishman, Harry Beck, asked for accommodations for his party over night.
"Naw," said Clinch, "g'wan back to the Inn. I can't bother with you folks to-night." And as the others, Salzar, Georgiades, Picquet and Sanchez gathered about to insist, Clinch pushed them all out of doors in a mass.
"Get the hell out o' here!" he growled; and slammed the door.
He stood for a moment with head lowered, drunk, but apparently capable of reflection. Eve came from the melodeon and laid one slim hand on his arm.
"Go to bed, girlie," he said, not looking at her.
"You also, dad."
"No… I got business with Hal Smith."
Passing Smith, the girl whispered: "You look out for him and undress him."
Smith nodded, gravely preoccupied with coming events, and nerving himself to meet them.
He had no gun. Clinch's big automatic bulged under his armpit.
When the girl had ascended the creaking stairs and her door, above, closed, Clinch walked unsteadily to the door, opened it, fished out his pistol.
"Come on out," he said without turning.
"Where?" enquired Smith.
Clinched turned, lifted his square head; and the deadly glare in his eyes left Smith silent.
"You comin'?"
"Sure," said Smith quietly.
But Clinch gave him no chance to close in: it was death even to swerve. Smith walked slowly out into the starlight, ahead of Clinch – slowly forward in the luminous darkness.
"Keep going," came Clinch's quiet voice behind him. And, after they had entered the woods, – "Bear to the right."
Smith knew now. The low woods were full of sink-holes. They were headed for the nearest one.
On the edge of the thing they halted. Smith turned and faced Clinch.
"What's the idea?" he asked without a quaver.
"Was you in Roosia?"
"Yes."
"Was you an officer?"
"I was."
"Then you're spyin'. You're a cop."
"You're mistaken."
"Ah, don't hand me none like that! You're a State Trooper or a Secret Service guy, or a plain, dirty cop. And I'm a-going to croak you."
"I'm not in any service, now."
"Wasn't you an army officer?"
"Yes. Can't an officer go wrong?"
"Soft stuff. Don't feed it to me. I told you too much anyway. I was babblin' drunk. I'm drunk now, but I got sense. D'you think I'll run chances of sittin' in State's Prison for the next ten years and leave Eve out here alone? No. I gotta shoot you, Smith. And I'm a-going to do it. G'wan and say what you want … if you think there's some kind o' god you can square before you croak."
"If you go to the chair for murder, what good will it do Eve?" asked Smith. His lips were crackling dry; he moistened them.
"Sink holes don't talk," said Clinch. "G'wan and square yourself, if you're the church kind."
"Clinch," said Smith unsteadily, "if you kill me now you're as good as dead yourself. Quintana is here."
"Say, don't hand me that," retorted Clinch. "Do you square yourself or no?"
"I tell you Quintana's gang were at the dance to-night – Picquet, Salzar, Georgiades, Sard, Beck, José Sanchez – the one who looks like a French priest. Maybe he had a beard when you saw him in that café wash-room – "
"What!" shouted Clinch