en appeared. Besides, the fault had been that of
McKeever. He assured them that McKeever would never again be employed in
his house. And Fernand meant it. He had discarded all care for the
wounded man.

Ronicky Doone stepped to him and drew him aside. "Mr. Fernand," he said,
"I've got to have a couple of words with you."

"Come into my private room," said Fernand, eager to get the fighter out
of view of the rest of the little crowd. He drew Ronicky and Jerry Smith
into a little apartment which opened off the hall. It was furnished with
an almost feminine delicacy of style, with wide-seated, spindle-legged
Louis XV. chairs and a couch covered with rich brocade. The desk was a
work of Boulle. A small tapestry of the Gobelins made a ragged glow of
color on the wall. Frederic Fernand had recreated an atmosphere two
hundred years old.

He seated them at once. "And now, sir," he said sternly to Ronicky
Doone, "you are aware that I could have placed you in the hands of the
police for what you've done tonight?"

Ronicky Doone made no answer. His only retort was a gradually spreading
smile. "Partner," he said at length, while Fernand was flushing with
anger at this nonchalance on the part of the Westerner, "they might of
grabbed me, but they would have grabbed your house first."

"That fact," said Fernand hotly, "is the reason you have dared to act
like a wild man in my place? Mr. Doone, this is your last visit."

"It sure is," said Ronicky heartily. "D'you know what would have
happened out in my neck of the woods, if there had been a game like the
one tonight? I wouldn't have waited to be polite, but just pulled a gat
and started smashing things for luck."

"The incident is closed," Fernand said with gravity, and he leaned
forward, as if to rise.

"Not by a long sight," said Ronicky Doone. "I got an idea, partner, that
you worked the whole deal. This is a square house, Fernand. Why was I
picked out for the dirty work?"

It required all of Fernand's long habits of self control to keep him
from gasping. He managed to look Ronicky Doone fairly in the eyes. What
did the youngster know? What had he guessed?

"Suppose I get down to cases and name names? The gent that talked to you
about me was John Mark. Am I right?" asked Ronicky.

"Sir," said Fernand, thinking that the world was tumbling about his
ears, "what infernal--"

"I'm right," said Ronicky. "I can tell when I've hurt a gent by the way
his face wrinkles up. I