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 mustache. 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 an-
