the lightest blow in my weak state and I should be down and out. On the other hand, there was a side door, there were several side doors, and the couple might easily slip out, for I could not watch all the doors at once.
I decided to go in. And the moment the decision was taken, complete calmness came over me, so that I felt myself merely an instrument of fate. It was horrible, but it had to be. Boyde was to get the punishment he deserved. I could not fail.
The way the little scene was stage-managed seemed curious to me when it was all over, for as I moved out into the light, a couple of policemen came across the broad avenue behind and looked inquisitively at what must have seemed my queer behaviour. I immediately crossed to meet them, while never taking my eye off the swing-doors. A man who had just gone into that saloon, I told them, was to be arrested.
"That so?" they asked with a grin, thinking me drunk, of course. "And what's he done to get all that?"
I told them I was a reporter on the Sun, that I was the complainant in the case, and that Detective Lawler of the 9th District had the warrant at headquarters. They could telephone to him if they liked. They listened, but they would not do anything. I could telephone to Lawler myself; they weren't going to act without a warrant. They finally agreed to wait outside and "see fair play," if I would go in and fetch "the guy" out into the street. "We'll stop any trouble," they said, "and take him to the station if you make a complaint." I agreed to this and walked in through the swing-doors.
The saloon was crowded, the heat wonderful, the bars thronged with men in all stages of intoxication; bartenders in white jackets flew to and fro; business was booming, and at the least sign of a row, everybody, more or less, would have joined in. This general impression, however, was only in the background of my mind. What filled it was the fact that Boyde was looking at me, staring
straight into my eyes, but in the mirror. The instant the
