Klondike himself was behind the bar. A burly, red-faced young Irishman, he cut quite a dash in his own neighborhood as a gang leader and had been one of Spingola's most faithful enemies.
"I'm Tony Guarino," announced the boy, "from over on Taylor street."
"Yeah?"
"I s'pose you read about Al Spingola gettin' his last night."
"Yeah," assented O'Hara cautiously, chewing on a black cigar.
"Well, I know you and him were enemies so I thought if they took me up for his death you'd see that I had a good lawyer and so on."
"You? Did you get that rat—a punk like you?"
"I didn't say so," retorted Tony doggedly. "I just wanted to know if they picked me up if you'd get me a lawyer."
"Betcher life. An' from now on you're welcome around here any time. I can always use another kid with guts."
"Thanks."
From O'Hara's saloon, Tony went to see Vyvyan at her cheap little hotel. She was nervous and tearful but back of the nervousness he could detect a new attitude of overbearing hardness, and be-
