The two men paid no attention to this--a common Sunday morning spectacle in many low saloons--but with a nod to the sleepy, red-eyed bartender passed through a swinging half door, which formed to a certain extent at least, a dividing line between Cagney's proper and Cagney's private sanctum beyond. It was only a little 7x8 affair, in the center of which stood a table, and one or two hard wooden chairs, all a shade less dirty than the room beyond. The stock operator seated himself at the table upon entering. His companion, sinking into a chair and burying his face in his hands, groaned aloud. For a moment Mr. Callister regarded him gloomily. Then, extending his hand, he grasped his shoulder and shook the man with some violence. "Rube, Rube, I say!" "Well, what is it, Lije? Why the deuce can't you let me be?" "But there's no use in this kind of business. What's done is done, and can't be helped. Brace up man, and try to look as near like yourself as you can. Here comes Paddy to see what we'll take." The burglar raised his head and was staring fixedly before him, as the half door swung inward and the sleepy bartender entered the room. "What's your liquor, gents?" he demanded, with an air of indifference. They must pay for their use of the apartment by an order of some kind. So that they did this, their presence in the place, be their business, lawful or unlawful, was a matter of no moment to him. "A bottle of Cagney's particular and two glasses, Paddy, and you may keep the change," said Callister, throwing down a five-dollar bill. "We have a little business to transact together--don't let us be disturbed." "O. K., gents," replied the sleepy bartender, with a gleam of intelligence in his blinking red eyes. "I'll look out for yez, and if ye want anything else, wy jest tap that ere bell." He presently returned with bottle and glasses and having placed them upon the table, withdrew. "Here, Rube, drink this. It will give you some heart," said the stock operator, pouring out a portion of the liquor and passing it to his friend. The man seized the glass eagerly and drained it to the last drop. "My God--my God! Lije, what a terrible thing this is!" he exclaimed, in a hoarse whisper, as he set the glass upon the table again. "I can see her face before me now, so white and worn! It will never leave me--I feel it--I know it! It will haunt me as long as I live!" "Nonsense, man! You have been guilty of a piece of tremendous folly, but we've too much at stake to break all to pieces over such a slip." "Poor Maria! poor girl!" groaned the man Rube, again burying his face in his hands and groaning aloud. "It was all my vile temper, Lije. I swear to God I never meant to kill her, and now----"