He considered the matter of Fay with a slow brain. Back in the heart of him there lurked a fear for a five-figure man. They did big things. They were supercrooks. Their weight might be felt through political influence. “I’m hep!” he said sullenly. “You want to cop the skirt from me. You want to tell her about diamonds and rubies and strings of pearls--of swag and kale and the easy life swillin’ wine.” “I don’t want to do anything of the kind. I’ve got a message for her from her old man. He’s not well,” Fay added cautiously, remembering that under the law the Dropper might be considered Emily’s guardian. “So he aint goin’ to get sprung? I heard he had a swell mouthpiece who was workin’ with the pollies.” “The appeal was denied last week. The governor turned it down--cold. Charley may have to serve his full term.” “Oh, well, if that’s the straight of it-- I’ll get the moll an’ let you chin with her a bit. Remember, no fancy stuff.” Fay stared at the dive-keeper disgustedly. The Dropper weighed over two hundred and fifty pounds. He moved his gross form across the matting, paused at the screen where the piglike dog lay, and lumbered out of sight. His voice rasped in a shout: “Emily!” * * * * * Her entrance came a minute after Fay had seated himself at the poker-table. His hand rested on his hat. He heard the Dropper’s nagging oaths. Emily entered, propelled by a strong arm. Fay rose. He flashed an assuring glance. He reached and offered her a chair. The picture she left with him, as he turned for the chair, was one he could never forget. Golden-glossed hair, fine-spun as flax, an oval face, big sherry-colored eyes, long lashes, a round breast and straight figure--was his summing up of little Emily O’Mara. The Dropper lunged for the girl. He lifted her chin. He leered as she cringed from him. “This guy wants to see you, kid!” Fay pressed the sides of his trousers with the sensitive tips of his fingers. He waited, with his teeth grinding. He wanted to leap the distance, reach, clutch and throttle the purple neck of the brute. The Dropper swung a terrible jaw and eyed Fay. “Go to it!” he rumbled. “Get done with the kid, damn quick. Tell her she’ll never see her old man again. That’s wot I’ve been tellin’ her--all the time.” Fay waited until the Dropper disappeared. He moved the chair he had offered to the girl, so that she could see it. “Wont you sit down, Emily? I left your dad last night. He wasn’t well.” A flash of interest and gratitude crossed her features. She clutched her skirt, stared at the door, bent one knee and sank into the chair timidly. Fay leaned and whispered: “Your father sent me to you. He wants you to leave this bunch. He’s afraid you are not being well treated. He thinks you ought to go to some good home,” he added as he realized the girl’s underworld upbringing. “Is Father coming back to me?” “No, never.” “Why not?”