Shrinkingly demure, and altogether tearful, she pressed by the Dropper and glided across the den where the poppy-smokers lay. “Go to bed!” Fay saw the brute’s chin move in a slow circle over his shelving shoulder. He swung back his jaw. “You’re next,” he said. “Better beat it, bo. I’ll tame yuh like I’ve tamed her.” “Tamed is good.” Fay picked up his hat. He hooked the cane over his left sleeve. “Rather pleasant evening, Dropper.... I see you understand women.” “I guess I do. Yuh want to let ’em know you’re the biggest guy alive. I’m that guy. Nobody ever took a broad away from me.” “But she’s only a kid, Dropper.” “Another year--” “Yes, you’re right. Well, so long. There’ll be another night, too. I’m coming back.” “I’ll be ready for yuh!” * * * * * Fay had no set plan as he left the scatter of Mike Cregan--alias the Dropper. He wanted to thrash out the matter of Emily O’Mara in his mind. Her behavior, and the fear she held of her unsavory guardian, puzzled the cracksman. He had accomplished much in a brief time. There were not many men living who could have broken out of Rockglen on one afternoon and strolled down Michigan Avenue the next. It was an exploit in keeping with his reputation. Midnight found him working over the problem of the girl. He recalled old Charley’s last instructions: “Get her away from the low-brows.” A promise, Fay had never intentionally broken. There was the girl--naive, doll-like, docile. There was the Dropper--demanding, brutish, a fink. Fay slept that night at a stag hotel. He woke early, bathed beneath a shower, dressed and went down to breakfast. On Harrison Street he gulped the air. He avoided being seen by the detectives of the city. Once he took a cab for a distance of five squares. He dismissed the driver at the side entrance of a cheap hotel--sauntered through the lobby and emerged with a sharp glance to left and right. The game gripped him as he dodged into the tenement and started climbing the gas-flared stairways to the hop-joint. He knew, in the soul of him, that Chicago was a danger-spot. He knocked on the door and was admitted by the Dropper--who seemed alone. “Back again,” said Fay. “I said I’d be back. Where is Emily?” “Wot t’hell!” “Where is the girl?” A gliding sounded over the matting of the room beyond the screen. Emily thrust her head through the doorway. Her sherry-colored eyes were red-rimmed, glazed with tears, sullen. The Dropper had just finished his morning hate by upbraiding her. “Wot t’hell’s comin’ off?” rumbled the dive-keeper. “Beat it, cul, before I wake up. I’m going to wham yuh one.” Fay swiftly hooked his cane over the edge of an empty bunk, removed his hat, took off his coat, and rolled up his sleeves. “I didn’t bring a gat!” he snapped. “I don’t need one. Get into that room, set the card-table back and pile up the chairs. Get ready, you fink, for what’s coming to you.”