"Never mind," Square-Face muttered. "He's doing okay." "But not his followers," suggested Gascon. "Quite a few of them have been killed, eh? And aren't you two the only survivors of the old Dilson crowd? How long will your luck hold out, I wonder?" "Longer than yours," replied the man at the wheel sharply. "If you talk any more, we'll put the slug on you." The remainder of the ride was passed in silence, and the car drew up at length before a quiet suburban cottage, on the edge of town almost directly opposite the scene of the recent fight between police and the Salters. The three entered a dingy parlor, full of respectable looking furniture. "Keep him here," Triangle-Face bade Square-Face. "I'll go help the boss get ready to talk to him." He was gone. His words suggested that there would be some moments alone with Square-Face, and Gascon meant to make use of them. The big fellow sat down. "Take a chair," he bade, but Gascon shook his head and lighted another cigarette. He narrowed his eyes, in his best diagnostician manner, to study his guard. "You look as if there was something wrong with your glands," he said crisply. "Ain't nothing wrong with me," was the harsh response. "Are you sure? How do you feel?" "Good enough to pull a leg off of you if you don't shut that big mouth." Gascon shrugged, and turned to a rear wall. A picture hung there, a very unsightly oil painting. He put his hand up, as if to straighten it on its hook. Then he glanced toward a window, letting his eyes dilate. "Ahhhh!" he said softly. Up jumped the gangster, gun flashing into view. "What did you say?" he demanded. "I just said 'Ahhhh,'" replied Gascon, his eyes fixed on the window. "If anybody's followed you here--" The giant broke off and tramped toward the window to look out. Like a flash Gascon leaped after him. With him he carried the picture, lifted from where it hung. He swept it through the air, using the edge of the frame like a hatchet and aiming at the back of the thick neck. The blow was powerful and well placed. Knocked clean out, the gangster fell on his face. Gascon stooped, hooked his hands under the armpits, and made shift to drag the slack weight back to its chair. It took all his strength to set his victim back there. Then he drew from his side pocket the thing he had been carrying for days--a wad of cotton which he soaked in chloroform. Holding it to the broad nose, he waited until the last tenseness went out of the great limbs. Then he crossed one leg over the other knee, poised the head against the chair-back, an elbow on a cushioned arm. Clamping the nerveless right hand about the pistol-butt, he arranged it in the man's lap. Now the attitude was one of assured relaxation. Gascon hung the picture back in place, and himself sat down. He still puffed on the cigarette that had not left his lips.