Yet the girl’s warning had obviously been sincere. Who was “the other” of whom she had spoken? Finucane? . . . “My name is Geyer,” the man Paul was saying. “Felix, take the gentleman’s coat.” So saying, with a gesture of odious familiarity, he clapped his arm about the young man. Before Desmond realized what he was up to, Paul had drawn from the other’s jacket pocket the automatic pistol. “You don’t mind?” he said. “It’s a rule of the house!” And he handed it to the man he had called Felix. With a sinking heart, for now he knew he had the worst to fear, Desmond silently followed his mentor through the swing-doors. An air of expectancy rested over the card-room. The atmosphere was warm and so thick with the fumes of tobacco that at first Desmond was conscious only of a sea of white faces turned towards the door. The throng about the table parted to make way for him as Paul Geyer led him up to the table. “A new member of our circle, my friends,” Geyer’s voice trumpeted triumphantly through the room; “a desperate gambler who loves the green cloth!” He stood between Desmond and the table, his hands very white in the pool of light shed by the low-hung, shaded lamps. He stepped aside. Desmond found himself facing The Man with the Clubfoot. Grundt was holding the bank. His great hairy hands were spread out on the table, one resting on the _sabot_, the other with its knotted fingers sprawling over swathes of shining playing-cards. His vast torso was leant back in his chair and his red and fleshy lips drew noisily on a glowing cigar held securely between his strong, yellow teeth. Beneath their shaggy, tufted brows his dark eyes flamed defiance, insolence, triumph; indeed, there was an indescribable air of arrogance about his whole attitude and demeanour. Desmond’s first thought was Francis. How long would he be in procuring assistance? Help could not arrive yet awhile, for it was not half an hour since they had parted. Was not the immediate question rather how long could Desmond hold Clubfoot off? And then, with a sudden thrill of hope, he remembered his disguise. Grundt would, he knew, murder Desmond Okewood out of hand. But might not Murchison of Munich gain a brief respite? Yet would the disguise, summary as it was, stand the test of those keen and terrible eyes that even now were searching his face? There was no light in the room, Desmond reflected with satisfaction, other than the shaded table-lamps; and, for the present, the features of Murchison, fully described and circulated through the medium of the Chief’s “double-cross,” were uppermost in Clubfoot’s mind. But—and with a pang the realization came to Desmond—the voice was the great betrayer. If he must speak—and he could not remain dumb without arousing suspicion—disguise his voice as he would, Grundt must inevitably recognize it. But now Grundt was addressing him. “Herr Murchison, hein? Es freut mich sehr! A gambler, was?”