The saloon was crowded, the heat wonderful, the bars thronged with men in all stages of intoxication; bar-tenders in white jackets flew to and fro; business was booming, and at the least sign of a row, everybody, more or less, would have joined in. This general impression, however, was only in the background of my mind. What filled it was the fact that Boyde was looking at me, staring straight into my eyes, but in the mirror. The instant the doors swung to I had caught his reflection in the long glass behind the bar. Across this bar, a little space on either side of him, he was leaning on both elbows, his face resting in one hand. The eye-glass--it was asking for trouble to wear it in such a place--had been discarded. He was alone. His back, of course, was towards me. For a few seconds we stared at one another in this way, and then, as I walked down the long room, pushing between the noisy crowd, he slowly turned. I reached him. A faint smile appeared on his face. He evidently did not know quite what to do, but a hand began to move towards me. He thought, it seemed, I was going to shake hands, whereas I thought he was probably going to hit me. Instead my hand went to his shoulder. “Boyde,” I said, keeping my voice low, “I want you. You’re going to be--arrested.” The smile died out, and an awful look rushed into his eyes. His face turned the colour of chalk. At first I felt sure he was going to land me a blow in the face, but the abrupt movement of his body was merely that he tried to steady himself against the bar, for I saw his hand grip the rail and cling to it. The same second his features began to work. “I’ve got to arrest you,” I repeated. “It’s Karma. You had better come quietly.” “Karma----” he repeated in a dazed way and stared. He was bewildered, incredulous still. The same second, however, he grasped that it was serious, my face and voice and manner doubtless warned him. This, at last, was real; he suddenly knew it. The expression of appeal poured up instantly into his eyes, those big, innocent, blue eyes where I had so often seen it before. Only now there was no moustache, and the brutal cunning mouth was bare. He began to speak at once, keeping his voice low, for several people were already interested in us. He used his softest and most pleading tone. With that, too, I was thoroughly familiar. “Blackwood--for God’s sake let me go. I’m off to England to-morrow on a White Star boat. I’m working my passage over. For the love of God--for my mother’s sake----!” I cut him short. The falseness, the cowardice, the treachery all working in his face at once, sickened me. At the same time an aching pity rose. I felt miserable. “You must come out with me. At once.”