There was an instant's silence. Mulligan broke it with salvos of scientific and finished profanity. "Yer here for a story," he concluded, "a hot one. An' ye've got it. But how de 'ell--" with puzzled head scratchings. His venomous little eyes fell upon the instinctively shrinking Slade. They flamed luridly. "Youse little yellow leper!" he growled. "It's youse dat coughed it up!" He lunged at Slade. Now between the two guards at the open door there was a thin gap to liberty. Thin it was, but enough for Slade, who had worldly matters yet to put in order. He ducked Mulligan's hungry hands, and with a swift spring of a body whose attenuated bulk was a decided advantage in this time of stress, he shot like a meteor between the disconcerted guards and landed in a heap upon the sidewalk outside. Bounding to his feet like a rubber ball, he darted up the alley. The furious guards, overturned by the sudden onslaught, scrambled up. "Follow him, Dinneen!" shouted Mulligan, and Cullinan's partner obeyed, the room echoing with his curses as he rushed out. As Slade achieved his liberty, Micky had tried to follow suit. He had nearly reached the door when the brawny hand of Mulligan shot out and connected with his collar. There was a backward jerk and the choking journalist landed in the middle of the room, falling over a table amid jangling beer glasses. Picking himself up rather dazedly he grinned amiably into the two scowling faces opposite him. His left hand was cut slightly by a broken glass. He drew out his handkerchief, stanching the flow of blood. "Do you mugs provide free ambulance service for your customers," he inquired airily, "or is that extra?" "Shut your face!" remarked Mulligan savagely. "Now ye've got that story all right, which ain't none of yer business nor yer cursed paper's, neither. Youse done up a pal o' mine here good and proper last week 'nd we bote otter lick de stuffin' outer you. But I bets as you didn't come here of yer own accord, an' I tells ye wot we'll do. You tell de man wot sent yer dat dere wasn't nuttin' doin', an' you couldn't cop nuttin', an' we lets you go. Eider dat or--" and his swollen fist fanned the acrid air an inch from Micky's nose. Micky's keen Irish eyes weighed the ruffianly odds. A weaker spirit would have temporized or lied. However, Micky was a man. His answer left nothing to be arbitrated. It was a mere suggestion, but it held finality.