“Call me Hugh Larkins,” answered the stranger, in a squeakish voice that made a sound almost like a file. “I don’t know you, Mr. Larkins.” “Perhaps not. You don’t remember me. You have forgotten all about the old place on the Bowery that flourished five or six years ago. You don’t recall the barkeeper and the sometime pianist?” A smile flitted across Claude’s face. “Are you that person?” he asked. “I’m Hugh Larkins. Sometimes they call me ‘Rosy’ Larkins, you remember.” “I never recall nicknames.” “Mr. Lamont, you’ve got good quarters here.” Claude started a little at mention of his name. “You see, I know you. Why, you haven’t changed a great deal. You’ve got a few more years on you, and you’ve grown a little stouter--good living, I guess. The ‘Daisy Chain’ isn’t running now, I believe. I dropped into the old place this morning, but the piano stopped four years ago and the hole is a poor bucket shop at present.” “I don’t know,” said Claude. “Well, Mr. Lamont, let’s to business. I’m a little hard up--somewhat desperate, to make use of a homely phrase.” “And you think I’m a nabob when it comes to cash, eh?” “I know you’re not Lazarus. I’ve got to have a little chink to keep the proverbial wolf from the door, and----” “My dear sir, you’ve struck the wrong place,” broke in Claude. “I can’t accommodate you.” Larkins fell back in his chair and seemed at his wits’ end. “That’s bad,” he suddenly squeaked. “It nearly puts me into the river--a desperate man’s last resort, you see.” “I can’t help that,” said Claude coldly. “Every man can do as he pleases with his anatomy, and if you see fit to immerse yours, why, I can’t object.” “You can’t help Rosy Larkins, who used to play for you at the Daisy Chain? You can’t give the old beau a lift?” “It wouldn’t stop with you,” was the reply. “It wouldn’t stop with you, Rosy.” “I’m but the advance guard, eh?” “That’s it.” Rosy Larkins appeared to get upon his feet with difficulty. He looked down at Claude Lamont and seemed to study him a minute. “Then I’ll have to sell it,” said he. In spite of himself the millionaire’s son lost a little color. “You’ll have to sell what?” he asked. “What I know!” “See here, that’s an old game,” cried Claude. “It’s a rascal’s last resort. You can’t blackmail me.” “But I can sell what I know--to the police.” “You don’t know anything.” “Do you dare me?” “Yes.” “All right.” Larkins crossed the room, but stopped at the door, the knob of which he held in his hand. “You wasn’t in the old place that night? Oh, no. You wasn’t in Hell’s Kitchen a few nights ago? You never go to such a disreputable place? Certainly not. The son of Perry Lamont never goes to such places. Why, of course he doesn’t. Hell’s Kitchen? Why, there’s where Mother Flintstone lived--and died, I believe.” Claude said nothing. He looked as if his tongue had become riveted to his palate; his eyes seemed to bulge from his head, and his hand dropped from the table at his right.