"Did you git me? He's wanting to know why I'm here. Tell him."
"You needn't waste breath. So this is how Mr. James Conlan spends his time. It'll make a fine story...."
Jim's brain was working fast; but he was slow in the uptake in such circumstances as this. The woman had seemed so genuine. Why did she maintain silence? It was a novel experience in his life. All the ways of this strange city were foreign to him.
"A fine story it will make in the press."
"Maybe you wouldn't like this to appear in print?..."
And then Jim saw it all. It was like a story from a magazine. He had never believed those things could be true. But here it was in real life. A frame-up--a dirty piece of blackmail.
The suave voice got no farther than that. He saw six-feet-odd of bone and muscle rear up like a piece of steel and descend on him. A great hard hand caught him by the neck and bounced him up and down the room.
"You swab! You tinhorn! I've manured a potato patch with better stuff, by Gawd! And she's your wife, you dirty trash! She ain't your wife--no, sir. I savvy what she is. Suffering rattlesnakes! I'm waitin' to hear about it. When did you frame to put this over me? Talk up or I'll yank you outer the window into the street."
A resounding slap sounded as a hand like leather met the man's face. Edith screamed.
"We--arranged--it--this afternoon," gasped the man.
Jim flung him to the floor and advanced on the pallid Edith. She retreated before him. He was about to clasp her when a voice rang out.
He swung round to find his late victim brandishing a revolver. An ugly leer crossed his face. He evidently meant business. Jim stared at the revolver.
"Put 'em up or I'll drill you. I can plead the unwritten law. I've got you now, my buck-jumping desperado."
He put up his hands and dropped the handkerchief. He stooped to pick up the latter and, with a lightning movement, caught the edge of the mat and pulled with all his strength. The man, standing on the end of it, came to earth with a crash. Jim flew at him and made for the hand that held the gun. Over and over they went like cats. Then it was that Edith lent a hand--to her confederate. She ran to the dressing-table and took up a small penknife. Jim was leaning over his victim, wresting the gun from his hand, when she reached him. The knife came down twice in his shoulder. The intense pain caused him to drop the gun, but he picked it up again, hurled his inert opponent across the room, and went to Edith. The knife dropped from her fingers as she saw the blood streaming down his white shirtfront.