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 contested McGlade, with his alcoholic peevish obstinacy.

"Well, let 's have it now," placated the patient-eyed Blake. He waited, with a show of indifference. He even overlooked Dusty's curt laugh of contempt.

"I can tell you all right, all right—but it won't do you much good!"

"Why not?" And still Blake was bland and patient.

"Because," retorted McGlade, fixing the other man with a lean finger that was both unclean and unsteady, "you can't get at him!"

"You tell me where he is," said Blake, striking a match. "I 'll attend to the rest of it!"

McGlade slowly and deliberately drank the last of his swizzle. Then he put down his empty glass and stared pensively and pregnantly into it.

"What's there in it for me?" he asked.

Blake, studying him across the small table, weighed both the man and the situation.

"Two hundred dollars in American