Square-Face. "Pipe down, you!" snapped his companion from the driver's seat. "Let the boss do the talking to this egg." "Your boss likes to do the talking, I judge," put in Gascon, still casually. "Do you like to listen? Or," and his voice took on a mocking note, "does he give you the creeps?" "Never mind," Square-Face muttered. "He's doing okay." "But not his followers," suggested Gascon. "Quite a few of them have been killed, eh? And aren't you two the only survivors of the old Dilson crowd? How long will your luck hold out, I wonder?" "Longer than yours," replied the man at the wheel sharply. "If you talk any more, we'll put the slug on you." The remainder of the ride was passed in silence, and the car drew up at length before a quiet suburban cottage, on the edge of town almost directly opposite the scene of the recent fight between police and the Salters. The three entered a dingy parlor, full of respectable looking furniture. "Keep him here," Triangle-Face bade Square-Face. "I'll go help the boss get ready to talk to him." He was gone. His words suggested that there would be some moments alone with Square-Face, and Gascon meant to make use of them. The big fellow sat down. "Take a chair," he bade, but Gascon shook his head and lighted another cigarette. He narrowed his eyes, in his best diagnostician manner, to study his guard. "You look as if there was something wrong with your glands," he said crisply. "Ain't nothing wrong with me," was the harsh response. "Are you sure? How do you feel?" "Good enough to pull a leg off of you if you don't shut that big mouth." Gascon shrugged, and turned to a rear wall. A picture hung there, a very unsightly oil painting. He put his hand up, as if to straighten it on its hook. Then he glanced toward a window, letting his eyes dilate. "Ahhhh!" he said softly. Up jumped the gangster, gun flashing into view. "What did you say?" he demanded. "I just said 'Ahhhh,'" replied Gascon, his eyes fixed on the window. "If anybody's followed you here—" The giant broke
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