It came to Macklin for the fraction of a second that he was being mocked, but he instantly dismissed the foolish thought.  Even the rough fellows must be able to recognize a man when they saw one.

“The point is,” went on Ronicky gently, “that my friend is very eager for important reasons to see this lady, to find her.  And he doesn’t even know her name.”  Here his careful grammar gave out with a crash.  “You can’t beat a deal like that, eh, Macklin?  If you can remember anything about her, her name first, then, where she was bound, who was with her, how tall she is, the color of her eyes, we’d be glad to know anything you know.  What can you do for us?”

Macklin cleared his throat thoughtfully.  “Gentlemen,” he said gravely, “if I knew the purpose for which you are seeking the lady I—­”

“The purpose ain’t to kidnap her, if that’s your drift,” said Ronicky.  “We ain’t going to treat her wrong, partner.  Out in our part of the land they don’t do it.  Just shake up your thoughts and see if something about that girl doesn’t pop right into your head.”

Robert Macklin smiled and carefully shook his head.  “It seems to be impossible for me to remember a thing,” he asserted.

“Not even the color of her eyes?” asked Ronicky, as he grinned.  He went on more gravely:  “I’m pretty dead sure that you do remember something about her.”

There was just the shade of a threat in the voice of this slender youngster, and Robert Macklin had been an amateur pugilist of much brawn and a good deal of boxing skill.  He cast a wary eye on Ronicky; one punch would settle that fellow.  The man Gregg might be a harder nut to crack, but it would not take long to finish them both.  Robert Macklin thrust his shoulders forward.

“Friends,” he said gruffly, “I don’t have much time off.  This is my day for rest.  I have to say good-by.”

Ronicky Doone stood up with a yawn.  “I thought so,” he said to his companion.  “Mind the door, Gregg, and see that nobody steps in and busts up my little party.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Going to argue with this gent in a way he’ll understand a pile better than the chatter we’ve been making so far.”  He stepped a long light pace forward.  “Macklin, you know what we want to find out.  Will you talk?”

A cloud of red gathered before the eyes of Macklin.  It was impossible that he must believe his ears, and yet the words still rang there.

“Why, curse your little rat-face!” burst out Robert Macklin, and, stepping in, he leaned forward with a perfect straight left.

Certainly his long vacation from boxing had not ruined his eye or stiffened his muscles.  With delight he felt all the big sinews about his shoulders come into play.  Straight and true the big fist drove into the face of the smaller man, but Robert Macklin found that he had punched a hole in thin air.  It was as if the very wind of the blow had brushed the head of Ronicky Doone to one side, and at the same time he seemed to sway and stagger forward.