The Spider’s cab, swinging into the alley, stopped directly beneath the lower extension of the fire-escape.  “Pull over closer to the wall,” he told the driver.  Then he climbed to the driver’s seat and stepped onto the iron ladder.  “You can drive round to the front and wait,” he told the cabby, who lost no time in getting out of the alley.  Like most nocturnal cabmen, he was quite willing to drive anywhere; but he sincerely preferred to do his waiting for his fare in a more open street.

The window at the rear end of the hall was fastened.  The Spider broke the glass just below the catch with the butt of his gun.  He raised the window and slid into the hallway.

“Who dat?” came from the lavatory.

“It’s me, Sam,” said The Spider thickly, imitating the voice of a man overcome by drink.  “I cut my hand on the window.  Want to get in—­wash up—­blood—­”

“I ask Misto Baxtuh, suh.”

“Lemme in—­quick—­or you lose a five-spot.  Bleeding bad—­want to wash up—­”

The spring lock clicked softly.  Before Sam knew what had happened, The Spider was in the lavatory and between him and the door to the main room.  “Get going,” said The Spider.  The amazed negro backed away from that eloquent menace in The Spider’s right hand.  “M-m-m-misto—­misto—­Captain—­ Ah ain’t done nuffin!”

“Git!”—­and The Spider indicated the rear window.

The negro backed into the hall, saw the open window, and vanished through it without parley.  He dropped from the last step of the fire-escape and picking himself up started to run, with no definite destination in mind save space.

As Baxter had said, things were quiet that night.  The poker table had been deserted and the players had left.  A few “regulars” still hung about the faro layout and the wheel.  The hired “bouncer” had stepped into the office to speak to Baxter.  It was past twelve.  There were no strangers present save the four roughly dressed men.  Baxter was just telling the bouncer that he knew them, and that he surmised they were after a certain party, but that that party would not be back there.  As he talked Baxter stepped to the outer door and locked it.  It was too late to expect any worth-while business.

The Spider, who was in reality looking for Baxter, whom he suspected of trickery, opened the lavatory door far enough to see into the main room.  In a flash he had placed three of the four men who “wanted” him.

White-Eye and Longtree were standing near a player at the faro table, evidently interested for the moment in the play.  Near White-Eye, Pino was rolling a cigarette.  Beyond them, at the next table, stood a man with a deformed shoulder—­and The Spider recognized Gary of the T-Bar-T, watching the few players at the wheel. . . .  A film of cigar smoke eddied round the lamps above the tables.  Presently the players at the faro table rose and left.  The dealer put away his cases.  The lookout yawned and took off his green eye-shade.  The man with the deformed shoulder and his companion were moving toward White-Eye when The Spider slipped through the doorway and sidled toward the middle of the room.  His hat was pushed back.  He fumbled at his tie with his right hand.  “White-Eye!” he called.