Rieley was watching him closely this evening, so intently, indeed, that the stranger, with a look of annoyance, swept the chips into his hat and stepping up to the banker cashed them in and walked out of the room.  As he emerged from the door he came in violent contact with a man just entering.

“I beg your pardon.”

“Not at—­by Jove!  Moriarity, you here too?”

“Blest if it isn’t Jim!”

“Hush! you fool, speak lower.”

“Been up bucking the tiger?”

“I’ve been making a damned fool of myself.  Rieley watched me too close for comfort, and I am going to vamoose.”

“When?”

“None of your business.  I want you to come with me to-night.  I must see Cook.”

“Don’t do it, Jim.  Pinkerton’s men are as thick as blackberries.  You will run into one of them if you don’t lay low.

“No danger for me.  One of them has a room next to mine at the hotel, and I played billiards with him this afternoon.”

“You’re a cool one, Jim.  Too cool.  It will get you into trouble yet.”

“Damn your croaking, man.  Do you show the white feather now?”

“Not I. I only warned you.”

“Well, put a clapper to your jaw, and come along.”

Boarding a street car, the men stood on the front platform smoking during the long ride to the terminus of the road.

Leaving the car, they plunged through the darkness over the same path trod by the tramp earlier in the afternoon.

The dark form of the distillery loomed up ahead of them, gloomy and lonesome.

Overhead not a star was to be seen, and save an occasional drunkard staggering home, the two men were alone on the road.

A short distance beyond the distillery the cooper-shop squatted beside the street, and the dim flicker of a candle cast its pitiful light through the dirt-encrusted window.

As Moriarity and Cummings stepped from the shadow of the distillery, an indistinct form stole behind them, and keeping just within sight, followed the two men as they wended their lonely way to Cook’s shop.

Disdaining all attempts at concealment, Cummings rapped loudly on the door.

The sound of clinking glasses was heard, and a voice, heavy and thick, growled out, “Come in.”

A vigorous shove opened the door, and Cummings was about to step inside, but at the sight of another man, a ragged tramp, drinking with Cook, he stopped short.

“Come in, b’hoy, come in; d-d-don’t keep the d-d-door open; come right in,” stuttered Cook, too drunk to speak intelligibly.

The tramp, elevating his glass above his head, with an inviting gesture, shouted the words of the old drinking song: 

    “Drink, puppy, drink, let every puppy drink
        That’s old enough to stand and to swallow. 
      For we’ll pass the bottle round, when we’ve become a hound,
        And merrily we’ll drink and we’ll hallo.”