"Let's get out of this hole," he said to Lindsay in a low voice. "I
don't like it."

"Suits me," agreed the other.

As Bromfield was cashing his chips Clay came rigidly to attention. Two
men had just come into the room. One of them was "Slim" Jim Collins,
the other Gorilla Dave. As yet they had not seen him. He did not look
at them, but at his host. There was a question in his mind he wanted
solved. The clubman's gaze passed over both the newcomers without the
least sign of recognition.

"I didn't know what this joint was like or I'd never have brought you,"
apologized Clarendon. "A friend of mine told me about it. He's got a
queer fancy if he likes this frazzled dive."

Clay acquitted Bromfield of conspiracy. He must have been tailed here
by Durand's men. His host had nothing to do with it. What for? They
could not openly attack him.

"Slim" Jim's eyes fell on him. He nudged Dave. Both of them, standing
near the entrance, watched Lindsay steadily.

Some one outside the door raised the cry, "The bulls are comin'."

Instantly the room leaped to frenzied excitement. Men dived for the
doors, bets forgotten and chips scattered over the floor. Chairs were
smashed as they charged over them, tables overturned. The unwary were
trodden underfoot.