Through a dirty skylight above another door that probably opened upon a back alley some weak and sickly rays of daylight crept into the room. A single gas jet, suspended from the center of the cracked and smoky ceiling, gave a feeble, flickering light, filling the corners with fluttering shadows. The furniture in the room consisted of a table and a few chairs.
At the table three men were sitting, drinking and smoking. Locke, recovering from the push he had received, stepped back against the closed door, and looked at them.
“Hello!” said Mit Skullen. “Don’t hurry away, Lefty. Folks that come in by that door sometimes go out by the other one.”
He was grinning viciously, triumphantly. The look upon his face was one of satisfaction and brutal anticipation, and amply proclaimed his purpose.
Skullen’s companions were tough characters, fit associates and abettors of such a man. That they were thugs of the lowest type, who would not hesitate at any act of violence, there could be no question. One looked like a prize fighter who had gone to the bad, his drink-inflamed face and bleary eyes advertising the cause of his downfall. The other had the appearance of a “coke” fiend, and the criminally bent habitual user of that drug has neither scruples nor fear of consequences.
Locke regarded them in silence. His pulses were throbbing somewhat faster, yet he was cool and self-possessed, and his brain was keenly active. He knew precisely what he was up against. Slipping one hand behind him, he tried the knob of the door; but, as he had expected, the door held fast.
Skullen continued to grin gloatingly, fancying that Locke’s inactivity was evidence that he was practically paralyzed by amazement and fear.
“Your friend Stillman was too busy to come,” he said, “and so I kept the appointment for him. Maybe I’ll do just as well. Anyhow, I’ll do–for you!”
He had risen to his feet, and the light of the flickering gas jet played over his evil face. Lefty flashed another look around, taking in the surroundings. To his ears came the distant, muffled sound of an elevated train rumbling along the trestle. Behind him, in the front of the saloon, all was still. Probably the door leading to the street was now also locked to prevent any one from entering and hearing any disturbance that might take place in the back room. The jaws of the trap held him fast.
“Oh, it ain’t any use to think about runnin’ away, Lefty,” croaked Mit. “Not a chance in the world. I fixed it so’s we could have our little settlement without any one buttin’ in to bother us. You remember I told you I had a score to settle with you?”