The rosy-cheeked youth stood up, too. The revolver glistened in his hand and he went swiftly to Shane, patted his pockets, his hips, felt under his arms. He finished, stepped back a pace.
Shane took out the blue case, took out a cigar and lighted it.
It was silent except for the choked sobbing of the little Eastman man.
Nick came suddenly forward, took Shane by the shoulder, shook him. Nick said: “You answer Pedro when he asks you a question.”
Shane turned slowly and frowned at Nick. He looked down at Nick’s hand on his shoulder, said slowly: “Take your hand off me, you you son of a bitch!” He looked back at Pedro. “Ask Nick where he went tonight.”
Pedro jerked his head impatiently.
Shane took the cigar out of his mouth, said: “Did you know that Thelma — downstairs — is Nick’s gal?” He hesitated a moment, glanced swiftly at Nick. “an’ did you know that Charley’s been playing around with her?”
Pedro was staring at Nick. His mouth was a little open.
Shane went on: “Nick knew it...”
He whirled suddenly and smashed his left fist down hard on Nick’s broad forearm, grabbed for the automatic with his right hand. The automatic fell, clattered on the floor. Shane and Nick and the rosy-cheeked young man all dived for it, but the young man was a little faster; he stood up grinning widely, murderously — a gun in each hand.