Her words sobered him. She was right—three men were coming toward his table. He rose with a flourish of dignity.
"Looking for me?" he asked.
"If your name is Starratt, we are," one of the men said, moving up closely.
"What's the idea?"
The spokesman of the group flashed his star. "You're wanted on a bad-check charge."
Fred reached for his hat. "All right… Let's get out quietly."
His brain was perfectly clear, but he staggered a trifle as he followed the men along the edge of the dancing space to the stairway. The music crashed furiously. Fred's associates were giving all their attention to treading the uncertain steps of their tawdry bacchanal, so they missed his exit.
Halfway up the stair leading to the sidewalk Fred was halted by a touch upon his arm. He had forgotten Ginger, but there she stood with that childish, almost wistful, look on her face.
"Say," she demanded, "can I do anything? I've got a pull if I want to use it."
The other three men turned about and waited. The snaky one laughed.
Fred looked at her curiously.