He lurched toward the swinging doors. The boots retreated suddenly. He pushed his way through, and stood surveying the old-time familiar surroundings owlishly. The man with the brown cap was leaning against the bar close to the door; a half dozen others were ranged farther down along its length; and at its lower end, lounging against the wall of the little private office, was a squat, paunchy man with a bald head, and florid face, and keen gray eyes under enormously bushy gray eyebrows. It was Kelly, just as Kelly used to be—even to the massive gold watch chain stretched across the vest, with the massive gold fraternity emblem dangling down from the center.
“'Ello, Kelly!” Dave Henderson called out effusively, and made rapid, though somewhat erratic progress across the room to Kelly's side. “Glad t'see you, ol' boy!” He gave Kelly no chance to say anything. He caught Kelly's hand, and pumped it up and down. “Sure, you know me! Dave Henderson—ol' days at the track, eh? Been away on a vacation. Come back—broke.” His voice took on a drunkenly confidential tone—that could be heard everywhere in the saloon, “Shay, could I see you a minute in private?”
A man at the bar laughed. Dave Henderson wheeled belligerently. Kelly intervened.
Perplexity, mingling with surprise and disapproval, stamped Kelly's florid face.
“Yes, I know you well enough; but I didn't expect to see you like this, Dave!” he said shortly. He jerked his hand toward the door of the private office. “I'll talk to you in there.”
Dave Henderson entered the office.
Kelly shut the door behind them.
“You're drunk!” he said sternly.
Dave Henderson shook his head.
“No,” he said quietly. “I'm followed. Do you think I'm a fool, John? Did you ever see me drunk? They're shadowing me, that's all; and I had to get my money from you, and keep your skirts clean, and spot the shadow, all at the same time.”