“Art—hell!” sneered Clancy; and then he laughed coarsely, as, his fingers prodding under the miscellany of articles on the table, he suddenly held up a hypodermic syringe. “This is your art, my bucko! Why, you poor boob, don’t you think I know you! Cocaine’s the one thing on earth you live for. You’re stewed to the eyes with it now. Here, just watch me! Suppose”—he caught the syringe in a quick grip between the fingers of both hands—“suppose I just put this little toy out of commission now, and—”
With a shrill screech, Smarlinghue sprang from his chair, and clawed like a demented man at the other’s hands for possession of the hypodermic.
Clancy surrendered the syringe with a mocking grin, and shoved Smarlinghue backward into his chair again.
“Oh, yes; you’re an artist all right—a coke artist!” he remarked coolly. “But that’s what makes you solid in every den in New York, and that’s how you come in useful—to me. Well, what do you say?”
There was a hunted look in Smarlinghue’s eyes.
“They’d—they’d kill me,” he said huskily.
“Sure, they would!” agreed Clancy easily. “If they found you out it would be good-night, all right—that’s what you’re getting paid for. But”—his voice hardened—“if you don’t come across, I’ll tell you what I’ll do to you. I’ll—”
“You can’t do anything! Not a thing!” Smarlinghue cried wildly. “You haven’t anything on me at all. I’ve never done a thing, not a single—”
“Oh, I guess there’s enough to make you sweat,” Clancy cut in brutally. “You give me the icy paw, and I’ll see that the tip leaks out from the right quarters that you are a stool pigeon. That’ll take care of your finish, too, won’t it—good and plenty!”
Smarlinghue stared miserably. Again and again his tongue circled his lips. Twice he tried to speak—and only succeeded in mumbling inarticulately.