"Why did you come out, Jim—why?" Moira pleaded, wringing her fingers and staring from one to the other.
But Jim Horton didn't even hear her. His gaze was fixed steadily on Barry Quinlevin, who had shrugged himself back into self-possession and was smiling up at the intruder as though in appreciation of an admirable joke.
"We'd better have this thing out—you and I," said Jim, coolly, eliminating Harry from the discussion.
"By all means," said Quinlevin. "And I'm glad ye know a real enemy when ye see one."
"You've hardly left any doubt about that. There's not much to say, except that you're not going to drag Moira into this dirty business with the Duc. Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly—but ye'll hardly be less perspicuous if the muzzle of the revolver is twisted a bit to one side. It's a hair trigger—thanks. As you were saying——"
"I won't waste words. I gave Harry his warning. Instead of heeding it, he hired a pair of thugs to put me out of business. But I'll take no chances for the future. I'm in no mood to die just yet."
"I like yer nerve, Jim Horton. I may add, it suffers no disadvantage in comparison to yer twin brother." He shrugged and folded his arms. "Well. Ye seem to have turned the odd tricks—the ace of clubs—the ace of hearts. Now what are ye going to be doing with us all entirely?"
"I told Harry what I'd do, and I'll repeat it now. Drop this affair of the Duc de Vautrin—without dragging Moira through the dirty mess, and I quit—leaving Harry with his rank and honors."
"And if I refuse——?"