“——that’s the gent to be watchin’, yer honor—ain’t a bad greaser—divil wid a gun, they do be sayin’—some o’ the byes ought to be layin’ fer him some night——”
The swinging doors opened abruptly, silently. A man stood in the entrance, stepped swiftly to one side, and stood there with his dark-glinting eyes, looking about the interior. He was tall, rangy, his skin swarthy of hue; he was coated with dust and perspiration. Despite the high, sharp lines of his features, they were much given to smiling. The hair at his temples was gray, and deep lines were chiseled about lips and eyes.
Galway Mike grabbed a towel and began to mop the bar.
“The top o’ the mornin’ to ye, Miguel Cervantes!” he exclaimed. “What’ll it be now?”
Murphy started slightly, turned, and surveyed the new arrival with insolent eyes.
“Thanks, nothing,” said Cervantes, speaking perfect English—as indeed he ought to, since his ancestors had lived in the county for a hundred years. “I was looking for someone.”
His eyes met those of Murphy. The latter spoke challengingly:
“Meaning me, maybe?”
“No, not you,” and Cervantes smiled, seeming to take no heed of the tone and look. “Another gentleman.”
He turned away as though to leave. The hand of Murphy dropped like a flash.