"All serene," declared Greasy, this little ceremony over. "Then tomorrow, here, at eleven, if that suits you, I'll let you know whether you can count me in on the—say, what'll we call this thing, anyway?"
Welland smiled.
"The republic," he suggested.
The gangster grinned back.
"That's it—whether you can count me in on the republic."
And they parted.
As the gunman went down the stairs, a man waiting at the foot shrank into a corner to escape his observation. Greasy passed out without seeing him, and the man resumed his post at the foot of the stairs, his eyes on the door of the room where Welland still sat.
II
Six men sat 'round a table in a private room of the Eagle dance-hall, one of Prospect's leading places of entertainment. The door was locked on the inside. Through the flimsy walls the blare of a brass band, shouts, shrieks and laughter rolled into the room from below, and an occasional outburst of firing told of gentlemen exchanging compliments in the street outside.
At the head of the table Greasy Jones presided. His companions were his 'trusty lieutenants,' the leading members of his gang.