“Listen,” said Fay, still swinging his cane: “I came here to see Charley O’Mara’s daughter. I want to see her quick! I can’t stay around here. It’s no place—”
“Aw, cut that kid-glove stuff. What d’ye think we are—stools?”
“I want to see Charley’s daughter—Emily!”
“You can’t!”
“What have you done with her?”
“I aint done nothin’. She lives right here.”
Fay hung his cane on a chair, removed his hat, turned, backed against the poker-table and fastened upon the Dropper a glance of white fire.
“Tell that girl to come to me.”
“Well, who the hell are you orderin’ around?”
“Go! Get—that—girl!”