"Sailors' boarding-house, isn't it?" panted Rogers. "Hide me and ship me! I've been to sea. North America's too hot for me."
"Yes," responded the proprietor, with quick comprehension. "Into that back room and up the stairs. Hide anywhere. I'll stall the police."
But before Rogers could reach the back room Benson burst in, his blue eyes flashing with excitement, and in his hand a revolver as large and heavy as Quincy's.
"Hold on, Bill!" he snapped. "Hands up! I've got a bead on you!"
Rogers halted and turned, his hands over his head and his features drooping in despair. Benson, still covering him, advanced and laid hold of his collar. Then in burst Quincy, also with drawn revolver.
"Got him, have you? Good enough! I'll take him."
"Oh, no, you won't," answered Benson. "He's mine. Possession's nine points of the law, you say." With his hand still on Rogers's collar he covered Quincy with his weapon.
Quincy had not raised his; and he stood still, leaning forward, his pistol pointed to the floor, while he glared at Benson.
"Now, then, stop this!" said the proprietor, sternly, as he leveled a bright, nickel-plated revolver at Benson. "Lower that gun—quick! Lower it—"
Benson saw out of the corner of his eye, and slowly lowered the pistol.