The detective poured the liquor into a cuspidor when the bartender’s back was turned. It was vile stuff, and he would not have drunk it unless he had been forced to do so by dire expediency.
After placing the glass back on the bar he walked into the back room and sat down. He picked up a copy of a sporting weekly and pretended to be deeply interested in examining the text and pictures.
But while he seemed to be reading, his eyes were wandering about the room, and every person who entered the barroom he scrutinized closely.
He was waiting for some one.
Was that some one Brockey?
Half an hour passed.
Carter had not stirred out of his chair.
The side door opened.
A man entered.
The man was Brockey Gann.