"Only," continued Jaro coldly, "I'm not ready to be bought off. I think I'll deal myself a hand in this game."
Mr. Peet's face fell. "You won't reconsider?"
"Sorry," said Jaro; "but I've got a date. I'm late now." He started to leave.
"Stanley!" called Albert Peet.
The pale-faced young man appeared in the doorway, the dart gun in his good hand. Jaro Moynahan dropped on his face, jerking out his slug gun as he fell. There was a tiny plop like a cap exploding. He heard the whisper of the poisoned dart as it passed overhead. Then he fired from the floor. The pale-faced young man crumpled like an empty sack.
Jaro got up, keeping an eye on Albert Peet, brushed off his knees.
"You've killed him," said Peet. "If I were you, Mr. Moynahan, I would be on the next liner back to Earth."
Without answering, Jaro backed watchfully from the room.
Once Jaro Moynahan had regained the street, he mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. Whatever was going on, these boys played for keeps. Warily he started down the passage toward the native quarter. At the first basement grog shop he turned in. His eyes swept the chamber, then he grinned.