Then, as if a thought had struck him all of a heap, he whirled about to fix his fiery eyes on Drew Lane and to remark in a tone as smooth and hard as glass:
“You got that.”
“Sure did.” Sliding back his chair, Drew stood up, thrust both hands deep in his pockets, then with a trick he had learned by long practice, threw out the lapel of his coat to display his star pinned underneath.
He said never another word—just stood there smiling a little. What more was to be said? The man had carried concealed weapons. This he had no right to do. As an officer Drew was doing his duty.
The little man’s face went red all over, like an angry sunset. His eyes swept the circle of his companions and, as if attached to strings held in his hand, they arose—the three all alike, the big man, his son and the other two.
Drew Lane was young. But he was no novice. He knew what it meant. He was prepared.
“Gentlemen,” he spoke in an even tone, “you can take me. You are eight to one. But I’ll get two of you first.” His eyes fell a trifle.
There was not a man in the group but read his meaning. In his pockets were two automatics. Time and again he had won the police prize for straight shooting from the hips. One false move and a member of the little man’s gang would get a bullet in his heart or his brain. Drew was good for exactly two of them.
It was a tense moment. Perhaps the glittering eyes of that little man had never wavered. Perhaps they would not have wavered now. Who could say? No one. For at that instant the lights went out, and on the instant, save for the feeble light of one small window, the place was dark.
A deep silence fell upon the room. Without realizing it, Drew began counting under his breath: “One, two, three, four, five, six.” Perhaps he was counting the seconds before things began to happen. Keeping a tight grip with either hand on the things of blue steel in his pockets, he waited, silent, breathless.