“Here,” he bellowed to some of his servitors, “take this damn hell-cat out of here. Take her up to the hotel. If she won’t go to bed, throw her into the street.”
“You—you—” gasped the girl, struggling to her feet.
“Don’t talk back to me,” roared Anson, “or I’ll kill you. I’ll show you what you are and who’s running this place.” Then to the waiters: “Get her out of here.”
The girl was dragged out of the room, screaming and fighting. A wisp of curses came back into the big room as she was lugged up the stairs towards the hotel.
Anson stood panting with anger. A mail carrier entered and placed a letter in his hand. He opened and read:
“Mr. Carter Anson: Take your choice. Close the Cafe Sinister, or I’ll see that it is closed. Mary Randall.”
The big man flushed crimson with rage. He tried to speak, but the words choked in his throat. He crumpled the letter and hurled it with a curse across the room.
“Druce,” he bellowed.
Druce hurried across the room.
“Did you see that?”