Crow, of the vicious eyes and the hawk-like nose and the large, brutal hands, alone seemed undismayed.
The negro, having waited just sufficiently long to watch the sensation caused by Westerham's entrance, had slipped out of the club-room on silent feet.
Crow, in a quick, hard voice, cried, “The door!”
Instantly, as though their stations had by previous arrangements been allotted them—as was indeed the case—two men jumped from their seats and put their backs against the door. As they stood there they drew their knives, and on taking a step forward Westerham found himself cut off from retreat and facing the angry eyes of quite a score of men.
Two of them had pulled out revolvers, but Crow caught their action with quick and angry eyes.
“Don't be fools,” he said; “put those barkers away. We want no noise down here.”
Sullenly the men obeyed.
“Come to the table, Mr. Robinson,” said Crow, in a manner which suggested he had no doubt that his instructions would be followed, “and explain what this intrusion means.”
Westerham laughed and drew away from the men with the knives. He walked easily down to the table to the place which had been vacated by the bullet-headed man, and without so much as a word of apology took that plump and furious person's seat.
He looked easily and almost lazily along the lines of vicious faces until his gaze finally rested on Crow.