“Now put that down at once, Jim, and clear out of my rooms,” he cried, and Jannaway found himself looking down the plated barrel of a serviceable-looking Smith-Wesson revolver.
“Curse you!” cried the man, and he cast the ornament heavily upon the floor.
“My dear Jim,” said the other, “the best place for you would really be on the Continent. You would learn wisdom, and would never attempt a bluff on a pal like this. You can’t attempt a four-flush with me, you know. So first go back to the ‘Birthday Money-Spinner’ and tell him ‘Red Mullet’s’ decision is to remain in London, and if necessary—to tell Scotland Yard the tale!”
“But—”
“Curse you! There are no buts!” cried Red Mullet, his eyes now flashing with anger while he held his revolver straight at his enemy’s head. “Out of my rooms with you, or by Gad! I’ll plug you! I see through your clever little game. Once I’m over there, then you’d send me to prison without the least compunction—because I let the girl slip through your blackguardly fingers. But no more gas. I mean business to-night. Out you go—and quick!”
“You wouldn’t say this if I had a gun!” remarked Jannaway between his teeth.
“I care less for your gun than I do for you, my dear boy,” laughed “Red Mullet;” “go back to Challas, and tell him that to-night he’s tried to bluff the wrong man, and that he’ll have to pay heavily for losing the game.”
“You talk like an idiot.”
“And you’ve acted as one. Out and begone!”
And the man who, when he had entered, believed that he held all the honours in the game, was compelled to walk slowly out beneath the threatening muzzle of the weapon, cowed and vanquished.