Harry, and shoved his face within an inch of the other's.

"You close yer jaw," he snarled, "or I'll make yer map look like wot's
goin' ter happen ter dat cross-eyed snitch of a guy dat did me--him an'
de harness bull, when I--" The Flopper stopped abruptly, and edged away
from Pale Face Harry. "Hullo, Doc," he said meekly. "I didn't hear youse
comin' in."

A man, fair-haired, broad-shouldered, immaculate in well-tailored
tweeds, reliant in poise, leaned nonchalantly against the door--inside
the room. He was young, not more than twenty-eight, with clean-shaven,
pleasant, open face--a handsome face, marred only to the close observer
by the wrinkles beginning to pucker around his eyes, and a slight,
scarcely discernible puffiness in his skin--"Doc" Madison, gentleman
crook and high-class, polished con-man, who had lifted his profession to
an art, was still too young to be indelibly stamped with the hall-marks
of dissipation.

His gray eyes travelled from one to another, lingered an instant on
Helena, and came back to the Flopper.

"What's the trouble?" he demanded quietly.

It was Pale Face Harry who answered him.

"The Flopper's got it in for a couple of ginks that handed him one--a
bull and a chauffeur on a gape-wagon," he grinned, punctuating his words
with a cough. "The Flopper's got an idea the corpse-preserver's business
is dull, and he's going to help 'em out with two orders and pay for the
flowers himself."