blackmailing crook."

Cunningham was past fifty-five and his hair was streaked with gray.
But he stood straight as an Indian, six feet in his socks. The sap of
strength still rang strong in him. In the days when he had ridden the
range he had been famous for his stamina and he was even yet a
formidable two-fisted fighter.

But Hull was beyond prudence. "I'll go when I get ready, an' I'll come
back when I get ready," he boasted.

There came a soft thud of a hard fist on fat flesh, the crash of a
heavy bulk against the door. After that things moved fast. Hull's
body reacted to the pain of smashing blows falling swift and sure.
Before he knew what had taken place he was on the landing outside on
his way to the stairs. He hit the treads hard and rolled on down.

A man coming upstairs helped him to his feet.

"What's up?" the man asked.

Hull glared at him, for the moment speechless. His eyes were venomous,
his mouth a thin, cruel slit. He pushed the newcomer aside, opened the
door of the apartment opposite, went in, and slammed it after him.

The man who had assisted him to rise was dark and immaculately dressed.

"I judge Uncle James has been exercising," he murmured before he took
the next flight of stairs.