lay plainly before him. Betty had sent Hansen, dressed manifestly for the
festival, to gloat over Vic in Lorrimer's place. He was at it already.

"All turned out for the dance, Blondy, eh? Takin' a girl?"

"Betty Neal," answered Blondy.

"The hell you are!" inquired Lorrimer, mildly astonished. "I thought--why,
Vic's back in town, don't you know that?"

"He ain't got a mortgage on what she does."

Then, guided by the side-glance of Lorrimer, Hansen saw Gregg, and he
stiffened. As for Vic, he perceived the last link in his chain of evidence.
Hansen was going to a dance, and yet he wore a gun, and there could be only
one meaning in that: Betty had sent him down there to wind up the affair.

"Didn't see you, Vic," Blondy was saying, his flushed face seeming doubly
red against the paleness of his hair. "Have something?"

"I ain't drinkin'," answered Gregg, and slowly, to make sure that no one
could miss his meaning, he poured out a glass of liquor, and drank it with
his face towards Hansen. When he put his glass down his mind was clearer
than ever; and with omniscient precision, with nerveless calm, he knew that
he was going to kill Blondy Hansen; knew exactly where the bullet would
strike. It was something put behind him; his mind had already seen Hansen
fall, and he smiled.

Dead silence had fallen over the room, and in the silence Gregg heard a
muffled, ticking sound, the beating of his heart; heard old Lew Perkins as