stranger, sobered him like a deluge of ice-water.

"You've done it this time," he muttered.

"Good God!" Locke cried. "Let's get away! He's hurt!"

"Here, you!" Anthony shot a command at the speaker that checked
him half-way across the room. "Ringold, take the door and don't
let anybody in or out." To Higgins he exclaimed, "You idiot,
didn't you see I had his hands?"

"No. Had to get him," returned Higgins, with vinous dignity.
"Wanted to rob my old friend, Mr.--What's his name?"

"We've got to leave quick before we get in bad," Locke reiterated,
nervously, but Anthony retorted:

"We're in bad now. I want Padden." He stepped to the door and
signaled a passing waiter. A moment later the proprietor knocked,
and Ringold admitted him.

"What's the--" Padden started at sight of the motionless figure on
the floor, and, kneeling beside it, made a quick examination,
while Anthony explained the circumstances leading up to the
assault.

"Thief, eh? I see."

"Is he badly hurt?" queried Locke, bending a pale face upon them.