"Sure," said Spike, who saw nothing beyond the fact, dimly realized,
that he had said something which had been better left unsaid.

Jimmy chewed the stem of his pipe savagely. Spike's words seemed to
have touched a spring and let loose feelings which he had kept down
for three years. Molly McEachern! So "they" used to say that he was
engaged to Molly. He cursed Spike Mullins in his heart, well-meaning,
blundering Spike, who was now sitting on the edge of his chair drawing
sorrowfully at his cigar and wondering what he had done to give
offense. The years fell away from Jimmy, and he was back in New York,
standing at the corner of Forty-second Street with half an hour to
wait because the fear of missing her had sent him there too early;
sitting in Central Park with her while the squirrels came down and
begged for nuts; walking--Damn Spike! They had been friends. Nothing
more. He had never said a word. Her father had warned her against him.
Old Pat McEachern knew how he got his living, and could have put his
hand on the author of half a dozen burglaries by which the police had
been officially "baffled". That had been his strong point. He had
never left tracks. There was never any evidence. But McEachern knew,
and he had intervened stormily when he came upon them together. And
Molly had stood up for him, till her father had apologized confusedly,
raging inwardly the while at his helplessness. It was after that----

"Mr. Chames," said Spike.

Jimmy's wits returned.

"Hullo?" he said.

"Mr. Chames, what's doing here? Put me next to de game. Is it de old