With a shrill screech, Smarlinghue sprang from his chair, and clawed
like a demented man at the other's hands for possession of the
hypodermic.

Clancy surrendered the syringe with a mocking grin, and shoved
Smarlinghue backward into his chair again.

"Oh, yes; you're an artist all right--a coke artist!" he remarked
coolly. "But that's what makes you solid in every den in New York, and
that's how you come in useful--to me. Well, what do you say?"

There was a hunted look in Smarlinghue's eyes.

"They'd--they'd kill me," he said huskily.

"Sure, they would!" agreed Clancy easily. "If they found you out it
would be good-night, all right--that's what you're getting paid for.
But"--his voice hardened--"if you don't come across, I'll tell you what
_I'll_ do to you. I'll--"

"You can't do anything! Not a thing!" Smarlinghue cried wildly. "You
haven't anything on me at all. I've never done a thing, not a single--"

"Oh, I guess there's enough to make you sweat," Clancy cut in brutally.
"You give me the icy paw, and I'll see that the tip leaks out from the
right quarters that you _are_ a stool pigeon. That'll take care of your
finish, too, won't it--good and plenty!"

Smarlinghue stared miserably. Again and again his tongue circled his