In the middle of the third block Orde wheeled sharp to the left down
a dark and dangerous-looking alley. Another turn to the right
brought him into a very narrow street. Facing this street stood a
three-story wooden structure, into which led a high-arched entrance
up a broad half-flight of wooden steps. This was McNeill's.
As Orde and his men turned into the narrow street, a figure detached
itself from the shadow and approached. Orde uttered an exclamation.
"You here, Newmark?" he cried.
"Yes," replied that young man. "I want to see this through."
"With those clothes?" marvelled Orde. "It's a wonder some of these
thugs haven't held you up long ago! I'll get Johnny here to go back
with you to the main street."
"No," argued Newmark, "I want to go in with you."
"It's dangerous," explained Orde. "You're likely to get slugged."
"I can stand it if you can," returned Newmark.
"I doubt it," said Orde grimly. "However, it's your funeral. Come
on, if you want to."
McNeill's lower story was given over entirely to drinking. A bar
ran down all one side of the room. Dozens of little tables occupied
the floor. "Pretty waiter-girls" were prepared to serve drinks at
these latter--and to share in them, at a commission.
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