“WHAT the hell is this?”
Henri Robaire, partner of the firm of Shebatsky and Robaire, let the mat fall behind him and stood—six feet in his fur boots, and broad in proportion in his sable coat. He was flushed from the bite of the wind in the higher altitudes, and his caravan had arrived in the alley the moment the native was knifed.
“White devil killum Lascar, you bet!” chattered Fen Shi, pointing to the stained knife that lay on the table. “Stop along guard house velly long time. Maybe stop along grave!”
The cold eyes of the big merchant watched the dying spasm of the native, traveled indifferently over the smiling Lanahan, and came to rest on Gordon.
“Ah, United States! Heard you were here. Out of a job, eh? That’s good. I have some business for you. Shebatsky’s frosted to his vitals
