Thomas steeled his arms.

With one hand he pulled the roll collar away from the man's neck and with the other sought for the string: sought in vain.

The light, the four drab walls, the haze of tobacco smoke, all turned red.
"Where is it, you dog?
Quick!" Thomas shook the man.

"Where is it?
Quick, or I'll throttle you!" "Lemme 'lone!" Jameson sagged toward the table again.
Thomas bent him back ruthlessly and plunged a hand into the inside pocket of the man's coat.

The touch of the chamois-bag burned like fire.