It was ten o'clock now, time that--yes, the game was on--_now!_ A man,
that he recognised as one of the Mole's gunmen, had dropped into a seat
a couple of tables away from Klanner, where there was a clear space
between the two men. There was a sudden jostling among the dancers on
the floor--then an oath, rising high above the riot of talk and
laughter--a swirl of figures--a medley of shouts and women's screams,
drowning out the squeak of the musicians' violins and the thump of the
tinny piano.
Jimmie Dale's jaws locked hard together. There was a struggling,
Furious mob at the lower end of the hall--but his eyes now never left
the gunman two tables away. Klanner, in dazed amazement, had half
risen from his seat, as though uncertain what to do. The screams,
shouts, oaths and yells grew louder--came the roar of a revolver
shot--another--pandemonium was reigning now. It seemed an hour, a great
period of time since the first shout had rung through the hall--it had
been but a matter of seconds. Jimmie Dale was crouched a little forward
in his chair now, tense, motionless. What was holding Hoppy Meggs! This
was Hoppy Meggs' cue, wasn't it?--those shots there, aimed at the floor,
had only been to create the panic--there was to be _another_ shot that--
The hall was in sudden darkness.
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