There was something too stupendous to be simply ironical in the incongruity of it.

If--if he were ever run to earth! His eyes met those of a heavy-built, coarse-featured man, the chewed end of a cigar in his mouth, who stepped from behind the bar, carrying a tin tray with two full glasses upon it.

It was Bristol Bob, ex-pugilist, the proprietor.
"How're you, Larry ?" grunted the man, with what he meant to be a smile.
Jimmie Dale was standing in the doorway of a passage that prefaced a rear exit to the lane.

He moved aside to allow the other to pass.
"'Ello, Bristol," he returned dispassionately.
Bristol Bob went on along down the passage, and Jimmie Dale shuffled slowly after him.

He had intended to leave the place by the rear door--it obviated the possibility of an undesirable acquaintance joining company with him if he went out by the main entrance.