Gangdom's Doom

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TWO MEN sat facing each other in a luxurious penthouse atop one of the Boulevard’s newer apartment houses. One was pale and nervous. His face twitched as he puffed his cigar with great rapidity. His companion was a sharp contrast. Short, chubby-faced, and calm, he bore the air of a man who seldom became perturbed.

The roar of Chicago’s night traffic seemed far away, yet it disturbed the nervous man. He threw his cigar in an ash stand, and walked to the window. He drew the curtains aside with caution and stared toward the twinkling lights of the Loop. Then he turned to face his companion.

“I’m through with it, Fellows,” he said, “I’m through. I want to get out — if I can. But there’s no getting out of this — “

He swept his hand toward the window, to indicate the city below. His eyes were pleading as he stared at the quiet-faced man in the chair.

Fellows was thoughtful for a few moments; then he spoke with deliberation.

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