The Silver Scourge

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THE lobby of the old Hotel Spartan had more than its usual quota of loungers tonight. Cliff Marsland noted that fact as he sat in one of the broken-down easy-chairs, and carelessly studied the faces of the others who were present.

To Cliff Marsland, it was evident that crime was brewing. A man of keen intuition, Cliff could scent such indications. His business here was to watch for them. A week’s residence in this dilapidated hotel had finally brought results.

The loungers in the lobby could see Cliff Marsland as well as he could see them, but his presence excited no comment on their part. They took Cliff for what he pretended to be — a mobster de luxe, one who was in the money.

Cliff Marsland’s face was different from the usual gangland physiognomy. He possessed firm and well-molded features. His light hair and flashing blue eyes gave him the look of an athlete rather than a gangster.

It was Cliff’s square jaw and his poker-face expression which earned him the respect of the hoodlums who frequented this place. Cliff Marsland looked dangerous, and he minded his own business. Those two qualities placed him among gangdom’s elite.

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