d the rear entrance. Monty swung the light about, but the other
threw on an electric switch. He stood by the iron portal a fiendish
smirk on his distorted features.

"So, my luck is good after all: I've got you where I most want you!" His
weapon covered Shirley's. "I shoot as well with my left hand as with
my right. But, no, I won't shoot you. I'll put you away without a
trace left. That is always the clever way. I told you that the average
criminal was too careless about little things. Good-bye, Mr. Montague
Shirley, I wish you a pleasant journey!"

His hand, bleeding from the bullet wound, was pushing the iron door,
behind him as he faced Shirley. Suddenly a frightful sound broke the
stillness: it was the final exhalation of air from the dead man's lungs.
It sent a creeping chill through Shirley's blood. Warren's right hand
dropped, nervously for an instant, despite his resolution. In that
second Shirley had brought his own weapon up to a level with the other's
eyes.

The door closed with a clang!

Warren's face lost its sneering smile. He was locked in from the rear!

"Now, let's see you get out the front way," retorted the criminologist.
He had one hand behind him. He felt a metal contrivance, With three
buttons on it. He thought perhaps it were the controlling switch for
the lights. He would take his chances in the dark. He pressed all three
quickly.

There was a clang from the front, as some mechanism whirred for an
instant. A gong sounded above, and scurrying feet could be heard--then
were audible no more. It was the warning alarm for the gangsters: they
had fled.

Suddenly to Shirley's straining ears came the tick-ticking of an alarm
clock, from the corner of the room to his right. He dare not look at it.
Warren's eyes grew black with the Great Fear!

"You fool, you've locked all the entrances, and sent the men away. That
clock will ring in exactly five minutes. When it does, this place will
go up from a load of lyddite. You've dug your own grave!"

Warren's voice was hoarse, and his bright eyes radiated venomously, as
he kept his weapon pointed, like Shirley's, at the face opposite. They
were both prisoners in the death cellar, with the advantage in favor of
neither!

And the ticking clock, with its maddening, mechanical death chant
seemed to Shirley to cry, with each beat, like the reminiscence of some
nightmare barbershop: "Next! Next! Next!"

CHAPTER XXIII. CAPTURED AND THEN

Warren's