the spy for the train robbers, and their headquarters are in that
house. The detectives are going to raid it, and I'm in on it. This
certainly is lucky."

He was glad now that he had not waited for Bud.

The three detectives moved slowly down the street, The policeman stood
on the corner holding his man, waiting for the patrol wagon.

The scene was vividly impressed on Ted's mind, for it had happened so
quickly, so easily, so quietly, and not at all like his own strenuous
times when he had gone after desperadoes in his capacity of deputy
marshal.

The detectives did not notice that they were being followed by a youth,
and it is doubtful if they would have paid any attention to him if they
had.

The foot of the first detective was on the lower step of the stairway
leading to the door of the suspected house when suddenly a shrill
whistle cut the air from the direction of the corner, and Ted turned to
see the policeman strike the man in the check suit a blow with his club.

"Curse him, he's tipped us off," said the detective. "Come on, we've got
to rush them now."

Quickly the three sprang up the steps, threw the door open, and entered
a long hall.

"Back room," said one.

Ted was following them as closely as he could without being noticed and
warned away.

He saw a big, fine-looking policeman entering by a back door.

"That's it," said one of the detectives, motioning to a door.

The policeman walked boldly to the door and threw it open.

As he did so a shot rang out, and the policeman staggered back and
fell, a crimson stain covering his face.

He was dead before he struck the floor.

Without a word, the three detectives ran to the door, and within a
moment or two at least fifteen shots were fired within the room.

They were so many and so close together that it sounded like a single
crash. Then there was silence for a few moments, followed by a few
desultory shots which seemed to pop viciously after the crash that had
gone before.

It all happened so suddenly that Ted had hardly time to think, and stood
rooted to the spot until he was aroused by the cry of "Help!" in a
feeble voice, and, drawing his revolver, he sprang into the room.

As he did so, a shot rang out, and a ball sped close to his head.

The room was so dense with suffocating powder smoke that he could not
see across it, but he had seen the dull-red flash from the muzzle of a
revolver and shot in that direction.

"I'm done," he hea