thought flew to the kindly
undersheriff. His hand swept swiftly over the table; a match crackled.

"Smoke?" said Pete, extending the box with graceful courtesy.

"Fool!" snarled the visitor, and struck out the match.

But Pete had seen. The undersheriff was a man of medium stature; this
large masked person was about the size of the larger of his lately made
acquaintances, the brothers Poole.

"Come on!" whispered the rescuer huskily. "Mitchell sent me. He'll take
you away in his car."

"Wait a minute! We'd just as well take these cigars," answered Pete in
the same slinking tone. "Here; take a handful. How'd you get in?"

"Held the jailer up with a gun. Got him tied and gagged. Shut up, will
you? You can talk when you get safe out of this." He tip-toed away, Pete
following. The quivering searchlight crept along the hall; it picked out
the stairs. Halfway down, Pete touched his guide on the shoulder.

"Wait!" Standing on the higher stair, he whispered in the larger man's
ear: "You got all the keys?"

"Yes."

"Give 'em to me. I'll let all the prisoners go. If there's an alarm,
it'll make our chances for a get-away just so much better."

The Samaritan hesitated.

"Aw, I'd like to, all right! But I guess we'd better not."

He started on; the stair creaked horribly. In the hall below Pete
overtook him and halted him again.

"Aw, come on--be a sport!" he urged. "Just open this one cell, here, and
give that lad the keys. He can do the rest while we beat it. If you was
in there, wouldn't you want to get out?"

This appeal had its effect on the Samaritan. He unlocked the cell door,
after a cautious trying of half a dozen keys. Apparently his scruples
returned again; he stood irresolute in the cell doorway, turning the
searchlight on its yet unawakened occupant.

Peter swooped down from behind. His hands gripped the rescuer's ankles;
he heaved swiftly, at the same time lunging forward with head and
shoulders, with all the force of his small, seasoned body behind the
effort. The Samaritan toppled over, sprawling on his face within the
cell. With a heartfelt shriek the legal occupant leaped from his bunk and
landed on the intruder's shoulder blades. Peter slammed shut the door;
the spring lock clicked.

The searchlight rolled, luminous, along the floor; its glowworm light
showed Poole's unmasked and twisted face. Pete snatched the bunch of keys
and raced up the stairs, bending low to avoid a possible bullet; follo