ing of an eye. Two sharp,
almost simultaneous, clicks of the electric-light buttons pressed by
Markel, and the hall and library were a flood of light--and Jimmie Dale
leaped forward to where, in dressing gown and pajamas, blankets and
bedding over one arm, a revolver dangling in the other hand, Markel
stood full before the door in the hallway without.

There was a wild yell of terror and surprise from Markel, then a
deafening roar and a spit of flame from his revolver--a bitter,
smothered exclamation from Jimmie Dale as the cash box crashed to the
floor from his left hand, and he was upon the other like a tiger.

With the impact, both men went to the floor, grappled, and rolled over
and over. Half mad with fear, shock, and surprise, Markel fought like a
maniac, and his voice, in gasping shouts, rang through the house.

A minute, two passed--and the men rolled about the hall floor. Markel,
over middle age and unheathily fat, against Jimmie Dale's six feet of
muscle--only Jimmie Dale's left hand, dripping a red stream now, was
almost useless.

From above came wild confusion--women's voices in little shrieks; men's
voices shouting in excitement; doors opening, running feet. And then
Jimmie Dale had snatched the revolver from the floor where Markel
had dropped it in the scuffle, and was pressing it against Markel's
forehead--and Markel, terror-stricken, had collapsed in a flabby, pliant
heap.

Jimmie Dale, still covering Markel with the weapon, stood up. The
frightened faces of women protruded over the banisters above. The two
men-servants, at best none too enthusiastically on the way down, stopped
as though stunned as Jimmie Dale swung the revolver upon them.

Then Jimmie Dale spoke--to Markel--pointing the weapon at Markel again.

"I don't like you, Markel," he said, with cold impudence. "The only
decent thing you'll ever do will be to die--and if those men of yours
on the stairs move another step it will be your death warrant. Do you
understand? I would suggest that you request them to stay where they
are."

Cold sweat was on Markel's face as he stared into the muzzle of the
revolver, and his teeth chattered.

"Go back!" he screamed hysterically at the servants. "Go back! Sit down!
Don't move! Do what he tells you!"

"Thank you!" said Jimmie Dale grimly. "Now, get up yourself!"

Markel got up.

Jimmie Dale backed to the library door, picked up the cash box, tucked
it under his left armpit, and faced those