in her letter was running
through Jimmie Dale's mind. Kline--the real Kline--was going to raid
the place to-night. When? At what time? It must be nearly eleven o'clock
already, and--

It came sudden, quick as the crack of doom--a terrific crash against the
bolted door--but the door, undoubtedly to the surprise of those without,
held fast, thanks to the bolt. The four men, white-faced, seemed for an
instant turned to statues. Came another crash against the door--and a
sharp, imperative order to those within to open it and surrender.

"We're pinched! Beat it!" whispered Whitie Burns wildly--and dashed for
the trapdoor.

Like a rat for its hole, Marty Dean followed. Malone, farther away,
dropped the plate on the floor, and rushed, with Moulton beside him,
after the others--but he never reached the trapdoor.

Over the crashing blows, raining now in quick succession on the door of
the room, over a startled commotion as lodgers, roomers, and tenants on
the floor above awoke into frightened activity with shouts and cries,
came the louder crash of a pile of packing boxes hurled to the floor.
And over them, vaulting those scattered in his way, Jimmie Dale sprang
at Malone. The man reeled back, with a cry. Moulton dashed through
the trapdoor and disappeared. The short, ugly barrel of Jimmie Dale's
automatic was between Malone's eyes.

"You make a move," said Jimmie Dale, in a low sibilant way, "and
I'll drop you where you stand! Put your hands behind your back--palms
together!"

Malone, dazed, cowed, obeyed. A panel of the door split and rent down
its length--the hinges were sagging. Jimmie Dale worked like lightning.
The cord with the slip noose from his pocket went around Malone's
wrists, jerked tight, and knotted; the placard, his lips grim, with no
sign of humour, Jimmie Dale dangled around the man's neck.

"An introduction for you to Mr. Kline out there--that you seem so fond
of!" gritted Jimmie Dale. Then, working as he talked: "I've got no time
to tell you what I think of you, you pitiful hound"--he snatched up the
plate from the floor and put it in his pocket--"Twenty years, I think
you said, didn't you?"--his hand shot into Malone's pocket-book, and
extracted the five-dollar note--"If you can open this with your toes
maybe you can get a way"--he wrenched the trapdoor over and slammed it
shut--"good-night, Malone"--and he leaped for the window.

The door tottered inward from the top, ripping, tearing, smashing