three flights to the top! There must
be no creaking this time--the slightest sound, he knew well enough,
would be not only fatal to the work he had to do, but probably fatal to
himself as well. He had been near death many times--the consciousness
that he was nearer to it now, possibly, than he had ever been before,
seemed to stimulate his senses into acute and abnormal energy. And, too,
the physical effort, as, step by step, the flexed muscles relaxing so
slowly, little by little, gradually, each time as he found foothold
on the step higher up, was a terrific strain. At the top his face was
bathed in perspiration, and he wiped it off with his coat sleeve.

It was still dark here, intensely dark, and his eyes, though grown
accustomed to it, could make out nothing but the deeper shadow of the
walls. But thanks to her, always a mistress of accurate and minute
detail, he possessed a mental plan of his surroundings. The head of the
stairs gave on the middle of the hallway--the hallway ran to his right
and left. To his right, on the opposite side of the hall, was the door
of old Luddy's squalid two-room apartment.

For a moment Jimmie Dale stood hesitant--a sudden perplexity and anxiety
growing upon him. It was strange! What did it mean? He had nerved
himself to a quick, desperate attempt, trusting to surprise and his own
wit and agility for victory--there had seemed no other way than that,
since he had seen those four men at the corner--since they were AHEAD
of him. True, they were not much ahead of him, not enough to have
accomplished their purpose--and, furthermore, they were not in that
room. He knew that absolutely, beyond question of doubt. He had listened
for just that all the nerve-racking way up the stairs. But where
were they? There was no sound--not a sound--just blackness, dark,
impenetrable, utter, that began to palpitate now.

It came in a whisper, wavering, sibilant--from his left. A sort of
relief, fierce in the breaking of the tense expectancy, premonitory in
the possibilities that it held, swept Jimmie Dale. He crept along the
hall. The whisper had come from that room, presumably empty--that was
for rent!

By the door he crouched--his sensitive fingers, eyes to Jimmie Dale so
often--feeling over jamb and panels with a delicate, soundless touch.
The door was just ajar. The fingers crept inside and touched the knob
and lock--there was no key within.

The whispering still went on--but it seemed like a scre