n cooled the ardour of their rush--and they broke, black,
flitting forms, for the shelter of chimneys, too.

And now the whole neighbourhood seemed awakened. A dull-toned roar,
as from some great gulf below, rolled up from the street, a medley of
slamming windows, the rush of feet as people poured from the houses,
cries, shouts, and yells--and high over all the shrill call of the
police-patrol whistle--and the CRACK, CRACK, CRACK of the Skeeter's
revolver shots--the Skeeter and his hellhounds for once self-appointed
allies of the law!

Twice again Jimmie Dale fired--then crouching, running low, he zigzagged
his way across the next roof. The bullets followed him--once more his
pursuers dashed forward. And again Jimmie Dale, his face set like stone
now, his breath coming in hard gasps, dodged behind a chimney, and with
his gun checked their rush for the third time.

He glanced about him--and with a growing sense of disaster saw that two
houses farther on the stretch of roof appeared to end. There would be
a lane or a street there! And in another minute or two, if it were not
already the case, others would be following the gunmen to the roof,
and then he would be--he caught his breath suddenly in a queer little
strangled cry of relief. Just back of him, a few yards away, his eyes
made out what, in the darkness, seemed to be a glass skylight.

A dark form sped like a deeper shadow across the black in front of
him, making for a chimney nearer by, closing in the range. Jimmie Dale
fired--wide. Tight as was the corner he was in, little as was the
mercy deserved at his hands, he could not, after all, bring himself to
shoot--to kill.

A voice, the Skeeter's, bawled out raucously:

"Rush him all together--from different sides at once!"

A backward leap! Jimmie Dale's boot was crashing glass and frame,
stamping at it desperately, making a hole for his body through the
skylight. A yell, a chorus of them, answered this--then the crunch of
racing feet on the gravel roof. He emptied his revolver, sweeping the
darkness with a semicircle of vicious flashes.

It seemed an hour--it was barely the fraction of a second, as he hung
by his hands from the side of the skylight frame, his body swinging
back and forth in the unknown blackness below. The skylight might
be, probably was, directly over the stair well, and open clear to the
basement of the house--but it was his only chance. He swung his body
well out, let go--and dropped. Wi