t, striking his head against the table's edge--and men, table,
and lamp crashed downward in a heap to the floor.

It had been no more, at most, than a matter of seconds since Jimmie Dale
had hurled himself into the room; and now, with a gurgling sigh,
the Wowzer's arms, that had been wound around Jimmie Dale's back and
shoulders, relaxed, and, from the blow on his head the man, lay
back inert and stunned. And then it seemed to Jimmie Dale as though
pandemonium, unreality, and chaos at the touch of some devil's hand
reigned around him. It was dark--no, not dark--a spurt of flame was
leaping along the line of trickling oil from the broken lamp on the
floor. It threw into ghastly relief the sprawled form of Dago
Jim. Outside, from along the passageway, came a confused jangle of
commotion--whispering voices, shuffling feet, the swish of Chinese
garments. And the room itself began to spring into weird, flickering
shadows, that mounted and crept up the walls with the spreading fire.

There was not a second to lose before the room would be swarming with
that rush from the passageway--and there was still the letter, the
pocketbook! The table had fallen half over Dago Jim--Jimmie Dale pushed
it aside, tore the crushed letter and the pocketbook from the man's
hands--and felt, with a grim, horrible sort of anxiety, for the other's
heartbeat, for the verdict that meant life or death to himself. There
was no sign of life--the man was dead.

Jimmie Dale was on his feet now. A face, another, and another showed
in the doorway--the Wowzer was regaining his senses, stumbling to his
knees. There was one chance--just one--to take those crowding figures by
surprise. And with a yell of "Fire!" Jimmie Dale sprang for the doorway.

They gave way before his rush, tumbling back in their surprise against
the opposite wall; and, turning, Jimmie Dale raced down the passageway.
Doors were opening everywhere now, forms were pushing out into the
semi-darkness--only to duck hastily back again, as Jimmie Dale's
automatic barked and spat a running fire of warning ahead of him. And
then, behind, the Wowzer's voice shrieked out:

"Soak him! Kill de guy! He's croaked Dago Jim! Put a hole in him, de--"

Yells, a chorus of them, took up the refrain--then the rush of following
feet--and the passageway seemed to racket as though a Gatling gun were
in play with the fusillade of revolver shots. But Jimmie Dale was at
the opening now--and, like a base runner