e were, what was there to attract attention to a man standing
nonchalantly for a moment in a doorway? It was only for a moment. Those
master fingers of Jimmie Dale were working surely, swiftly, silently. A
little steel instrument that was never out of his possession was in the
lock and out again. The door opened, closed; he drew the black silk mask
from his pocket and slipped it over his face. Immediately in front of
him the stairs led upward; immediately to his right was the door into
the shop--the modest street entrance was common to both.

The door into the workshop was not locked. He opened it, stepped inside,
and closed it quietly behind him. The place was in blackness. He stood
for a moment silent, straining his ears to catch the slightest sound,
reconstructing the plan of his surroundings in his mind as he remembered
it. It was a narrow, oblong room, running the entire depth of the
building, a very long room, blank walls on either side, a window in the
middle of the rear wall that gave on a back yard, and from the back yard
there was access to the lane; also, as he remembered the place, it was
a riot of disorder, with workbenches and odds and ends strewn without
system or reason in every direction--one had need of care to negotiate
it in the dark. He took his flashlight from his pocket, and, preliminary
to a more intimate acquaintance with the interior, glanced out through
the front window near which he stood--and, with a suppressed cry, shrank
back instinctively against the wall.

Two men were crossing the street, heading directly for the shop door.
The arc lamp lighted up their faces. IT WAS INSPECTOR LANNIGAN OF
HEADQUARTERS AND WHITEY MACK! The quick intake of Jimmie Dale breath was
sucked through clenched teeth. They were close on his heels then--far
closer than he had imagined. It would take Whitey Mack scarcely any
longer to open that front door than it had taken him. Close on his
heels! His face was rigid. He could hear them now at the door. The
flashlight in his hand winked down the length of the room. If was a
dangerous thing to do, but it was still more dangerous to stumble into
some object and make a noise. He darted forward, circuiting a workbench,
a stool, a small hand forge. Again the flashlight gleamed. Against the
side wall, near the rear, was another workbench, with a sort of coarse
canvas curtain hanging part way down in front of it, evidently to
protect such things as might be stored away bene