hen the first glance that was at all critical would disclose
immediately what had been done! Why should they need to cover their
tracks at all; or, if it was necessary, why, above all, in such a
pitifully inadequate way! His mind barked back to the same ghastly
refrain--"the game was up!"

NO! Not yet! There was still a chance! There was still Spider Jack!
Suppose, in spite of their search, they had failed to find the package!
Jimmie Dale's lips set in a thin line, as he started abruptly toward
the door. There was still that chance, and one thing was grimly
certain--Spider Jack would, at least, show him where the package HAD
BEEN!

And then, halfway to the door, he halted suddenly, and stood
still--listening. An electric bell was ringing loudly, imperiously,
somewhere upstairs. Followed almost immediately the sound of some one,
Spider Jack presumably, moving hurriedly about overhead; and then, a
moment later, steps coming down the staircase in the adjoining room.

Jimmie Dale drew back, flattening himself against the wall. Spider Jack
entered the room, stumbled across it, in the darkness, fumbled for the
door that led into his little shop, opened it, passed through, fumbled
around in there again, for matches evidently, then lighted a gas jet in
the store, and, going to the street door, opened it.

Jimmie Dale had edged along the wall a little to a position where he had
an unobstructed view through the open doorway connecting the shop and
the room in which he stood. Spider Jack, in trousers and shirt, hastily
donned, no doubt, as he had got out of bed, was standing in the street
doorway, and beyond him loomed the forms of several men. Spider Jack
stepped aside to allow his visitors to enter--and suddenly, a cry barely
suppressed upon his lips, Jimmie Dale involuntarily strained forward.
Three men had entered, but his eyes were fixed, fascinated, upon
only one--the first of the three. Was it an hallucination? Was he
mad---dreaming? It was Hilton Travers, THE CHAUFFEUR--the man whom he
could have sworn he had last seen dead, lashed in that chair, in that
ghastly death chamber of the Crime Club!

"Rather rough on you, Spider, to pull you out of bed at this hour," the
chauffeur was saying apologetically.

"Oh, that's all right, seein' it's you, Travers," Spider Jack answered,
gruffly amiable. "Only I was kind of lookin' for you last night."

"I know," the chauffeur replied; "but I couldn't connect with my friends
her