Aw, cut dat out! Wot do youse want to do--scare him away by bustin' it!
Pick de lock, an' we'll lay for him inside till he shows up."

It was the Skeeter's voice. The Skeeter and his gang--the worst apaches
in the city of New York! Professional assassins, death contractors,
he had called them--and the lowest bidders! A man's life any time for
twenty-five dollars! No, they were not likely to forget the affair of
the pushcart man, to forget old Luddy and his diamonds, to forget--the
Gray Seal! And they were only the vanguard of what was to come!

Some one was working at the lock now. There was one way to stop that. It
would not take them long to find out that he WAS there once the door
was opened! Better know it with the door SHUT! Jimmie Dale lifted his
revolver coolly and fired through the panel.

A burst of yells answered the shot; and among them, high above the
others, the Magpie's scream:

"We got him! We got him! He's dere now!"

And then it seemed that pandemonium broke loose--there was a volley of
shots, the bullets splintering through the door panels as from a machine
gun, so fast they came--and then another rush against the door.

Flat on the floor, but well back and to one side, Jimmie Dale fired
steadily--again and again.

Came screams of pain, yells, and oaths--and they fell back from the
door.

And now from above, from overhead, came tumult--windows thrown up, the
stamp of feet, cries of fright. And from the street, a low, sullen roar.
The underworld was gathering fast!

Once more the rush upon the door--and Jimmie Dale, a grim, twisted smile
upon his lips, emptied his revolver into the panels. Once more they
fell back--and then there came the Skeeter's voice, snarling like an
infuriated beast:

"He'll get de lot of us like dis! Cut it out! Besides, we'll have de
bulls down here in a minute--an' he's OUR meat, not theirs. Dey'd be
too damned soft wid him--dey'd only send him to de chair. Youse chase
upstairs, Mose, an' pass de word to beat it--an' beat it quick. We'll
BURN de skunk out--dat's wot. An' de bulls can stand alongside an'
watch, if dey likes--but he's our meat."

Jimmie Dale did not dare to look at the Tocsin's face. Mechanically he
refilled the magazine of his automatic--and lay there, waiting. The roar
from the street grew louder. They seemed to be fighting out there, as
though an inadequate number of police were trying to disperse a mob--and
not succeeding! Pretty soon, with the r