pped to 'em?"

"Must 'a' been that boob wit' the goil. He got busy quick. Well,
Jerry won't have to salve the cops this time. We made our getaway all
right," said Dave.

"Say, where's Joey?"

"Pulled a sneak likely. Wha's it matter? Listen! What's that?"

Some one was coming up the stairs.

The men in the room moved cautiously to the door. The hall light was
switched on.

"'Lo, Jerry," Gorilla Dave called softly.

He closed the room door and the sound of the voices was shut off
instantly.

The uninvited guest dared not step out of the closet to listen, for at
any instant the men might reenter. He crouched in his hiding-place,
the thirty-eight in his hand.

The minutes dragged interminably. More than once Clay almost made up
his mind to steal out to learn what the men were doing. But his
judgment told him he must avoid a brush with so many if possible.

The door opened again.

"Now beat it and do as I say if you know what's good for you," a
bullying voice was ordering.

The owner of the voice came in and slammed the door behind him. He sat
down at the desk, his back to the closet. Through the chink Clay saw
that the man was Jerry Durand.

From his vest pocket he took a fat black cigar, struck a match and lit
it. He slumped down in the swivel chair. It took no seer to divine
that his mind was busy working out a problem.

Clay stepped softly from his place of refuge, but not so noiselessly
that the gangman did not detect his presence. Jerry swung round in the
chair and leaped up with cat-like activity. He stood without moving,
poised on the balls of his feet, his deep-set eyes narrowed to shining
slits. It was in his thought to hurl himself headlong on the man
holding steadily the menacing revolver.

"Don't you! I've got the dead wood on you," said the Arizonan, a
trenchant saltness in his speech. "I'll shoot you down sure as hell's
hot."

The eyes of the men clashed, measuring each the other's strength of
will. They were warily conscious even of the batting of an eyelid.
Durand's face wore an ugly look of impotent malice, but his throat was
dry as a lime kiln. He could not estimate the danger that confronted
him nor what lay back of the man's presence.

"What you doin' here?" he demanded.

"Makin' my party call," retorted Clay easily.

Jerry cursed him with a low, savage stream of profanity. The gangman
enraged was not a sight pleasing to see.

"I reckon heaven, hell, and