id rapidly.

"Why so it did. I seen it with these very peepers--not a quarter of an
hour back."

"How many got out of it? What did they do?"

"I seen two men and a woman," the other answered. "They lifted that
cellar door and went down. Now I wondered why they did that."

"Did the woman make a fight?"

The other shook his head.

"Went like it was a candy store."

Cutting across his throaty accents, a feminine cry shrilled. The heavy
doors could not muffle its terror. It seemed like a response to the
ringing of the coins. Suddenly it was hushed. Garth shoved the man to
one side, urged by a temper that no longer permitted calculation. At any
risk he must get to Nora and to those who were responsible for that
unrestrained appeal.

Beyond the doors of the saloon he faced the proprietor across
unoccupied tables. He remembered the round, livid face beneath its crown
of reddish hair. He had seen it more than once, sullen and unashamed,
behind the bars at headquarters. He had often watched its wrinkles
smooth into a bland hypocrisy before the frown of a magistrate. The
man's past history made a connection between him and Slim's party nearly
inevitable. But Garth had no choice. The proprietor, at his entrance,
had braced his elbows against the bar.

"I ain't done a thing, Mr. Garth. I call God to witness there ain't
anything to bring a bull here except near beer and tobaccy."

"We'll see, Papa Marlowe," Garth said evenly. "I'm going into the cellar
of the warehouse next door. Dollars to dimes there's a way through your
place. Will you give up the combination quietly?"

Marlowe's misgivings resolved into a smile. Instead of protestations he
offered only an oily surprise.

"Now who told you there was a door through my cellar?"

"Never mind," Garth snapped. "I'll take all the chances and use it, but
at a sound from you--You understand? Come ahead then."

Marlowe slouched down the stairs, muttering apologetically:

"Blest if I know what you want there. Old hole's been closed six years.
That was a growler door for the warehousemen. Hold up, Mr. Garth, and
I'll strike a match."

Garth ordered him ahead while he pressed the control of his pocket lamp.
They continued between grim walls, splashed with mold, beaded with
moisture, offering the appearance and the odor of a neglected tomb. They
paused before an oak door.

"Don't open," Garth whispered. "Let me get my fingers on the latch."

"Maybe it's locked on the ot