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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 35818
   :PG.Title: Doors of the Night
   :PG.Released: 2011-04-10
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Roger Frank
   :PG.Producer: the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
   :DC.Creator: Frank L. Packard
   :DC.Title: Doors of the Night
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1922
   :coverpage: images/cover.jpg

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DOORS OF THE NIGHT
==================

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   This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
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      Title: Doors of the Night
      
      Author: Frank L. Packard
      
      Release Date: April 10, 2011 [EBook #35818]
      
      Language: English
      
      Character set encoding: UTF-8

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   | :xl:`DOORS OF THE NIGHT`
   |
   | BY FRANK L. PACKARD
   |
   | :sm:`AUTHOR OF`
   | :sm:`“Pawned,” “The Night Operator,” “The Adventures`
   | :sm:`of Jimmie Dale,” “The Wire Devils,” etc.`
   |
   | A. L. BURT COMPANY
   | Publishers — New York
   |
   | Published by arrangement with George H. Doran Company
   | Printed in U. S. A.

.. class:: center

   | COPYRIGHT, 1922,
   | BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
   |
   | PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

.. contents:: CONTENTS
   :depth: 1

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   :xl:`DOORS OF THE NIGHT`

I—ACROSS THE THRESHOLD
======================

Billy Kane paused for an instant in the doorway
of the room before him, as his dark, steady eyes
travelled over the appointments in a sort of measured
approval such as a connoisseur who knew his art
might bestow upon a canvas in which he found no flaw.
The apartment was quite in keeping with everything else
that pertained to the palatial residence in that upper Fifth
Avenue section of New York. The indirect lighting fell
soft and mellow upon the priceless Oriental rug, the massive
desk of dark, carved wood, the wide, inviting leather-upholstered
chairs, the heavy portières that filled the window
spaces and hung before the doors, the bookshelves that lined
the walls almost ceiling high and that were of the same
dark, polished wood as the desk and chairs. There was
luxury here, and wealth; but it was luxury without ostentation,
and wealth that typified only good taste and refinement.

He closed the door behind him, and began to pace slowly
up and down the room. And now he frowned a little. He
had dined alone with his employer as usual, for Mrs. Ellsworth
being an invalid was rarely in evidence, and David
Ellsworth usually so genial an old gentleman, had not been
entirely himself. From the pocket of his dinner jacket
Billy Kane took out his cigarette case, selected a cigarette,
and lighted it. Mr. Ellsworth had lingered in the dining
room, and had said that he would come presently to the
library—that there was a little matter he wished to attend
to. There was nothing strange in that, for they often
worked together here in this room in the evenings, and yet
Billy Kane’s puzzled frown deepened. There was something
certainly amiss with the old multi-millionaire tonight,
and that anything should disturb the old philanthropist’s
tranquillity, except when his sympathies had been
aroused and the man’s heart, that was softer than a woman’s,
had been touched by some pathetic appeal, was decidedly
strange.

Billy Kane continued his pacing up and down the room
in long, athletic strides, the great, broad shoulders squared
back as his hands were thrust into the pockets of his jacket.
It was far more than a feeling of respect or mere liking that
he held for his employer, for there had come esteem for the
old gentleman’s sterling qualities, and with the esteem a
sincere affection, and out of it all, very curiously, a sort of
fathering, or protecting interest for this man of millions.

The frown passed away, and Billy Kane smiled a little
whimsically at the somewhat quaint conceit. Fathering!
Nevertheless, it was true! There was scarcely an hour of
the day that some appeal for charity, ranging from a few
cents to many thousands of dollars, was not made upon
David Ellsworth—too many of them spurious, and it was
his, Billy Kane’s, self-appointed task to stand between his
employer and these fraudulent attempts. All the world,
at least all the world within reach, seemed to be thoroughly
conversant with the old gentleman’s ask-no-questions
liberality—and to lose no opportunity in taking advantage
of that knowledge! For instance, though here he
was forced to the belief that it was genuinely worthy, there
was the case of the deformed beggar, one Antonio Laverto,
who, during the last week, had taken up his station on the
corner a block away from the house. The beggar had
already secured the old gentleman’s attention, and also a
dollar or two every time David Ellsworth passed; in return
for which David Ellsworth had become possessed of a very
pitiful life history, and also possessed of a desire to set
the man squarely on his feet again.

Billy Kane paused abruptly in his stride, as his eyes
rested on the portières that hung before one of the two
doorways at the lower end of the room. Behind that door,
which was one of wood matching the other doors of the
room, was a door of solid steel, and behind the steel door
was one of the strongest vaults in the city of New York,
and in the vault, besides the magnificent collection of rubies
that nestled in their plush-lined trays, a collection that,
while but a hobby, had yet made their owner even more
famous and widely known than had his millions, were thousands
of dollars—*the money kept there for the sole purpose
of being given away*! Eccentricity? Well, perhaps—but
if so, it was a very fine eccentricity, the eccentricity of one
of God’s own noblemen.

One of God’s own noblemen! Yes, he had good reason
to call David Ellsworth that! Billy Kane’s strong face
softened. As a boy is acquainted with his father’s companions,
he had been acquainted with David Ellsworth for
many years, it was true; but he had never known the other
for his real worth until the last three months, during which
time he had been the retired magnate’s confidential secretary.
His father had been an old friend of David Ellsworth;
and a little more than three months ago his father
had died, just as he, Billy Kane, had graduated from Harvard.
His father’s estate, supposedly large, had turned
out to amount to comparatively nothing; the net residue of
the estate, which had just been wound up, being represented
by the sum now at his credit in the bank, a matter of
something less than five thousand dollars. Apart from that,
there was nothing. His mother had been dead many years;
and, with no ties to hamper him, he had been casting around
for some opening where he could utilize his university
degree in arts to the best advantage, when he had received
the offer from David Ellsworth to act as the latter’s confidential
secretary. He had accepted at once, and since then
he had led a rather singular existence.

Billy Kane tamped out his cigarette on the edge of an
ash receiver, and stood leaning with his back against the
desk, facing the hall door. Yes, it was a very singular
existence! His new home was veritably a palace, with servants
at every beck and call. His work was not onerous;
and his salary was over-generous. He, in turn, had a
private secretary, or at least a most capable stenographer,
who, having been long in David Ellsworth’s employ, took
care of the daily routine; and it was mostly routine as far
as business went, for the millionaire had long since retired
from any active participation in the various interests
through which he had acquired his fortune. But the work,
that is the bulk of it, had now taken on quite a different
angle, due to his, Billy Kane’s own initiative, than had
been thought of when he had accepted the position. He
had not been there a week before he had realized that the
old philanthropist was being victimized right and left by
fraudulent appeals for money. It had been sufficient simply
to excite David Ellsworth’s sympathy in order to open
the ever-ready purse. David Ellsworth had inquired no
further. He, Billy Kane, but not without protest from the
old gentleman, to whom the loss of the money was nothing,
but to whom the uncovering of some pitiful fraud was a
cause of genuine distress, had instituted a new régime, and
had undertaken to investigate every case on its merits.

The whimsical smile came back to his lips. Born and
brought up in the city, he had imagined that he knew his
New York; but the last three months had opened his eyes
to a new world around him—the world of the Bad Lands,
with its own language, its own customs and its own haunts.
He knew his New York a great deal better now! Those
three months had brought him into intimate touch with
the dens and dives, and many of the habitués of the underworld,
since it was amongst those surroundings that his
investigations had mainly led him. He had even been in
the heart of that sordid world no later than that afternoon.

Behind his back, Billy Kane’s fingers were drumming a
meditative tattoo upon the desk. His train of thought had
brought him back to the crippled Italian beggar, Antonio
Laverto. The man was a pitiful looking object enough—one
of those mendicants commonly designated in the vernacular
as a “flopper.” His legs were twisted under him
in contorted angles at the knees, and his means of locomotion
consisted in lifting himself up on the palms of his
hands and swaying himself painfully along a foot or
so at a time. Laverto’s story, told in halting and broken
English, was equally pitiful. The man had been a photographer,
an artist he had called himself, and he had come
to America a few years before from some little town in
Italy, lured by the high prices that he had heard the rich
New World would pay him for his work. But within a
few days of landing he had met with an accident in a tenement
fire that had crippled and maimed him for life. He
had been practically destitute, his sole possessions being the
camera and a few of the cherished photographs he had
brought with him. The camera had gone to pay for his
support during convalescence; and subsequently, reduced
to beggary, most of his pictures had gone the same way.

That, in substance, was the Italian’s story. Billy Kane
shook his head impatiently. The man bothered him. He
had been frankly skeptical and wholly suspicious at first;
but investigation had only confirmed the man’s story. Certainly,
an Italian by that name, newly arrived in the country,
had been badly hurt and crippled in a tenement fire a
few years ago, and had been treated in one of the city
hospitals. That much, at least, he had discovered! Also, no
more than a few hours ago, he had gone to Laverto’s home
and found the man existing in a small, miserable room on
the East Side, and surrounded by every evidence of squalor
and abject poverty; and the man, he was obliged to confess,
had got his sympathy too. There were two exquisite little
photographs, landscapes, real gems of art, wrapped up in
fold after fold of newspaper. Laverto had shown them to
him, and had told his story again, begging him to buy one
of the pictures—and when he had produced the money the
cripple had drawn his treasures back, and had clutched
them to his breast, and had cried over them, and finally
had refused to sell at all.

Billy Kane’s fingers continued to drum on the desk.
David Ellsworth would undoubtedly want to know about
Laverto to-night—and the man bothered him. He had no
grounds for further suspicion, fairness compelled him to
the admission that the man’s story seemed true; and yet,
based on nothing more tangible than intuition, there still
lingered a doubt about the whole matter in his mind.

Billy Kane straightened up from the desk. Jackson, one
of the footmen, had opened the door from the hall, and
David Ellsworth, an immaculate little gray-haired old gentleman,
in evening clothes, stepped into the library.

The footman closed the door silently.

David Ellsworth wore glasses. He took them off, polished
them with nervous energy while his blue eyes swept
around the room, fixed on Billy Kane’s face, and swept
around the room again. He cleared his throat once or
twice before he spoke.

“I’ve kept you waiting, Billy,” he said abruptly. “You
must have noticed that I had finished dinner at the same
time as yourself; but I have been very much disturbed and
perplexed all day, and I have been trying to solve a problem
before saying anything to you.”

“I hope there’s nothing seriously wrong, sir,” Billy Kane
answered quickly. “May I ask what——”

“Yes,” said David Ellsworth, a sort of curious reluctance
in his voice. He took a letter from his pocket, and
handed it to Billy Kane. “It’s this.”

Billy Kane opened the letter—and, staring at the type-written
words on the sheet in his hand, suddenly an angry
red tinged his cheeks and mounted to his temples. His eyes
mechanically travelled over the lines again:

    Like father like son may be an old adage, but like a
    good many old adages its face value is not always to be
    relied upon. It might pay you to keep an eye on your
    confidential secretary—and on the contents of your vault.

    .. class:: right
    
       A Friend.

Billy Kane laid the letter down upon the desk without
a word—but his lips were tight.

“You understand, Billy,” said the old millionaire eagerly,
“that the only reason why I did not show this to you immediately
when I received it this morning was because
I wanted, if possible, to formulate a definite conclusion
as to the motive that prompted the writing of the
contemptible thing. You understand, my boy, don’t you?
I could talk to you then about it without hurting you. As
for the actual letter itself, there is, of course, but one
answer, and that is—this!”

David Ellsworth reached out for the letter—but Billy
Kane had already picked it up.

“You were going to tear it up, sir,” he said deliberately.
“I’d rather you wouldn’t. There may be a chance some day
of showing this to the cur who wrote it—and I wouldn’t like
to lose that chance.”

“Then keep it, by all means!” agreed David Ellsworth.
He nodded his head in vigorous assent, as Billy Kane restored
the letter to its envelope, and placed the letter in the
pocket of his dinner jacket. “So much for that! But
what do you make of it, Billy?”

“It’s object is obvious enough,” Billy Kane replied savagely.
“Somebody appears to have it in for me.”

David Ellsworth was polishing his glasses again.

“You’ve told me that I was the most guileless man you
ever knew, Billy,” he said, shaking his head slowly; “and
perhaps I am, and then again perhaps I’m not—and perhaps
it isn’t always because I’m guileless that I close my
eyes to many things. But I guess, after all, that I can peer
as far through a stone wall as the next man. I’ve had to
do some pretty stiff peering in the days gone by to get the
few millions together that I’ve got now. I mention this,
Billy, so that you may not confuse my idiosyncrasies with—well,
whatever you like to call it. Those dollars, my boy,
didn’t just drop into my hands—they were *thought* there.
And so you think that letter means someone has it in for
you? Think a little deeper, Billy.”

“I don’t quite follow you,” said Billy Kane, in a puzzled
way.

“And yet it is quite simple—although I’ve spent a day
over it!” returned the old millionaire, with a wry smile.
“I have known you from a child. Nothing has ever occurred
to shake my confidence in you. The person who
wrote that letter was obviously acquainted with my past
friendship for your father and my long knowledge of yourself,
and, with nothing to back it up, he would be a madman
indeed who would expect a scurrilous missive such as that
to have any weight with me. Am I right—or wrong,
Billy?”

“Well; yes, sir—I suppose you’re right,” Billy Kane
answered.

“I am sure I am,” declared the old gentleman decisively.
“Quite sure of it! But suppose, Billy, that to-morrow, or
at any time *subsequent* to my having received that letter,
something *did* occur here—what then?”

The old millionaire’s face was grave. Billy Kane leaned
sharply forward.

“What do you mean?” he questioned in a startled tone.

“Sit down there at the desk, Billy, and I’ll tell you,” said
David Ellsworth; and then, as Billy Kane obeyed, he stepped
swiftly across the room, opened the hall door, looked out,
closed the door softly again, and from there walked to one
of the two doors at the lower end of the room, opened this,
looked into the room beyond, and closed it again.

Billy Kane watched the other in frank amazement. The
door that David Ellsworth had just opened was the door of
the “office”—the room that during working hours, which
were from ten to five, was occupied by the stenographer.
True, the room opened on the back hallway and had a
separate entrance from the courtyard in the rear, an entrance
always used by the stenographer, but it was always
locked by Peters, the butler, at night, and he, Billy Kane,
had the only other key.

David Ellsworth returned, and halted before Billy Kane’s
chair.

“No, I am not in my second childhood, Billy,” he said
quietly. “That letter was certainly not written without a
purpose; and yet from every angle that I have been able
to view it, except one, it would have been exactly that—without
purpose. I believe it is the first step in a carefully
laid plan that will divert, or fix, suspicion upon you.”

Billy Kane shook his head in perplexity.

“A plan?” he repeated. “I don’t understand.”

David Ellsworth’s only reply was to jerk his head significantly
toward the other of the two doors at the end of
the room.

Mechanically Billy Kane followed the direction of the
gesture with his eyes; and then he was on his feet, his face
suddenly grim and set.

“My God!” he murmured under his breath. “You
mean——”

“Yes,” said David Ellsworth evenly. “Why not? I
couldn’t tell you myself exactly how much those stones in
there are worth, but they are ranked as one of the most
valuable single collections of rubies in existence, and certainly
the figures would run somewhere between two and
three hundred thousand dollars. Besides, there’s always
a little cash there—you know better than I do precisely how
much at the present moment.”

“Fourteen thousand five hundred odd,” Billy Kane
answered automatically.

“Quite so!” nodded the old millionaire. “Well, it’s worth
it, isn’t it, Billy? I’ve never been afraid of any ordinary
cracksman’s attempt against that vault; but, if I am right
now, this wouldn’t be any ordinary attempt. I believe we
are dealing with—*brains*. I believe, further, that instead of
you and I being the only ones who know the combinations,
as we have imagined, they are known to someone else.
Suppose, then, that the vault is found empty some morning?
I immediately recall to mind that letter. I remember that
you are the only one to whom I have confided the combinations.
And suppose that some additional clue pointing
to you is left on the scene of the robbery? It would look
pretty black for you, Billy, would it not? Naturally the
stolen stones and money would not be found in your possession;
but the plain, logical supposition would be that, not
being a fool, and believing that you were above suspicion,
you had secreted the proceeds of the robbery, and were pursuing
what you considered the safest course—that is, to
brazen it out and indignantly proclaim your innocence. The
object of all this, of course, being immunity for the real
authors of the crime, for if you were accused and convicted
it is obvious that the police would look no further and consider
the case closed.”

Billy Kane did not reply for a moment. He had been
startled at first, but now he was conscious rather of a slight
sense of inward amusement. The old millionaire’s deductions
were, of course, plausible and possible; but, also, they
appeared to be a little labored, a little far-fetched, a little
visionary. Apart from being based on a premise that entailed
somewhat elaborate preparations, there was one very
weak point in the old gentleman’s argument. The combinations
being known only to the two of them, David
Ellsworth had failed to explain how, or where the combinations
had been obtained by a third party; and Billy Kane
was even more than ever confirmed in his mind that there
was a very much simpler, and a very much more creditable
motive for that letter—spite. Through his efforts there
was more than one none too reputable a character who
otherwise would have partaken liberally of the old philanthropist’s
bounty; and that was probably the secret of the
letter. That the day’s cogitations of David Ellsworth had
resulted in the discovery of a mare’s nest was the way it
struck Billy Kane now; but if the old gentleman found satisfaction
in his deductions, he, Billy Kane, was of no mind
to dispute them. There was nothing to be gained by it, and
on occasions he had known even David Ellsworth to grow
stubborn and most unpleasantly irascible.

“You may be right, sir,” Billy Kane said deliberately.

David Ellsworth’s two hands fell on Billy Kane’s shoulders,
and pressed him back into his chair again.

“So you think I may be right, do you?” There was a
twinkle in the blue eyes. “Tut, tut! You can’t fool the
old man, Billy, my boy! What you really think is that I’ve
got a brain storm. But”—his voice grew suddenly grave
and agitated—“I *know* I’m right, Billy—I *feel* it. I’m as
sure now, as though it had already happened. But we’ll
beat them, my boy! Take your pen, and a blank card—there
are some in the top drawer there. Being forewarned,
all that’s necessary is to change the combinations. And I
guess that will be an answer to their letter that they didn’t
expect!”

David Ellsworth was already across the room. Billy
Kane took a small blank card from the drawer of the desk,
picked up a pen, and, without comment, turned in his chair
to watch the other. After all, little as he shared the old
millionaire’s alarm, the changing of the vault’s combination
was a precaution well worth while under any circumstances.
If it even became a habit, so much the better!

The portières were swung back now, the innocent looking
door that matched the others in the room was opened, and
the nickel-plated knobs and dials of the massive steel inner
door glistened in the light. Came a faint musical tinkle,
as the dial whirred under David Ellsworth’s fingers; then,
presently, a soft metallic thud, as the old millionaire swung
the handle over and the bolts shot back. The heavy door
moved slightly inward, there was the click of an electric-light
switch, the vault was flooded with light, and from
where he sat Billy Kane could see into the interior. It was
as large as a small sized room, and built of the finest steel
throughout. Steel shelves piled with document cases lined
the vault, and at the far end was a huge safe of the most
modern and perfected design. Billy Kane smiled a little to
himself. In one thing, at least, that David Ellsworth had
said, the old millionaire had indubitably been justified. The
vault was as impregnable as human ingenuity and skill
could make it, and there was very little indeed to be feared
from any ordinary attempt upon it.

A few minutes passed while David Ellsworth worked
with the key used for changing the combination and with
the mechanism on the inner side of the door, and then he
began to call out a series of numbers. Billy Kane jotted
them down on the card.

“We’ll test it now—call them back,” said David Ellsworth;
and then, as Billy Kane obeyed: “All right, Billy.
Now we’ll do the same thing with the safe.”

He moved down to the end of the vault, spent a moment
or two over the safe’s dial; and, as this door in turn was
swung open, Billy Kane caught a glimpse of the tiers of
plush-lined trays that held the famous ruby collection, and
of the score of packages of banknotes that lay neatly piled
in the compartments inside the safe.

Again David Ellsworth called out a series of numbers,
and as before tested the new combination; and then, from
beside the open door of the safe, he spoke abruptly:

“Before I lock up again, Billy, what about our friend
Laverto? You went down there this afternoon, I believe?”

“Yes,” Billy Kane answered—and frowned. “But there’s
no hurry about it, is there? I’m bound to confess that his
story seems to be straight enough, and that I can’t find anything
wrong, but——”

David Ellsworth chuckled suddenly, as he reached inside
the safe and took out a package of banknotes.

“You’ve been laughing at me up your sleeve for fussing
around with those combinations, my boy—I know you have.
But you’re the old woman of the two, Billy. If you couldn’t
find anything wrong, I guess everything is all right. If it
isn’t”—he chuckled again, as he closed and locked the safe—“it
would do my heart good to see someone put something
over on you!”

The light in the vault went out. The vault door was
closed and locked, the outer door shut, the portières drawn
back into place, and David Ellsworth, coming back across
the room, dropped the package of banknotes on the desk.

“Take ’em to him, Billy,” he smiled; “and take ’em to him
now. He’ll have twelve hours more joy out of life than if
you waited until to-morrow morning.” He picked up the
card upon which Billy Kane had written the combinations,
and placed it in his pocket. “You’ve got a better memory
than I have, Billy,” he observed, “and I guess you’ve got
this down pat now; but I’m afraid I’ll have to study the
memo over a few times before I take a chance on destroying
it.”

Billy Kane was paying little attention to the other’s
words; he was riffling the banknotes through his fingers—they
were of all denominations, from hundred-dollar bills
down to fives. It was, in fact, a package of loose bills that
he remembered having counted that morning.

“Do you happen to know how much there is here, Mr.
Ellsworth?” he inquired abruptly.

“Not precisely”—David Ellsworth peered over the rims
of his glasses at the package—“but I should say around a
couple of thousand dollars. I—er—promised him that, if
he turned out to be deserving, and I’d——”

“There are two thousand dollars here exactly,” said Billy
Kane a little curtly. “What I understood that you promised
him was that you would start him up in life again, but
it doesn’t require two thousand dollars to start a man of
his type going as a photographer.”

“H’m! Don’t you think so, Billy?” David Ellsworth’s
blue eyes were twinkling, and he was drawling his words.
“Well, let’s see! Now, first of all, judging from the photographic
landscape he showed me, the man’s a real artist,
and he ought to have the best of tools to work with. A
good lens is a rather expensive commodity. I’m not much
up on photographic apparatus, but I’ll bet you could pay
as high as a thousand dollars for one outfit. And then
there’s all the paraphernalia, and a little place to furnish,
and a little something to keep things going until returns
come in. Two thousand dollars—shucks, my boy! Indeed
as a matter of fact, now that you call my attention to it and
I come to think it over, Billy, I’m not sure that two thousand
dollars is——”

And then Billy Kane laughed, and picked up the money,
and went to the door.

“All right, sir, I’ll go—at once,” he said, laughing again.

II—THE CRIME
============

Upstairs in his room Billy Kane changed from
his dinner clothes into a dark tweed suit, a very
less noticeable attire for that neighborhood where
Antonio Laverto had his miserable home, and choosing a
slouch hat, left the house. A bus took him down Fifth
Avenue to Washington Square, and from there, crossing
over Broadway, he continued on down the Bowery.

It was still early; and it was as though the night world
here had not yet awakened from its day’s slumber. The
“gape wagons” had not yet begun to bring their slumming
parties to rub shoulders with the flotsam and jetsam of the
underworld, and to shudder in pharisaical horror at
“planted” fakes; true, the ubiquitous gasoline lamps glowed
in useless yellow spots against the entirely adequate street
lighting in front of many shops of all descriptions, and the
pavements were alive with men, women and children of
every conceivable nationality and station in life, but—Billy
Kane smiled a little grimly, for he had learned a great deal,
a very great deal in the last three months, about this section
of his city—it was still early, and it was not yet the Bowery
of the night.

Some half dozen blocks along, Billy Kane turned into a
cross street and headed deeper into the East Side.

And now Billy Kane’s forehead drew together in puckered
furrows, as he approached the lodging of Antonio
Laverto, the cripple. In the inside pocket of his vest were
two thousand dollars in cash, for the outlay of which, in
spite of the old millionaire’s attitude in reference to it, he,
Billy Kane, held himself morally responsible. The frown
deepened. It was strange, very strange! He had logically
convinced himself that Laverto’s was a worthy case—but
the intuition that something was wrong would not down,
and the nearer he approached the miserable and squalid
dwelling in which the Italian lived, the stronger that intuition
grew.

And then Billy Kane shrugged his shoulders. He could
at least put the case to one more test, and if Laverto came
through that all right that was the end of it, and the man got
the money. Laverto would certainly not anticipate another
visit this evening, so soon after the one of the afternoon;
and if he could come unawares upon the man, and observe
the other unawares perhaps, the chances were decidedly in
favor of Laverto being caught napping if he were sailing
under false colors.

Billy Kane, reaching his destination, paused in front of a
tumble-down and dilapidated frame house, and glanced
around him. The little side street here was dirty and ill-lighted,
but populous enough. Small shops, many of them
basement shops with cavernous, cellar-like entrances opening
from the sidewalk, lined both sides of the street; for
the rest, it was simply a matter of two rows of flanking,
dingy tenements and old houses—save for the usual saloon,
whose window lights were bright enough on the corner
ahead.

The house door was wide open, and Billy Kane, pulling
his slouch hat down over his eyes, stepped into the dark
unlighted interior. The place was a hive of poverty, a
miserable lodging house of the cheapest class; and the air
was close, almost fetid, and redolent with the smell of garlic.
How many humans eked out an existence here Billy
Kane did not know; but, though he knew them to be woefully
many, for he had seen a great number of them on his
visit here that afternoon, the only evidence of occupancy
now was the occasional petulant cry of a child from somewhere
in the darkness, and a constant murmuring hum of
voices from behind closed doors.

Antonio Laverto’s room was the second one on the
right of the passage. Billy Kane moved quietly forward
to the door, and stood there in the blackness for a moment
listening. There was no sound from within; nor was there
any light seeping through the keyhole or the door panels,
which later, he remembered, were badly cracked. Satisfied
that the cripple, unless he were asleep, was not inside, Billy
Kane tried the door, and, finding it unlocked, opened it
silently, and stepped into the room.

He lighted a match, held it above his head, and glanced
around him. It was a pitiful abode, pitiful enough to excite
anyone’s sympathy—as it had his own that afternoon.
There was a cot in one corner with a thin, torn blanket for
covering, a rickety chair, and an old deal table on which
stood a cracked pitcher and wash basin, and the remains of
a small loaf of bread.

The match went out, and Billy Kane retreated to the door,
and from the door, to the street again. It was pretty bad
in there, and evidently just as genuinely on the ragged edge
of existence as it had been that afternoon—but still the persistent
doubt in his mind would not down. It was a sort
of dog in the manger feeling, and he did not like it, and it
irritated him—but it clung tenaciously.

He lighted a cigarette, and, frowning, flipped the match
stub away from him. In any case, he had to find the man
before he went home, whether it resulted in his paying
over the two thousand dollars or not. His eye caught the
lighted window of the saloon, and he started abruptly forward
in that direction. If there was anything at all in his
suspicions, the saloon was the most likely place in the neighborhood
where they would be verified; but in any event,
the barkeeper, who probably knew everyone in the locality
better than anyone else, could possibly supply at least a suggestion
as to where the Italian spent his evenings and might
be found.

Billy Kane chose the side entrance to the saloon—it would
probably afford him a preliminary inspection of the place
without being observed himself—and entered. He found
himself in a passageway that was meagerly lighted by a gas
jet, and that turned sharply at right angles a few steps
ahead. He reached the turn in the passage, and halted suddenly,
as a voice, curiously muffled, reached him. The passage
here ahead of him, some four or five yards in length,
was lighted by another gas jet, and terminated in swinging
doors leading to the barroom; but halfway down its length,
in a little recess, most thoughtfully situated for the privacy
and convenience of the saloon’s perhaps none too reputable
clientele, was a telephone booth.

Billy Kane drew back, and protected from view by the
angle of the passage while he could still see the telephone
booth himself quite plainly, stood motionless. The booth,
like a good many others, was by no means sound-proof,
and the voice, though muffled seemed strangely familiar to
him. Billy Kane’s brows drew together sharply. Through
the glass panel of the upper portion of the booth he could
see the figure of a man of about his own height, and he
could see, as the man stood a little sideways with his lips to
the transmitter, the man’s profile.

And then Billy Kane, with a grim smile, reached suddenly
up to the gas jet over his head and turned it out. This
left him in darkness and made no appreciable diminution
in the lighting of the passage leading to the barroom. The
man who stood upright in the booth at full height, and who
was speaking most excellent English, was Antonio Laverto,
the maimed and broken cripple whose pitiful and heart-rending
story had been so laboriously told in the few halting
and hardly understandable words at his command!

And now, Billy Kane, listening, could make out snatches
of what the man was saying.

“... That’s none of your business, and I guess the less
you know about it the better for yourself.... What?...
Yes, Marco’s—the second-hand clothes dealer....
What?... Yes, sure—by the lane.... The back door’s
got a broken lock—it’s never been fixed since he moved in
two weeks ago. All you got to do is walk in. It’s a cinch....
Sure, that’s right—that’s all you got to do. Marco
don’t keep open in the evening and besides he’s away, you
don’t need to worry about that.... Eh?... No, there
won’t be no come-back.... You pull the break the way I
tell you, and you get a hundred dollars in the morning....
What?... All right then, but don’t make any mistake.
You got to be out of there before a quarter of eleven! Get
me? Before a quarter of eleven—that’s all I care, and
that’s give you all the time you want.... Eh?... Yes—sure....
Good-night.”

The grim smile was still on Billy Kane’s lips, as he
crouched back against the wall. The door of the telephone
booth opened, and Laverto stuck his head out furtively.
The little black eyes, staring out of the thin, swarthy face,
glanced up and down the passageway, and then the head
seemed to shrink into the shoulders, the body to collapse,
and, with legs twisted and dragging under him, there came
the *flop-flop* of the palms of the man’s hands on the bare
wooden flooring, as he started along the passageway.

But Billy Kane was already at the side door of the
saloon—and an instant later he had swung around the street
corner, and was heading briskly back in the direction of
the Bowery. He laughed shortly, as his hand automatically
crept into his inside pocket. The two thousand dollars were
still there—and they would stay there! His intuition, after
all, had not been at fault. The man was a vicious and
damnable fraud, and, as a logical corollary to that fact,
was moreover a dangerous and clever criminal. What was
this “break” that was to be “pulled” at Marco’s before a
quarter of eleven?

Quite mechanically Billy Kane looked at his watch. He and
David Ellsworth had dined early, and it was even now barely
eight o’clock. Billy Kane’s face hardened, as he walked
along, reached the Bowery, and, by the same route he had
come, gained Washington Square, and swung onto a Fifth
Avenue bus. Why Marco’s? There was surely nothing
worth while there! Marco’s was little more than a rag shop.
He happened to know Marco, because on the corner next
to the tumble-down place that, as Laverto had said, Marco
had rented a week or so ago, there was a small notion shop
kept by an old Irish widow by the name of Clancy, where,
more than once on his visits to the East Side, he had dropped
in to buy a paper or a package of cigarettes. Why Marco’s?
It puzzled him. The old white-bearded, stoop-shouldered
dealer did not seem to have much that was worth stealing!

The bus jolted on up the Avenue. Billy Kane shifted his
position uneasily on the somewhat uncomfortably hard seat
on the top of the bus. His first impulse had been to confront
Laverto on the spot, but quick on the heels of that
impulse had come a better plan. With rope enough the
man would hang himself. If there was anything in this
Marco affair, a robbery as was indicated, Marco would obviously
report it to the police as soon as it was discovered,
and he, Billy Kane, being in possession of the evidence that
would convict its author, would then be in a position to put
an end, for a good many years at least, to Laverto’s criminal
career; and besides this, there was David Ellsworth—he
did not want to wound or hurt the other’s finer sensibilities,
but that David Ellsworth should see Laverto for himself in
the latter’s true colors was essential, for it would and must
make the old philanthropist in the future less the victim of
that over-generous and spontaneous sympathy which was so
easily excited by those who preyed upon him.

The thought of David Ellsworth brought back again the
thought of David Ellsworth’s anonymous letter. Billy Kane
lighted a cigarette, and smoked it savagely. It was someone
of the same breed as Antonio Laverto, and for the same
reason that Laverto would soon have for revenge, who had
written that letter. He was quite sure of that in his own
mind. What else, indeed, could it be? Not David Ellsworth’s
explanation! That was entirely too chimerical!
One by one he reviewed the cases where he had uncovered
fraudulent attempts upon the old millionaire’s charity during
the past three months; but, while more than one was concerned
with characters vicious, dissolute and criminal
enough, not one seemed to dovetail into the niche in which
he sought to fit it.

A second cigarette followed the first, and his mind was
still busy with his problem, as he pressed the button at the
side of his seat, clambered down the circular iron ladder at
the rear of the bus, stepped to the sidewalk as the bus drew
up to the curb, and stood waiting for the bus to pass on—David
Ellsworth’s residence was on the first corner down
the cross street on the other side of the Avenue. The bus
creaked protestingly into motion, and Billy Kane, in the act
of stepping from the curb to cross the Avenue, paused suddenly,
instead, as a voice spoke behind him.

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Kane, sir, may I speak to you
for a moment?”

Billy Kane turned around abruptly. He stared at the
other in surprise. It was Jackson, the footman.

“Why yes, of course. But what on earth are you doing
out here, Jackson?” he demanded a little sharply.

“I was waiting for you, sir,” the man answered hurriedly.
“I knew you’d gone out, Mr. Kane; and I knew I couldn’t
miss you here, sir, when you came back, as you always
come by the Avenue, sir. And, begging your pardon again,
sir, would you mind if we didn’t stand here? You wouldn’t
take offense, sir, if we went in by the garage driveway
where we could be alone for a minute, sir?”

Billy Kane eyed the man critically. Jackson, immaculate
in his livery, appeared to be quite himself; but Jackson at
times had been known to possess a greater fondness for a
bottle than was good for him.

“What is it, Jackson?” he demanded still more sharply.
“Did Mr. Ellsworth send you here?”

“No, sir; he didn’t,” the man answered nervously. “But,
if you please, Mr. Kane, sir, that is, if you don’t mind, sir,
I’d rather wait until——”

“Very well, Jackson!” Billy Kane interrupted curtly.
“I suppose you have a reason for your rather strange request.
Come along, then, and I’ll listen to what you have to
say.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the man earnestly.

They crossed the Avenue, passed down the cross street,
turned the corner, and a moment later, entering by
the garage driveway, gained the courtyard in the rear of the house.
It was dark here, there were no lights showing from the
back of the house itself or from the garage; and here, close
to the private entrance to the “office” and library, Billy
Kane halted.

“Well, Jackson, what’s it all about?” he inquired
brusquely.

“If you please, Mr. Kane, sir”—the man’s voice had
taken on a curious, quavering note—“don’t speak so loud.
We—you—you might be heard, sir, from the servants’ entrance
over there. I—Mr. Kane, sir—Mr. Ellsworth has
been murdered, and the money, sir, and the rubies are
gone.”

Billy Kane was conscious only that he had reached out
and grasped the footman’s arm. They were very black, the
shadows of the house, and it was dark about him, but
strange quick little red flashes seemed to dance and dart
and shoot before his eyes; and in his brain the man’s words
kept repeating themselves over and over in an insistent sort
of way, and the words seemed meaningless except that they
were pregnant with an overwhelming and numbing horror.

“For God’s sake, sir, let go my arm—you’re breaking it!”
moaned the footman in a whisper.

The man’s voice seemed to clear Billy Kane’s brain.
David Ellsworth—murdered! The horror was still there,
but now there came a fury beyond control, and a bitter
grief that racked him to the soul. David Ellsworth, his
second father, the gentlest man and the kindest he had ever
known—*murdered*! His hand dropped to his side, and,
turning, he sprang up the few steps to the entrance just in
front of him. He whipped out his key, opened the door,
and stepped forward into the passageway. At his right was
the door to the stenographer’s room, and beyond, opening
from that room, was the door to the library. He felt for
the door handle, for there was no light in the passage, and,
finding it, opened the door—and stood there rigid and motionless
like a man turned to stone. Across the blackness of
the intervening room the library door was partially open,
and sprawled upon the floor lay the figure of a white-haired
man, only the hair was blotched with a great crimson stain—and
it was David Ellsworth. And something came choking
into Billy Kane’s throat, and a blinding mist before his
eyes shut out the sight.

“In Heaven’s name, don’t go in there, sir!” Jackson was
beside him again, whispering in his ear, and pulling the
door softly shut. “Don’t, sir—don’t go—they’ll get you!”

“Get—*me*! What do you mean?” Billy Kane whirled
on the man.

“For the love of God, sir,” pleaded Jackson, “don’t speak
so loud! I’m risking my neck for you, as it is, sir. There’s
a couple of plain-clothesmen waiting up in your room, sir,
hiding there, and there’s another two hiding in the front
hall.”

“Are you mad, Jackson!” Billy Kane’s voice was low
enough now in its blank amazement.

“I’m telling you the truth, sir,” Jackson whispered tensely.
“They’ve got you dead to rights, sir. There ain’t a chance,
except to run for it—and that’s what I’d do, sir, if I were
you, Mr. Kane. I didn’t mean you to enter the house at all,
but you acted so quick I couldn’t stop you.”

Billy Kane’s two hands fell in an iron grip on the other’s
shoulders, and in the darkness he bent his head forward
to stare into the man’s face and eyes.

“You mean, Jackson,” he said hoarsely, “that *you* believe
I did that?”

The man wriggled himself free from Billy Kane’s grip.

“It’s not for me to say sir,” he answered uneasily. “I—I
can only tell you what they say.”

“Tell me, then!” Billy Kane’s voice, low as it was, was
deadly in its even, monotonous tone.

“Yes, sir,” said Jackson. “Keep your ear close to my
lips, sir If anyone hears us, it’s all up. They found him,
Mr. Ellsworth, sir, lying there dead in the library with his
head split open, about half an hour after you went out, sir.
You were with him in the library after dinner alone, sir;
and no one was with him after that, and—don’t grip me
again like that, sir, or I can’t go on. You don’t know your
own strength, sir, Mr. Kane.”

“Go on, Jackson!” breathed Billy Kane. “I’m sorry!
Go on!”

“Yes, sir; thank you, sir. It was Peters, the butler, sir,
who found the body, and he sent for the police. Mrs.
Ellsworth doesn’t know anything about it yet, sir. They’re
afraid to tell her, she’s so delicate and sick, sir. It was
about half an hour after you went out, sir, as I said, that
Peters went to see Mr. Ellsworth about something, and
found him there like you just saw, sir. And then the police
came, sir, and they figured that you did it before you went
out, and that you went out to dispose of the money and
jewels, sir, in some safe place, and maybe also as a sort of
alibi like, so that they’d think it was done while you were
away, sir, and that when you returned, if you did return,
sir, you would profess horror and surprise, sir.”

“Are you mad, Jackson!” Billy Kane said again.

“No, sir—you’ll see, sir—they’ve got you dead to rights.
Both the vault and safe doors were open, and the money
and rubies gone, and on the floor of the vault, way in by the
wall under the lower shelf, like it had fluttered in there
without you noticing it, sir, was a card with the combinations
on it, and it was in your handwriting, Mr. Kane, sir.
And in Mr. Ellsworth’s hand, clutched there tight, sir, was
a little piece of black silk cord, and on the floor, under the
table, sir, where it must have rolled without you knowing
it, sir, was a black button.”

“I don’t understand,” said Billy Kane, a little numbly
now. There had been something grotesquely absurd, something
in the nature of a ghastly, hideous and ill-timed joke,
something that was literally the phantasm of a diseased
brain in the murmur of this man’s voice whispering out of
the darkness; but there was creeping upon him now a prescience
as of some deadly and remorseless thing that was
closing down, around and upon him with inexorable and
crushing force. “I don’t understand,” he said again.

“Yes, sir.” Jackson’s low, guarded voice went on. “It’s
not for me to say, sir. You’ll remember, Mr. Kane, that you
were wearing a dinner jacket, and that before going out
you went up to your room and changed. I suppose it was
excitement, sir, and you never noticed it, and it’s not to be
wondered at under the circumstances, sir. The button had
been pulled off the jacket, sir, and had taken the black silk
loop with it. And the button had rolled under the library-table,
Mr. Kane, sir, and the loop was clutched in Mr. Ellsworth’s
hand.”

Billy Kane said no word. There was a strange whirling
in his brain. Some insidious and abhorrent thing was obsessing
his consciousness, but in some way it was not fully
born yet, nor concrete, nor tangible. He raised his hand
and brushed it across his eyes.

“But that’s not all, Mr. Kane, sir.” The whispering
voice was coming out of the darkness again, and it seemed
curiously fraught with implacability, as though, not content
with its unendurable torture, it must torment the more.
“They found a letter in the pocket of your dinner jacket,
Mr. Kane. It was a letter addressed to Mr. Ellsworth,
which the police figure you must have intercepted so that
he wouldn’t see it, you being the one who opens the mail,
sir. It was a letter warning him to look out for you, sir.”

And now it had come like a flash, the clearing of Billy
Kane’s brain, and now it was brutally clear, clear beyond
any possibility of misunderstanding; and, as a man walking
in a fog that had suddenly lifted, he found himself reeling,
in the full consciousness of its horror, on the brink of a
yawning chasm.

“My God!” he cried heavily. “This is damnable!
I——”

“Keep quiet, sir!” implored Jackson frantically. “They’ll
hear you! If you care anything about a chance for your
life, don’t make a sound. The police figured that you would
do one of three things, sir. They figured that after you had
hidden the loot somewhere, you would walk back here as
though nothing had happened, and pretend innocence, not
knowing about that button and the cord, sir; and so there’s
a couple of them waiting for you in the front hall, sir. Or
they thought that you might discover you had lost the card
with the combinations written on it and remember the letter
in your dinner-jacket pocket, sir, and try to get back unobserved,
just as you’ve come in now, sir, and hoping that
the murder hadn’t been discovered in the meantime, try to
recover the card and the letter before you played any other
game; and they meant to let you, sir, only, as I told you,
there’s a couple more hiding up in your room, and you
couldn’t step into the library without the fellows in front
seeing you. Or they thought you might just simply make a
break for it, make your getaway, sir, and never come back
at all; and so there’s an alarm out, and your description, sir,
in every precinct in the city, and all the railway stations are
being watched. But that’s your only chance, sir, to run for
it.”

It was silent here in the great house, ominously, strangely
silent; and the silence grew heavy, and grew *loud* with great
palpitating throbs that hammered at the ear drums—and
then, in the distance, from the other side of the door in
the long passage leading to the front of the house, faint but
nevertheless distinct, there came the sound of an approaching
footstep.

“There’s someone coming!” whispered Jackson wildly.
“Run for it, sir—while you’ve got the chance!”

Billy Kane’s lips were thinned into a hard, straight line.
Run for it! He had never run from anything in all his
life! And now his brain was working in a sort of lightning
debate, battling it out—logic that bade him go, against that
finer sense that bids a brave man drop where he stands
rather than turn his back.

Still nearer came that footstep.

“Run!” prompted Jackson again. “In another minute it
will be too late!”

Billy Kane’s hands were clenched until the nails bit into
the flesh. David Ellsworth had been right. That letter was
but part of a deliberate plot; and the plot had been framed
with hellish ingenuity, not only to secure the fortune in
the vault, but, safeguarding its authors, to fix irrevocably the
guilt upon someone else, upon *him*, Billy Kane. Not a
loophole for escape had been left, every detail had been
worked out with a devil’s craft; the evidence was damning,
incontrovertible, and if, in spite of all, there might still
have lingered a doubt in any jury’s mind, he, Billy Kane,
by an ironic trick of fate had——

“Run, I tell you!” came Jackson’s voice again. “Run,
or—” And then Jackson’s voice lost its deference, and his
whisper was like the snarl of a savage beast—the door along
the passage was opening. “You damn fool! I gave you
your chance, and you wouldn’t take it—now take this!”

Billy Kane reeled suddenly back from the impact, as the
man sprang viciously upon him—and for a moment again
his brain groped blindly in confusion, even as he fought.

Jackson was yelling wildly at the top of his voice.

“Help! Here he is! Quick! Help! I’ve caught him!”

III—INTO THE UNDERWORLD
=======================

It had been dark before the opening of the door had
thrown a dim glow along the rear of the passage, and
Jackson, in his onslaught, had missed what was evidently
intended for a throathold, and his hands, slipping
down, had caught at and bunched the shoulders of Billy
Kane’s coat. But now Billy Kane was in action. His arms,
straightened, shot back behind him—and the coat alone was
in Jackson’s hands.

With an oath, the man dropped the coat to the floor, and
wrenched a revolver from his pocket. But there was light
enough to see now—to see the murder in the other’s eyes—and
to see something there as well that brought a surging
fury whipping through Billy Kane’s veins.

“You devil! I understand it now!” he gritted, as he
snatched and gripped at the other’s wrist.

Jackson was twisting, squirming, fighting like a maniac.

“Help!” he shrieked. “Help! Here he is!”

Cries and shouts answered the man. There came the
sound of racing feet. Then a blinding flash—a wild scream.
And Jackson, the revolver going off in his hands as they
struggled, sagged limply, and, with the revolver clattering
against the wall, slid to the floor—and Billy Kane, with a
bound, was through the back door, and leaping down the
steps to the courtyard.

There was no question in his mind now as to whether
he should run for it, or not. Jackson was one of the murderers
... there must ... be others.... Jackson could
hardly have staged it all alone ... but to remain there and
be caught was but to play into their hands! His brain was
working in flashes swift beyond any measure of time. If
there could still have remained a lingering doubt favorable
to him in any jury’s mind, fate had played him an ironic
trick that would dispel any such doubt instantly. *He had
two thousand dollars of the money from that vault in his
vest pocket at that moment!* And to be caught there, having
presumably gained entrance stealthily by the rear door,
would condemn him out of hand. To run, too, was to condemn
him, that was their hell’s snare that they had laid for
him ... but there was a chance this way! A rage that was
merciless was upon him now. There was a chance this
way ... one chance ... the only chance, not alone of
saving his own life and clearing his own name, but of
bringing to justice the inhuman fiends who had taken David
Ellsworth’s life ... there was a chance ... one chance ...
this way ... that someone would pay ... if he, Billy
Kane, lived, that someone *would* pay!

There came a short, curt shout from behind him, an imperative
order to halt. He had gained the courtyard now,
and was running along the garage driveway, heading for the
street. He glanced back over his shoulder. In the darkness
he could just make out a number of shadowy forms
rushing down the steps.

The order came again. Then the tongue-flame of a revolver
split through the black. And as though a red hot iron
had been laid suddenly across his left shoulder, Billy Kane
gritted his teeth together in pain—and stumbled—and recovered
himself—and plunged out through the driveway gates
to the street.

Halfway down the block, he remembered, was an alleyway;
and, running like a deer now, Billy Kane again glanced
behind him. Forms, a great many of them, though perhaps
his fancy exaggerated the number, were pouring out into
the street in pursuit. The men servants had evidently joined
forces with the detectives; and yelling hoarsely, a pack of
human hounds in cry, with the blood-scent in their nostrils,
were some twenty-five to thirty yards behind.

How curiously warm his shoulder was! He clapped his
right hand upon it, and drew his hand away, red and dripping
wet. He began to feel strangely giddy. The shots
were coming now in a fusillade—but they missed him. He
was even gaining a little, and if it were not for that queer
giddiness, that sense of nausea that seemed to be creeping
steadily upon him, he could have outdistanced them all, and
laughed at them—except that the entire district would soon
be aroused, and speed and lightness of foot would therefore
ultimately avail him little.

He laughed out harshly in grim, mirthless facetiousness.
Logically then, it made small difference whether he had been
hit, or not! It was his head, and not his feet, that must
be depended upon to save him! If he could only get out
of the immediate neighborhood ... yes, that was it ... and
his head must find the way ... only, and he was not very
logical after all, his head seemed possessed with that sick,
swimming, impotent sensation.

He reeled again. Then his teeth clamped hard, and the
sheer nerve of the man asserted itself, and fought back the
purely physical weakness. There was a way, at least a
chance, perhaps a desperate chance, but still a chance—if
the alleyway, that was just ahead now, was dark enough, and
if——

A yell, chorused wildly, went up from behind him, and a
bullet struck the pavement with an angry *spat*, as Billy Kane
swerved into the alleyway. And again he laughed, gasping
out the laugh in a sort of desperate relief. Yes, the alleyway
was black enough, he could not distinguish an object
twenty yards ahead; and that other “if,” something that
would furnish temporary sanctuary, was here, too, at his
right—and five yards in from the street, he sprang for the
top of a board fence, flung himself over, dropped down on
the other side, and lay motionless upon the ground.

It was a matter of seconds—no more. The pursuers
swept into the alleyway, and tearing down its length, shouting
as they went, rushed by that spot, so *innocently close*
to the street, where their quarry lay.

And now Billy Kane was on his feet again, and cautiously,
silently, raised himself to the top of the fence once more.
He had counted on just this exactly, it was simply what was
naturally to be expected, and he knew no elation on that
score. The chance, the one chance he had, still lay ahead
of him, and was still to be taken—and to be taken without
an instant’s loss of time before the neighborhood became
aroused to the extent of pouring curiously out-of-doors.
Across the intervening street the alleyway extended in the
opposite direction, and if he could gain the other side,
double on his tracks, he would, for the time being at least,
be safe.

The sound of the pursuit came from well down the alleyway
now, and the pursuers were lost to sight in the blackness.
He swung himself over the fence, dropped without a
sound into the alleyway, and keeping close against the fence,
crept forward to the edge of the street.

And then Billy Kane’s lips moved in a silent prayer of
fervent thankfulness for that quiet and sedate neighborhood
that had not instantly responded to the disturbance. It had
seemed hours, of course, since that shot had been fired at him
in the courtyard of David Ellsworth’s home, but in reality
he knew that it could scarcely have been much more than a
minute ago. The street, to all appearances, was deserted;
and Billy Kane, quick now, running again, darted out from
the lane; and, mindful that if he crossed the street in a
direct line, he would be in the light, and that any one of
those in the alleyway behind who might chance to look back
would see him, made a slight detour, and a moment later
gained the alleyway again where it continued on from the
opposite side of the street.

He ran on now breathlessly. It had been raining hard
that morning, and the ground under foot was soft and slippery.
He reeled once, and fell—and rose splattered with
grime and mud. He laughed again, but his laugh was desperate
now. It had been bad enough before—coatless, and
with a blood-soaked shirt—but his appearance must be disreputable
beyond description now, so disreputable that he
would attract instant suspicion the moment he were seen by
anyone, and this quite apart even from the fact that before
very long the net spread for the “murderer” of David Ellsworth
would widen, and every man and woman abroad in
that great city to-night would automatically become allies of
the police in apprehending him.

He stopped. He was at the end of the alleyway, and it
did not seem to extend again on the other side of the next
street. But he must go on—somehow. He brushed his hand
across his eyes. His shoulder pained him, and those dizzy
flashes kept recurring, though perhaps not now with such
great frequency. He must go on—somehow. That was essential.
He must put as great an immediate distance between
himself and the Ellsworth mansion as possible; later,
if by some means he could get there, if luck broke for him
just a little, his chances would be better, thanks to those
three months of intimacy with the underworld, if he could
get somewhere into the maze of the East Side.

He peered out into the street, waited for some pedestrians
who were near at hand to pass further on, and then, moving
quickly forward, crouched down in the shadows made by
the flight of front door steps of the nearest house.

If he only had a coat! He could walk boldly then along
the street without the blood showing on his white shirt, and
it would cover up enough of the mud so that no one would
pay any particular attention to him. If he only had a coat!
He had two thousand dollars in his vest pocket—but it was
not worth a coat. Anybody would sell him a coat for two
thousand dollars, but—— His hands went to his eyes, and
then pressed against his throbbing temples. Yes, certainly,
his brain was verging on delirium! Why should he think
of Marco’s? Yes, yes, he remembered now! Somebody
was going to break into Marco’s to-night ... and Marco
was a second-hand clothing dealer ... and the back door had
its lock broken ... and the way was open. He could steal
too ... a coat ... at Marco’s ... and that was the only
way he could get a coat ... to steal it ... he dared not
make any attempt to buy one ... and he must have a coat.

His brain cleared again, and he smiled a little ironically
at himself. But the thought of Marco’s now stuck persistently.
It was possible, of course—if he could get to
Marco’s! But Marco’s was a long way off. Marco’s was a
long way downtown on the East Side. He shook his head,
smiling ironically again. Yes, he would very much like to
be there now! That was where he wanted to be—in the
East Side, instead of here!

Billy Kane peered up and down the street again, and again
moved stealthily forward. He repeated these tactics over
and over, sometimes covering only a few yards at a time,
sometimes making as much as half a block, and sometimes
even more when a friendly lane or alleyway offered him the
opportunity. And at the expiration of half an hour he had
covered a distance that surprised even himself, for, though
still uptown, he had succeeded in getting entirely away from
the more wealthy neighborhood.

Another ten minutes passed, and hidden again in the
shadows of a porch, he was staring now with feverish eagerness
at a great, covered motor truck, a furniture van, that
was drawn up in front of what appeared to be a truck-man’s
office across the street. The driver had gone into the
office, but there was the street to cross—and two men were
coming leisurely in his direction along the sidewalk. He
clenched his hands fiercely at his sides. Here was the chance
flaunting him in the face and tantalizing him, the chance
that was a far greater chance even than he had dared hope
for, and he was powerless to avail himself of it unless those
two men passed by before the driver came out again. He
could read the name and address in the huge letters on the
side of the van. It belonged down on the East Side. This
was probably only a small uptown branch office, and the
odds were a hundred to one that the van would be going
home now. And if the driver took a direct route he was
bound to use a cross street that would intersect that lane in
the rear of Marco’s, and intersect it within at least a few
blocks of the second-hand dealer’s shop. Billy Kane’s hands
clenched tighter, and his face was strained and drawn, as
from his hiding place he alternately watched the van and
the two men. Those few blocks through a lane would be
nothing! God, if he could only reach Marco’s—and a coat!
A coat! It seemed an absurd thing to be of such moment—a
coat! But it meant life or death. A coat would cover his
blood-stained shirt, and he would be able to move with freedom
enough to give him at least a fighting chance, and——

The two men had passed by; there was no one else in
sight. He waited another moment until they were still
further away—and then, in a flash, Billy Kane was across
the road, and had swung himself over the tail-board into the
van. It seemed like some vast cavernous place here inside,
for the van was empty, save for what appeared to be, as
nearly as he could make out in the gloom, some large pieces
of crated furniture piled at the front end just behind the
driver’s seat. Billy Kane’s eyes swept the interior anxiously—and
the drawn, strained look in Billy Kane’s face relaxed.
By lying flat on the floor of the van the driver would
hardly be likely to notice him in any case; but, to make
assurance doubly sure, some bits of sacking, evidently used
to wrap around and protect furniture from being scratched
and marred, were strewn about on the floor. Billy Kane
pulled off his slouch hat, that had been jammed down over
his eyes, drew a piece of the sacking over him, and lay
still.

And then presently he heard the driver come out from the
office. The man climbed to his seat. The van jolted forward.
Billy Kane’s hand, under the sacking, felt tentatively
over his shoulder. It was paining him brutally, and was
burning and hot, but it seemed to have stopped bleeding,
and the sense of nausea and giddiness had passed away. It
was a flesh wound only, probably; or, at least, the bullet
had not fractured any bone, for he could move both
shoulder and arm readily.

And now, safe for the moment, Billy Kane’s mind was
back on the events of the evening; and for a time grief
for the man he loved had its sway; and then came fury, pitiless
and remorseless, and a cry in his soul for vengeance;
and then a quiet, measured analysis of every detail, an
analysis that was deadly in its cold, unnatural calm. Jackson’s
acts in that back passageway, Jackson’s possession of a
revolver, and Jackson’s words at the end stamped the footman
irrevocably as being one of the men in the murder
plot. And with Jackson’s guilt established as a premise, the
rest unravelled itself step by step, clearly, logically, irrefutably.

David Ellsworth’s deductions had proved themselves in
ghastly truth. The letter had been written as the initiatory
step toward incriminating him, Billy Kane, in the robbery
that was to follow; and this demanded, even as he had
argued before, that the vault and safe combinations should
be known to a third party. Who knew them? The answer
came now quickly and emphatically enough—someone within
the house—Jackson. He remembered now, though he
had paid no attention to it before, that Jackson had been
in the library on several occasions when he, Billy Kane,
was opening the vault. It had probably taken the man a
month or two, perhaps more, watching both David Ellsworth
and himself at every opportunity and with infinite
patience, to pick up little by little, possibly but a single number
or turn at a time, the combinations—but he had undoubtedly
accomplished it finally.

The original plan had certainly not contemplated the murder
of David Ellsworth, for the letter was primarily intended
to make the old millionaire one of the first to accuse
him, Billy Kane, of the crime—there having been left on the
scene of the crime, of course, in that case, as David Ellsworth
had also reasoned, some further damning evidence of
his, Billy Kane’s, supposed guilt. But the changing of the
combinations had completely upset that original plan. Who
was it, then, who knew that the combinations *had* been
changed? Again the question answered itself almost automatically.
It must have been someone in the house at
the time, and someone who was both listening and watching—Jackson.
True, David Ellsworth had looked out into the
hall, and had opened the door and looked into the unlighted
stenographer’s room, but he had done it only cursorily, and
Jackson all the time might well have been hiding in that
room—in fact, must have been hiding there.

The rest was self-evident. Without the combinations they
were helpless, but the new combinations were on a card in
David Ellsworth’s pocket. It had been necessary, then, only
to add *murder* to the theft, employing as accessories the
card, the letter, the button and the black silk loop, in order
to seize the opportunity of the moment; for, the card bearing
the combinations once destroyed or out of reach, the months
of work that had been put in to secure the old combinations
would have to be repeated to obtain the new—and with
very little likelihood of success, since Jackson would know
that David Ellsworth’s suspicions were thoroughly aroused.

The van rolled rapidly downtown. Billy Kane, peering
out from under the sacking, kept watch on the streets
through which he passed. But his mind was still busy with
its problem.

Jackson’s act in accosting him on the corner, and afterwards
luring him by suggestion to the rear of the house,
had puzzled him at first, but that, too, was clear enough
now. There was a grain of truth in what the man had said
about giving him a chance, though Jackson would care little
enough whether he ultimately got away, or not. Jackson’s
idea, or perhaps the idea of a keener brain behind
Jackson, was to prevent him, Billy Kane, from entering the
house at all, and so, by inducing him to run for it, to corroborate
the evidence of guilt against him, in which case,
being a self-elected fugitive, he would be doubly condemned
if eventually caught. On the other hand, if he refused to
listen and insisted on entering the house, as they were afraid
he might do, they meant to see to it that his entrance was
made by apparent stealth, and here again he but added the
final touch to the evidence against him, and discredited himself
beyond any hope or possibility of recovery. Jackson
had taken no personal risk or chance in doing this, as far as
the police were concerned; and it was evident now that
Jackson had meant to *kill* him there in that back passageway
should he, Billy Kane, persist in refusing to run. The case
and all investigation would have ended automatically if he,
Billy Kane were killed under such circumstances. It was all
simplicity itself! Jackson had only to call for help, as he
had done when the issue was forced by that approaching
footstep, pretend that he had discovered him, Billy Kane,
creeping into the house, and had rushed upon him—that he,
Billy Kane, had drawn the revolver, but that in the struggle
had been shot himself. With the evidence as it stood, with
his, Billy Kane’s guilt so apparently obvious, Jackson would
not only have been believed, but would have been rewarded
and lauded as a hero.

Still the van rolled on—mostly through deserted streets,
for the traffic was light at that time of night. Perhaps
another twenty minutes passed. Then Billy Kane began to
edge toward the rear end of the truck. He was in the East
Side now, and approaching the neighborhood of Marco’s
second-hand clothing store.

Was Jackson dead? Billy Kane shook his head. He did
not know. A grim smile twisted his lips. He hoped not—not
from any sympathy for the man, for the man’s punishment
in that case had been almost too merciful a retribution,
but because in Jackson was embodied the clue that
would lead, if he, Billy Kane, escaped, to that day of reckoning
that, cost what it might, he meant should come.

The van was in a narrow and ill-lighted street now.
Marco’s was still two streets further downtown, but in the
block ahead was the lane that, running north and south,
passed the rear of Marco’s place.

Billy Kane sat suddenly upright on the tail-board of the
van, the piece of sacking thrown now around his shoulders.
If the driver happened to look around and see him, the supposition
would be that he had hopped on to steal a ride;
and if the driver ordered him off it mattered very little,
since, in another yard or so anyhow, the van, as far as he
was concerned, would have lost its usefulness. He leaned
out, and glanced ahead of him up the street. There were a
few people about, but not many, and none in the immediate
vicinity of the lane that was now just at hand; but even if
he were seen for an instant as he left the van, he would not
be running any very great risk for he would be out of sight
again before any particular attention could be riveted upon
him; and, besides, in that miserable and sordid quarter a
man might do many things out of the ordinary, for instance,
dive suddenly into a lane and disappear, without exciting
even passing curiosity or notice.

He jerked his slouch hat over his eyes, flung off the sacking,
dropped to the ground, and slipped across the sidewalk
into the lane. And now he was running again. He reached
the next intersecting street, and was forced to draw back
under cover to wait for an opportunity to cross unnoticed.
And then the chance came, and he continued on down the
lane on the opposite side of the street again.

Marco’s was the second store in from the next corner on
the street that paralleled the lane, and halfway down he
stopped running and began to move forward cautiously.
It was very black in here, and he wished now that he had
looked at his watch when he had had the opportunity; but
it must be somewhere around ten o’clock. It was two hours,
then, since he had overheard that telephone conversation in
which Laverto had said that all he cared was that the man to
whom he was telephoning should be away from Marco’s
before a quarter of eleven.

Billy Kane was crouched now in the darkness against the
back door of the second-hand shop. The chances were that
whoever Laverto had been telephoning to had already been
here and gone. Certainly two hours would have given any
one ample time, and as Laverto had said that Marco did not
keep open in the evening there would have been no cause
for delay on that score.

He placed his ear to the panel of the door, and listened.
There was no sound, and he tried the door. It stuck a little
in spite of its broken lock, and gave with a slight squeak.
Billy Kane drew in his breath sharply, and listened again.
There was still no sound. He closed the door behind him,
and crept forward, feeling his way with his hands along the
wall in the pitch blackness. The flooring was old, and once
it creaked under his foot, causing his lips to tighten rigidly,
and his face to set in a hard, dogged way. He had no
matches—they, in the match-safe that he usually carried in
the ticket-pocket of his coat, were gone with the coat. A
coat! All sense of absurdity in the length to which he was
going to obtain so common-place an article as a coat had
vanished. It was the one, final, ultimate, essential thing that
he must and would have if he was to know a single chance
for life. Without it he might as well throw up the sponge
at once, but if his luck still held he would get one now.
Marco’s stock of clothing would naturally be in the shop
in front, and——

His hand dove suddenly forward into space, and he
halted for an instant. He had come to an open doorway on
his right. He felt around him in all directions. The passage
seemed to end a foot or so ahead, and to lead nowhere but
into what was probably the back room here at his side.
The entrance, then, to the shop proper would be through the
back room.

Again he moved forward, crossed the threshold, and
again halted. It was dark, intensely dark, and he could see
nothing; and it was still and silent, and there was no sound.
But suddenly he found himself standing in a tense, strained
attitude, his head thrown a little forward, his eyes striving
to pierce the darkness. He could hear nothing, see nothing—but
the sense of *presence* was strong upon him.

A minute passed, the seconds dragging out interminably—and
he did not move. And then it seemed that close to him
he caught a faint stirring sound. But he was not sure. It
might have been his imagination. The silence, so heavy and
prolonged, had taken on strange little noises of its own.
Billy Kane’s lips thinned. He was bare-handed, wounded
and unarmed, but he had a stake that he would fight for
with a beast’s ferocity. And that stake was a coat! If
there was anyone here, if it was more than his excited
and wrought-up fancy playing tricks upon him, it was certain
at least that it was not the police, for the police would
have no incentive to play at cat-and-mouse, and therefore it
was probably the man, not yet through with his work, to
whom Laverto had telephoned; it was probably a *fellow*
thief, fellow since he, Billy Kane, had also come to steal—a
coat. Well, he would at least end the suspense! He
turned in the direction from which he thought the sound,
imaginary or real, had come, took a step forward—and
stood still, hands clenched at his sides, as he blinked, through
the ray of a flashlight that was suddenly thrown full in his
face, at the round, ugly muzzle of a revolver that held a
steady bead upon him on a level with his eyes.

A voice came through the silence in a savage, guttural
snarl:

“Throw up yer mitts, youse——” The words ended in an
amazed and startled oath. The revolver muzzle sagged
downward, as though the hand that held it had become suddenly
powerless. “Well, fer Gawd’s sake, if it ain’t de
Rat!” gasped the voice in a hoarse whisper. “When did
youse get back? I thought youse was hobnobbin’ wid some
of de swells youse used to know, an’ was givin’ Noo Yoik
de icy paw until next month!”

IV—ALIAS THE RAT
================

Billy Kane’s face was impassive. The keen, alert
brain was working with desperate speed. There had
come in a flash with the other’s words a vista, not
quite clear, nor distinct, but a vista that seemed to promise
the way and the chance, not only of immediate escape from
this place here, but perhaps more than that—assistance,
help, perhaps even refuge and temporary sanctuary from
the police who, before morning, would be scouring every
quarter of New York in an effort to capture him. This
man, a thief, a criminal, one of the underworld himself, had
obviously mistaken him, Billy Kane, for another of his own
ilk—for one known as the Rat. His appearance, disreputable,
blood-stained and mud-covered, had undoubtedly been
a very large factor in bringing about the man’s mistake, it
was true; but that did not in any way apply to his, Billy
Kane’s, *face*, and his face had been, and was still, full in
the pitiless glare of the flashlight. Therefore he must to a
very remarkable extent resemble this so-called Rat. And,
moreover, this Rat must be a figure of some consequence in
the underworld; for, even through the man’s hoarse and
amazed tones, Billy Kane’s quick ear had caught a note of
almost cringing deference. And then Billy Kane’s under
jaw crept out a little, and his eyes narrowed. Well, for the
moment, at least, he would play the part—because he must.

“Who in hell are you?” he demanded gruffly. “I can’t see
you behind that light.”

“I’m Whitie Jack,” the other answered mechanically.

“Whitie Jack, eh?” snapped Billy Kane. “Well, then”—his
hand shot out, and pushed the flashlight roughly away—“take
your cursed lamp out of my eyes? What are you
playing at?”

“Sure!” mumbled the man. “Sure—it’s all right! Only
youse gave me de jumps sneakin’ in here. Bundy Morgan—de
Rat! Wot’s de idea?”

Nothing perhaps would confirm the man more in his mistake
than an allusion to the common enemy—the police.
Billy Kane dropped into the vernacular. But the man’s
reference to “de swells youse used to know” had given him
his cue. The Rat at one time had probably known quite a
different station in life, and the Rat’s speech therefore, even
in the vernacular, would hardly be ungrammatical.

“A coat,” said Billy Kane tersely. “The bulls have got
my costume spotted.”

“Swipe me!” Whitie Jack drew in his breath in a low
whistle. “De bulls—eh? So dat’s de lay! Well, youse wait
a minute, an’ I’ll get youse one. Youse look as though
youse had blamed near cashed in! Youse have spilled a lot
of red out of dat shoulder, eh?”

“It’s pretty bad,” answered Billy Kane laconically.

“Sure!” said Whitie Jack again; and then, eagerly, the
deference back in his voice: “Well, youse wait a minute,
Bundy, an’ I’ll get youse de best coat de old geezer’s got—though
dat’s not sayin’ much, for dere’s nothin’ here but a
bunch of rags.”

The man was gone. Billy Kane leaned back against the
wall. His hand swept across his eyes. It seemed as though
for hours he had been living through some horrible and
ghastly nightmare from which he could not awake. He was
Billy Kane, whom the world, in the morning, would proclaim
the murderer of David Ellsworth; but he was also
now Billy Kane, alias Bundy Morgan, alias the Rat! Again
his hand swept across his eyes. And the Rat—who was
the Rat? And what——

Whitie Jack was back.

“Here!” said Whitie Jack. “Here youse are!” He
handed Billy Kane a coat, and his flashlight fell again on
Billy Kane’s shoulder. “Say, dat’s bad!” he jerked out;
and then, irrelevantly, “Say, wouldn’t it sting youse—youse
showin’ up here! When did youse blow into town, Bundy?”

“To-night,” said Billy Kane.

“Well, youse didn’t take long in startin’ something!” said
Whitie Jack admiringly. He helped Billy Kane on with
the coat. “Was it a big one, Bundy?”

“No,” said Billy Kane. “Only a fight, but someone got
*hurt* in the fight—get me, Whitie? And the bulls are out
for fair.”

Whitie Jack drew in his breath in a low, comprehensive
whistle again.

“Sing Sing, an’ de juice route—eh?” he muttered. “Did
dey spot who youse were?”

“No,” said Billy Kane.

“Aw, well den, wot de hell!” observed Whitie Jack, with
a sudden grin. “Dat’s easy! Youse have got a coat now,
an’ we’ll beat it over for yer dump, an’ dat’s de end of it!
You have got to get dat shoulder fixed, an’ I’m some guy
wid de bandage stuff—-believe me!”

Billy Kane did not answer for a moment. Well, why
not? He had accepted the absent Rat’s personality, why
not the absent Rat’s hospitality? It would afford him shelter
for the moment, and he was living, feeling, groping his
way now only from moment to moment. Also, and what
was of even more urgent importance, he must somehow
and in some way get his wound dressed.

The flashlight in Whitie Jack’s hand was sweeping in a
circle around the room—in a sort of precautionary leave-taking
survey of the place, as it were. The room was evidently
the proprietor’s office; but from what Billy Kane
could see of it, it was bare and uninviting enough. He
caught a glimpse of a rough table and a couple of chairs,
and then the flashlight went out. But he was still staring,
through the darkness now, toward the far end of the room—and
it seemed that he could still see just as vividly as
though the light still played upon the spot. There was an
old safe there, a large and cumbrous thing, long out of date,
and the door sagged on its hinges where it had been blown
open, and the floor around it was littered with the books
and papers it had evidently contained.

“That’s a bum job you made, Whitie!” commented Billy
Kane sarcastically. “You’re an artist, you are! What did
you expect to get out of a piker hang-out like this?”

“Aw, forget it!” returned Whitie Jack. “It ain’t so bum!
I’d like to see youse crack a box in here wid soup, an’
not wake de whole town up. Dat’s wot I get mine for—a
century note—see? Dere wasn’t nothin’ in de safe! Not a
nickel! It’s a stall—savvy? But, come on, Bundy, we’ll
beat it out of here, an’ get youse fixed up.”

A stall! What did Whitie Jack mean? Whitie Jack,
at Antonio Laverto’s instigation, had blown open the safe,
knowing beforehand that there was nothing in it! What
was Laverto’s game? Billy Kane mechanically made his
way out along the passage, the flashlight winking in Whitie
Jack’s hand behind him. What was the game? Laverto was
no fool, and there seemed an ominous something back of it
all, but he dared not press Whitie Jack, or appear too inquisitive.
His own position now was precarious enough as
it was, and needed all his wits to see him through. For
instance, they were going now to the Rat’s quarters, to what
was supposedly *his*, Billy Kane’s, quarters—and he had not
the faintest idea where, or in what direction, those quarters
might be! Billy Kane smiled grimly in the darkness. But
Whitie Jack evidently knew. Therefore Whitie Jack, without
knowing it, must be made to act as *guide*!

They were outside now. Whitie Jack had closed the door.
Billy Kane raised his hand to his head, smiled grimly again
to himself in the darkness, and stumbled heavily against
his companion.

“Wot’s wrong?” whispered Whitie Jack anxiously.
“Here, buck up, Bundy!”

“I guess I’m bad—worse than I thought I was—my head’s
going round,” mumbled Billy Kane. “You’ll have to help
me, Whitie.”

“Sure, I will!” returned Whitie Jack encouragingly. He
slipped his arm through Billy Kane’s. “Youse just buck
up, Bundy! An’ don’t youse be afraid to throw yer weight
on me. ’Taint far, an’ we’ll make it all right.”

Billy Kane, his object accomplished, leaned not lightly on
Whitie Jack. Occasionally, as he walked along, he staggered
and lurched, playing up his rôle—but only when the
street in his immediate neighborhood was clear, and he ran
no risk of attracting attention to himself and his companion!

It was not far, a few blocks; and then Whitie Jack, still
unsuspectingly acting as guide, was helping Billy Kane down
the half dozen steps of one of those cellar-like entrances to
the basement of a low building in the middle of a block.

The building seemed to be a store of some kind, but it was
closed, the dingy front window dark, and in the none too
well lighted street Billy Kane could not make out exactly
what it was. At the bottom of the steps they halted—before
a locked door—and for an instant again that grim,
desperate smile twisted Billy Kane’s lips. And then he
laughed shortly, as his free hand fumbled in the pockets of
the stolen coat.

“Kick it in, Whitie!” he growled. “I haven’t got the key.
I lost my coat.”

“Nothin’ doin’!” said Whitie Jack complacently. “I got
de goods, ain’t I? Wot d’youse think!”

From his pocket Whitie Jack produced a bunch of what
were evidently skeleton keys; and, trying first one and then
another, finally opened the door. His flashlight played
through into the interior, and indicated a chair that stood
before a table.

“Youse go over dere an’ sit down, an’ get yer coat an’
shirt off, an’ leave de rest to me,” he directed.

Billy Kane, lurching again, stumbled into the chair, as
Whitie Jack, closing and locking the door, located an incandescent
that hung from the ceiling, and switched on the
light.

“Say, where do youse keep yer stuff?” demanded Whitie
Jack. “A shirt’ll do—anything to tear up an’ make a bandage
wid, see?”

Billy Kane did not answer. He did not know! Instead,
he let his head sag limply forward, and fall on his crossed
arms upon the table.

“Aw, buck up, Bundy!” pleaded Whitie Jack anxiously.
“Youse’ll be all right in a minute. Dat’s de boy! Buck up!
It’s all right! Leave it to me! I’ll find something!”

Still Billy Kane did not answer. His face hidden in his
arms, he was making a surreptitious, but none the less critical,
survey of his surroundings. It was a large room,
evidently comprising the entire basement of the building;
and the single incandescent that it boasted seemed only to
enhance, with its meager light, the sort of forbidding sordidness,
as it were, that pervaded the place. There were
no windows. The walls had been boarded in with cheap
lumber that had warped and bulged in spots, and the walls
had been painted once—but so long ago that they had lost
any distinctive color, and had faded into a murky, streaky
yellow. The room was dirty and ill-kempt. A few old
pieces of carpet were strewn about the floor, and for decoration
prints from various magazines and Sunday supplements
were tacked here and there around the walls. There was
a bed in one corner; a wardrobe made by hanging a piece
of old cretonne diagonally across another corner; a sink at
one side of the room; and, at the far end, a bureau, whose
looking-glass seemed to be abnormally large. Billy Kane
studied the looking-glass for a moment curiously. It seemed
to reflect back some object that he could not quite identify,
something that glittered a little in the light. And then Billy
Kane smiled a sort of grim appreciation. Whitie Jack had
left his keys hanging in the lock of the door—the mirror
held in faithful focus the only entrance to the place that the
Rat’s lair apparently possessed!

And now the reflection of the door in the mirror was
blotted out, and the figure of Whitie Jack took its place.
The man had crossed the room from an apparently abortive
search behind the cretonne hanging, and was rummaging
now in the drawers of the bureau. And then, with a grunt
of satisfaction, and with what looked like a shirt and some
underclothing flung over his arm, Whitie Jack made his
way to the sink, filled a basin with water, and returned to
the table.

Billy Kane raised his head heavily—and with well-simulated
painful effort aided in the removal of his coat, vest
and shirt.

“Dat’s de stuff, Bundy!” said Whitie Jack approvingly.

It was a flesh wound, angry and nasty enough in appearance
when the clotted blood was washed away, but still only
a flesh wound. Whitie Jack surveyed it judicially.

“’Tain’t so worse, Bundy!” he announced reassuringly.
“Youse’ll be all to de good in a day or so.” He began to
rip and tear the underclothing into strips. “Youse’ll need
de shirt to wear, an’ dis stuff’ll do for de bandages,” he
explained. “See?”

“Yes,” said Billy Kane.

The man dressed the wound with amazing deftness,
stepped back to observe his own work admiringly, and then,
picking up the folded shirt, shook it out, and began to unbutton
it.

“Now den, Bundy,” he said, “get dis on, an’——” He
stopped. From where it had been hidden in the folds of
the shirt, a little black object dropped to the floor. Whitie
Jack stooped, picked it up, glanced at it, and tossed it on the
table. “An’ dat ain’t so dusty a place to hide it, neither!”
grinned Whitie Jack. “Now den, up wid yer arms, an’ on
wid de shirt.”

Billy Kane made no comment. The object Whitie Jack
had picked up was a black mask. He raised his arms, and
with deliberate difficulty struggled into the shirt.

“How d’youse feel now?” inquired Whitie Jack.

“Better,” said Billy Kane. “You’re an artist with the
swab rags, Whitie.”

“Sure!” said Whitie Jack. “Well, I guess dat’s all.
Youse go to bed now, an’ keep quiet. I’ll tip de fleet off
dat youse are back on de job.”

Billy Kane shook his head sharply.

“I don’t want anybody butting in around here to-night!”
he said roughly.

“No, sure, youse don’t!” agreed Whitie Jack, with an oath
for emphasis. “Don’t youse worry, I’ll wise ’em up to
dat. Dere won’t be nobody around here till youse says
so—youse know dat, don’t youse? I ain’t never heard of
any guy huntin’ trouble wid de Rat yet—an’ I guess dat ain’t
no con steer!”

Billy Kane was standing up now. It seemed strange, almost
incredibly strange that this man, one who evidently
knew the so-called Rat intimately and well, had accepted
him, Billy Kane, without the slightest suspicion that there
could exist any question regarding his identity. He had
been watching and on his guard all the time that Whitie
Jack had been dressing his wound, but though Whitie Jack
had seen him under the full glare of a flashlight, and again
in this lighted room here, their heads close together as the
other had bent over him, Whitie Jack was obviously possessed
of no doubts that he, Billy Kane, was anyone other
than the Rat! Well, it might be strange, but at least it
was undeniably true; so true that now that vista, which
he had glimpsed with Whitie Jack’s first words of mistaken
recognition, was spreading out again before him, but more
concretely now, opening a staggering possibility; so true that
he dared not jeopardize anything by appearing too inquisitive
about Marco’s, for instance—much as Marco’s was still
in his mind! Marco’s! No, he was not through with Marco’s,
for more reasons than one. There was some queer
deviltry that Laverto was hatching there—at a quarter to
eleven—and he meant to see it through. But, after all, even
if he broached the subject again to Whitie Jack, who was
patently only a tool in the affair, what more could Whitie
Jack tell him, except the name of the man who had hired
him to blow open an old safe whose contents were worthless—and
that man’s name he, Billy Kane, already knew.
No, he was not through with Marco’s! But he would gain
nothing, save perhaps to excite suspicion, by speaking of it
again to Whitie Jack.

“Youse get to bed, an’ get some sleep!” prompted Whitie
Jack. “Youse can leave de mob to me.”

“Thanks, Whitie,” said Billy Kane. He moved across
the room, and flung himself down on the bed. “I’m not
going to forget this. You’ve handed me the glad paw to-night—and
I’m not going to forget it.”

“Aw, dat’s all right!” said Whitie Jack earnestly. “I
knows youse ain’t! An’, say, youse can take it from me
on de level dat I’d rather have had dis chance dan have a
thousand long green bucks in me mitt dis minute. Say, I
knows it, don’t I, dat de Rat never forgets; an’ I knows
dere’s about a million guys around here dat would give deir
eye teeth for de chance dat came my way to-night!”

It was strange again—but the servility in the man’s tones
that was coupled with elation was genuine beyond doubt.
The Rat was unquestionably a character of prominence
and power in the sordid realm wherein he appeared, by
some at least, by this Whitie Jack for example, to be held
in awe. That being so, it was obviously the Rat’s prerogative
to command—Whitie Jack.

“All right, Whitie—that goes!” said Billy Kane tersely.
“And now, beat it! But before you go leave me your gun.
I got cleaned out when I lost my coat, and if anything
comes of that little game of mine to-night I might need
your iron. Yes, and leave those keys, too—I’ve no other
way to lock the door.”

“Sure!” said Whitie Jack promptly. He took his revolver
from his pocket, laid it on the table, and walked to the
door. “Are youse sure dere’s nothin’ else youse wants,
Bundy?”

“No, that’s all,” said Billy Kane.

“Well den, so long, Bundy!” said Whitie Jack. “I’ll see
youse in de mornin’!”

“So long, Whitie!” said Billy Kane.

V—THE SECOND-HAND DEALER
========================

The door closed behind Whitie Jack, the man’s footsteps
echoed back as he climbed to the street, echoed
faintly again from the pavement, and then died
away.

Billy Kane got up from the bed, went to the door, locked
it, and then walked down the length of the room—and
standing in front of the mirror stared into the glass in a
grimly impersonal way. It was himself—Billy Kane. His
face was in no whit changed, except perhaps that there was
a slight pallor there due to loss of blood, and that the lines
were sharper and harder, as though he were, as indeed he
was, under a tense and heavy strain; but, with his collarless
shirt, his trousers covered with mud and dirt, his whole
appearance had taken on an aspect that was at once sinister
and forbidding.

He laughed shortly, and turning abruptly from the mirror,
crossed the room again, and pushed aside the cretonne
hanging. There were some clothes on the wall pegs here.
He gathered them up, and took them nearer to the light for
an inspection. They were old, somewhat greasy, and wholly
disreputable. He laughed shortly again, as he changed
into them. As the Rat, he might venture out, though he
would do well to take care not to be recognized, since Whitie
Jack would have spread the report that he was wounded
and in bed; but he could at least go out without inviting
instant pursuit as the “murderer” of David Ellsworth. He
was safe now for the moment, safe until morning anyhow—and
he could even use those hours, if he would, in an
attempt to put as many miles as possible between himself
and New York! His hands clenched, and into the pallor of
his face the red came burning hot. But he wasn’t going to
do that! That “staggering possibility” was clear before his
mind’s eye now. He wasn’t going to do that; he was going,
instead—to play the Rat—to play the cards that fate, if
one believed in fate, had thrust into his hands—to take the
chance, the one chance, *if the Rat did not come back too
soon*, of clearing his own name, and of bringing to justice
the hell-hounds, who had struck down that gentle gray-haired
man who had been his friend. His hands clenched
harder, until, as they had done once before that night, the
nails bit into the palms. He, Billy Kane—the murderer of
his father’s friend, the murderer of the man who had trusted
him and loved him! It was getting him now with all its
brutal and remorseless force! Broadcast over the country,
by morning his name would have become the synonym of
all that was vile and hideous, and Billy Kane would be
known as one of the most revolting characters in the annals
of crime—a foul and filthy thing who typified the dregs and
lees of human degradation—a thing from whom the friends
of old would turn in horror and in shame, and——

Slowly his hands unclenched. The surge of fury that
had been almost ungovernable passed, and he knew again
that cold, unnatural, deadly calm. If he lived, the guilty
man, or men, would pay! If he were taking a chance now,
a desperate chance, he was taking a chance that no *man*
could do otherwise than take. It was the chance to live—for
one might better otherwise be dead! A chance! He
had picked up Whitie Jack’s revolver, and was twisting it
in his fingers, and now he thrust it suddenly into his pocket.
A chance! He was taking no chance, indeed, save with
the stake that was already flung upon the table—his life.
It was the one way! As the Rat, doubtless well known to
the authorities, he could move under the very noses of the
police at will without suspicion arising that he was Billy
Kane; and as the Rat, if Whitie Jack was to be relied upon
as a criterion, he would have the run of the underworld,
and in the underworld were many secrets, and amongst those
secrets was perhaps the one he sought—the clue to Jackson’s
associates in the murder of David Ellsworth. He was not
blinded to the difficulties of this picking up of the thread of
another man’s life; nor blinded to what was perhaps the
greatest difficulty of all, the necessity of being able to recognize
those with whom he *should be* acquainted, but even that
was not insurmountable. He could see a way, he believed,
to accomplish even that.

But all this was for to-morrow—and the to-morrows after
that! To-night he was going out again—to Marco’s. That
was why he had changed his clothes just now. A graver
thing, the thought of merging his identity with the Rat’s,
had impinged, obtruded itself, as it were, upon his mind.
But he had not forgotten Marco’s.

He picked up his discarded vest, transferred the package
of banknotes and his watch to the pockets of the one he
now wore, and as he did so, he looked at the time. Laverto
had said a quarter to eleven. It was almost that now.
Billy Kane’s eyes strayed over the table, and fell upon the
black mask. The mask, too, went into his pocket. It might
prove a most valuable discovery, that mask—under certain
circumstances even the *Rat’s* identity was not lightly to be
disclosed.

He collected the muddy garments he had taken off, and
tucked them under the mattress on the bed. It was not
likely that anyone would come here, much less attempt to
enter, in his absence; but he was fully aware that now, and
from now on, his life depended upon his caution in every
detail. He extinguished the light, put on his hat, walked to
the door, unlocked it—and stood for a moment hesitant.
Was he a fool to take this added risk, when already his own
back was against the wall, when already he was in desperate
case himself? He shook his head in a sort of exasperated
remonstrance with himself for even his momentary hesitation,
then opening the door, he locked it behind him, and
crept cautiously up the stairs to the street.

Whitie Jack had been only a tool used for the stage-setting
of some deviltry that was to follow—at a quarter of
eleven. That was obvious. He, Billy Kane, had intended
that the police should be informed and should deal with
Laverto, and that he in person should give evidence against
Laverto; but he could no longer inform the police, no
longer give evidence. He was wanted now himself for
*murder*, and so upon him fell the moral obligation to prevent
or render abortive, if he could, a crime that he knew was
pending. And besides—his face hardened suddenly, as he
moved swiftly along, evading the direct rays of the street
lights, and keeping in the shadows—he had a personal
account to settle with Antonio Laverto. If it had not been
for the man’s damnable imposition having succeeded to
the extent that it had, he, Billy Kane, would not have left
the Ellsworth house to-night, and David Ellsworth would
not now——

Billy Kane’s hand, in his pocket, tightened over the butt
of Whitie Jack’s revolver. Unconsciously he quickened his
stride.

Always hugging the shadows, his hat drawn far down
over his face, giving the passers-by he met as wide a berth as
possible, Billy Kane covered the short distance that separated
the Rat’s den from Marco’s. He slipped into the lane
unobserved, and for the second time that night crouched
against the door with the broken lock. But now, mindful
of the door’s tendency to squeak, he pushed it open cautiously
an inch at a time. And then, with the door slightly
open, he stood motionless, a puzzled and amazed expression
on his face. Just exactly what he had expected to
find here, he was not prepared to say—but certainly not this!
A faint light came through from the door of the back room
into the hallway, and from the room there came a woman’s
voice that mingled a sort of pitiful defiance with a sob.

“It’s not true! I tell you it’s not true! The boy never
did it!”

“So!” It was a man’s voice now, caustic and unrelenting.
“Well, where is he now, then?”

“I don’t know,” the woman replied. “I haven’t seen him
since supper. But that’s got nothing to do with it. That
doesn’t prove anything.”

“So!” It was the man again. “Well, maybe not! But
I am not to be fooled! I am a poor man. I cannot afford
to lose my money. So, it has nothing to do with it, eh?
You say that because you are his mother, eh? But did he
tell you at supper that I had discharged him this afternoon?
Eh? Answer me that!”

“N-no.” The answer seemed to come reluctantly.

Billy Kane pushed the outer door a little wider open and
slipped through. Keeping close to the wall, he edged forward
until he could see into the back room through its open
door. A frown came and knitted his brows in hard furrows.
He was frankly puzzled now. The woman, a tall,
powerful, muscular woman of middle age, but curiously
frail now in obvious fear and emotion, was Mrs. Clancy,
who kept the little notion shop next door on the corner;
and the other, bent-shouldered, in long, greasy black coat,
with long, untrimmed and dirty white beard, whose eyes
were distorted behind the heavy lenses of his steel-bowed
spectacles, was Marco, the proprietor of the second-hand
store. Marco was apparently in a state of equal distress
and excitement. He alternatively wrung his hands together
and gesticulated furiously.

“Eight hundred dollars!” he cried out wildly. “Do you
hear, you, the mother of that brat? Eight hundred dollars!
All I have on earth! And it is gone! Stolen by that cursed
young prison bird of yours! So he did not tell you, eh,
that I discharged him this afternoon because I was sure
he was making little stealings from me all the time? But
you are not surprised, eh? Maybe he has stolen from you,
too, eh?”

The woman did not answer. She seemed to shiver suddenly,
and then sank down heavily in the chair before the
table, near which she had been standing.

Marco paced up and down the room, back and forth,
from the table to where the floor was littered with the erstwhile
contents of the rifled safe.

Billy Kane’s puzzled frown grew deeper. Evidently there
*had* been money in the safe, but in some way Laverto had
got it before he had set Whitie Jack at work upon a stall,
and it was obvious that Laverto had maneuvered to plant
the crime on the shoulders of this woman’s son. But what
then had been Laverto’s object in bringing Whitie Jack into
it at all? It did not somehow seem to fit, or dovetail, or
appear logical, or—— And then, with a sudden start, Billy
Kane leaned tensely forward, his eyes fixed narrowly on
Marco. Yes, it *did* dovetail! He had it now—all of it—all
of the damnable, unscrupulous ingenuity of the plot that had
been hatched in Laverto’s cunning brain. The frown was
hidden now by the mask which Billy Kane slipped quickly
over his face, but his lips just showing beneath the edge of
the mask were tight and hard.

“I was a fool—a fool!” Marco cried out sharply. “A fool,
ever to have taken him in here as my clerk! I might have
known! He has already been in jail!”

“It was only the reform school.” Mrs. Clancy was wringing
her hands piteously. “He is only a boy—only seventeen
now. And he did not mean any harm even then—and—and
since then he has been a good boy.”

“Has he?” Marco flung out a clenched fist and shook it
in the air. “He has—eh? Well, then, where did he get this?
Answer me that! Where did he get this?” Marco’s closed
hand opened, and he threw what looked to Billy Kane like
a little brooch, a miniature in a cheap setting, upon the table.
“That’s you, ain’t it? That’s his mother’s picture, ain’t it?
Do you think I do not recognize it? That’s you twenty
years ago—eh? Did you *give* it to him—eh? Answer me
that—did you *give* it to him?”

The woman had risen from her chair, and was swaying
upon her feet.

“Did you think I did not have reason to be pretty sure
when I asked if he had not stolen from you, too?” Marco,
apparently beside himself with rage, was gesticulating furiously
again. “And you said I had no proof of *this*—eh?”
He shook his fist in the direction of the safe. “Well, I
found that brooch there on the floor where he must have
dropped it out of his pocket when he blew my safe open,
and he didn’t know he’d dropped it in the dark, and then
some of the papers he pulled out covered it. That’s where
I found it—under the papers! That’s proof enough, ain’t
it? I guess with his record it will satisfy the police—no
matter what his mother thinks!”

A great sob came from the woman. The tears were rolling
down her cheeks.

“My boy!” she faltered. “It’s true—I—I am afraid it’s
true. Oh, my boy—my boy—my fatherless boy!” She
thrust out her hands in a sudden imploring gesture toward
the other. “Listen! I will tell you all I know. I will show
you that I am honest with you, and you will have mercy on
us. To-night, after supper, I found that the little chamois
bag in which I keep the few little things I have like that
brooch, and the money I take in from the store during the
day, was gone. Yes, I was afraid then. I was afraid. But
he is all I have, and——”

“And my eight hundred dollars, that he came over here
and stole afterwards, was all *I* had!” screamed Marco.
“You tell me only what a blind man could see for himself!
Did I not put two and two together myself? He has run
away now—eh—with all he could get? That he stole from
you does not give me back my money. But the police will
find him! Ha, ha! The police will find him, and when they
do they will remember the reform school and he will get
ten years—yes, yes, ten years—for this!”

“Listen!” Mrs. Clancy’s voice choked. She brushed the
tears from her cheeks with a trembling hand. “If—if I
give you back the money, will you let him go?”

“Ha!” Marco stood stock still, staring at her. “What
is that you say? You will give me back the money? You!
Are you trying to make a fool of me?”

“No, no!” she cried. “I’ve got that much—it is my savings—it
is in the bank. Listen! Oh, for God’s sake, be
merciful! Give him a chance! You’ll get your money back,
you won’t lose anything, and—and you would the other
way, because—because before they caught him he would
perhaps have spent a lot of it.”

“That is true!” said Marco, in a milder tone; and then, a
hint of suspicion in his voice: “What bank is it in? The
bank down the street?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“That is my bank, too,” said Marco. He stared at the
woman for a moment speculatively, then his eyes circled the
room, and he stared at the broken safe. “Will you pay for
my safe?” he demanded abruptly.

“Yes,” she agreed eagerly.

“Fifty dollars,” said Marco. “It would be fifty dollars.”

“Yes—oh, thank God!” She was crying again.

“So!” Marco shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I will do
it.” He walked back toward the safe, picked up a check
book from amongst the debris on the floor, tore out a blank
check, dropped the book on the floor again, and returned to
the table. He pushed the slip of paper toward Mrs. Clancy,
and pulled out a fountain pen from his pocket. “So! Well,
make out a check for eight hundred and fifty dollars.” He
shrugged his shoulders again.

It was slow work. Mrs. Clancy’s hand trembled, and she
stopped at intervals to wipe her eyes. Billy Kane edged
closer to the door. It was probably all she had, the savings
of years from the little shop, but the fear and strain was
gone from her face, and her lips were quivering in a smile,
as she signed her name at last, and handed the check to
Marco.

But now Billy Kane’s revolver was in his hand—and suddenly,
as Marco held the check close to his eyes to peer
at it through his thick lenses, Billy Kane stepped forward
across the threshold. And then Billy Kane spoke.

“Drop that, Marco!” he said quietly.

There was a cry of terror from the woman, as she whirled
around, white-faced, clutching at her breast; it was echoed
by a frightened gasp from Marco, and as though the slip
of paper in his fingers had suddenly turned to white hot
iron, he snatched his hands back in a sort of grotesque jerk,
and the check fluttered to the table.

Billy Kane stepped toward the man.

“You’ve made a mistake, Marco, haven’t you?” he inquired
coolly. “Instead of this woman’s son being the robber,
are you sure it isn’t—yourself?”

The man shrank back.

“What do you mean—myself?” he stammered hoarsely.
And then, recovering a little of his self-control: “Who are
you? And what are you butting in here for? What’s your
game to say I did that?” He jerked his hand toward the
safe. “You can’t bluff old Marco, whatever you’re up to!
I was in Morgenfeldt’s café all evening until half past ten,
and I can prove it; and ten minutes after that I was pulling
her”—he jerked his hand toward Mrs. Clancy now—“out of
her shop next door to show her what I had found here.
She’ll tell you so, too! I couldn’t have come all the way
from Morgenfeldt’s, and done all that, and blown that safe
open in ten minutes, could I?”

Billy Kane’s smile was unpleasant.

“Don’t be in such a hurry to produce your alibi, Marco,”
he said evenly. “It sounds suspicious—and it also accounts
for a good deal. I think we’ll take a look through your
pockets, Marco—not for the eight hundred”—Billy Kane’s
smile had grown still more uninviting—“but on the chance
that we may find something else. Put your hands up!”

The man hesitated.

Billy Kane’s revolver muzzle came to a level with the
other’s eyes.

“Put them up!” he ordered curtly; and, as the man obeyed
now, he felt deftly over the other’s clothing, located a revolver,
whipped it out, and laid it on the table behind
him. A moment later, also from the man’s pocket, he took
a chamois bag, which, too, he placed upon the table.

Mrs. Clancy, with a startled cry, snatched at it.

“Mary, Mother of Mercy, what does this mean!” she
gasped out. “It’s—it’s my bag!”

“It means that our friend Marco here is a very versatile
rogue,” said Billy Kane grimly. “You may put your hands
down now, Marco, and”—he was clipping off his words—“you
won’t need that beard, or those glasses any more!
Take them off!”

The man had gone a sudden grayish white. Mechanically
he obeyed—and cowered back, his eyes in terror fixed on
Billy Kane’s mask. *It was Antonio Laverto.*

With a scream of rage, Mrs. Clancy rushed at the man.

“You—you devil!” she shrilled. “You made me believe
my boy was a thief—God forgive me for it! And—ah,
let me at him! I’m only a woman, but——”

Billy Kane had stepped between them.

“Wait!” he said. “There’s a better way, Mrs. Clancy.”
He swung on the Italian. “If it hadn’t been for your voice,
Laverto—you see, I know you—you might have got away
with it. I didn’t recognize you at first. You’re clever,
damnably clever, I’ll give you credit for that, if it’s any
satisfaction to you. You must be a busy man! Are there
any more rôles in your repertoire? Well, no matter! The
Italian crippled beggar, and Marco the second-hand clothing
dealer are enough for now—and enough to put you
where you belong!” His voice rasped suddenly. “You
blotch on God’s earth!” he said between his teeth. “You
knew Mrs. Clancy had a little money, and you knew that her
son had a reform school record against him. And so,
about two weeks ago, you rented this place next to hers
that was then vacant, and you stocked it with a few old
clothes, and you hired her son to act as clerk; and you
hired him, not with an idea of doing any business, but as
a necessary part of your plan to incriminate him in his
mother’s eyes, and also to enable you, without arousing
suspicion by appearing to neglect business here, to attend
to other irons equally as despicable that you had in the fire
at the same time—playing the flopper, for instance, up on
Fifth Avenue. The whole outlay probably cost you but a
few dollars—and in return you meant to get all of this
woman’s life savings. I say all, because you probably found
out how much she had, and if she had had much more than
eight hundred dollars you would have set your fake loss
higher. And to-night in some way—the details do not
matter at this moment—you stole from her that chamois bag,
both to impress her with the belief that the boy had stolen
from her too, and also to secure spurious evidence to prove
that he had been guilty of what you claimed had happened
here.”

Billy Kane paused. His eyes had travelled to the wrecked
safe—and sharp and quick had come the thought of Whitie
Jack. He smiled grimly. He did not want Whitie Jack to
appear in this. He owed Whitie Jack a good deal to-night—and
the “Rat” never forgot! His eyes came back to Marco.
The man was circling his lips with the tip of his tongue.

“You’re going up for this, Marco,” Billy Kane said in
level tones. “But I’ll give you a friendly tip—for reasons
of my own. Maybe you didn’t pull this safe-cracking game
yourself, maybe your alibi stands on that count; but, if it
does, you got some tool to pull it off for you just for that
reason, and possibly also because you didn’t know how to
handle the ‘soup’ yourself—and if it’s one of the boys it
won’t help your case any to snitch on him, for you’re caught
open and shut in this anyhow, and maybe, Laverto, some of
his friends might remember it when you *got out* again!
You get the idea, don’t you? Yes, I see you do! Well,
then, there’s just one thing more. If this little game of
yours had broken right for you, Mrs. Clancy’s son—to
make it appear that he had run away—would have had to
disappear for several days, until you could have pulled up
stakes here without exciting suspicion, and have pretended
to move away. Therefore, where is he now—Laverto?”

There were beads of sweat on the man’s forehead. His
lips moved mumblingly.

“*Where?*” Billy Kane’s revolver edged viciously forward.
“I didn’t hear you!”

“Wong Yen’s,” the man whispered.

Billy Kane’s jaws snapped together. He had heard of
Wong Yen’s! It was one of the most infamous Chinese
underground dives in the Bad Lands.

“Doped?” He bit off the word.

“Yes,” the man whispered again.

Billy Kane turned to Mrs. Clancy.

“He’s yours now, Mrs. Clancy. You know the story,
and you know where to send them for your boy. I guess I
can leave him to you. They say the female of the species
is more deadly than the male! There’s his revolver. Do
you think you could march him out of the front door, and
hand him over to the first officer you see?”

There was a bitter, hard look on Mrs. Clancy’s face.
Big and brawny, she towered over the cringing figure of the
Italian—and the Italian shrank still farther away from
her, as she snatched up the weapon.

“I can!” she said, and her short laugh was not a pleasant
one. “And I can shoot if I have to, and, faith, there’d
be joy in the doin’ of it; but you”—her voice broke suddenly—“I
don’t know who you are, and I owe you——”

Billy Kane was backing toward the rear door.

“You’ll pay it all, and more, Mrs. Clancy, when you hand
him over to the police,” he said quickly—and, stepping
out into the passageway, he ran down its length, whipping
the mask from his face as he went; and in another instant,
from the lane, had gained the cross street.

VI—A MIDNIGHT VISITOR
=====================

Keeping in the shadows and avoiding the passers-by
as on his way to Marco’s, Billy Kane hurried
even more now on his return to the Rat’s. In a
moment or so, when Mrs. Clancy reached the front street
with her prisoner, there was likely to be an uproar, and he
wanted to be housed and under cover if possible before that
broke loose. Mrs. Clancy’s story could hardly omit reference
to the man in the mask, and the police, to say nothing
of the on-lookers, might evince a most unpleasant degree
of practical curiosity—and he, Billy Kane, was in no condition,
either mental, or, above all, physical, to play hare to
the hounds of the law again that night. He was conscious
now, as he made his way swiftly along, that his shoulder was
paining him intensely again, and that, though through nerve
force, his feet moved quickly enough under him, his knees
were wobbly and weak.

He turned a corner, and still another—and drew a deep
breath of relief. He was out of range of the second-hand
shop now, and the Rat’s den was just ahead up the street,
and there was no one in sight.

Billy Kane swept his hand heavily across his eyes. It was
strange! There was not far from being a very close analogy
between himself and Mrs. Clancy’s son to-night. Mrs.
Clancy’s son had been selected as the victim of a “plant”
much like himself—only there had been no murder, and the
“plant” had failed. It was curious, very curious, that the
two should have been so much alike, and that though he had
been able to save the other, he himself was being searched
for at that moment in every corner of New York, and that
the human drag-net was spread for him, and that the wires
all over the country were hot with his description, and that
into every newspaper office in every state was pouring the
story that would make of him an abominable and an abandoned
thing!

His head was singing. He stumbled a little, as he made
his way down the stairs, and fumbled with Whitie Jack’s
key in the lock of the Rat’s door. Well, if the Rat, who
was away, did not return too soon, and if—he shook his
head, as he opened the door, and stepped inside, and locked
it behind him—no, he was too tired, and too near the
breaking point to think any more. He had a chance to rest
now until morning. Whitie Jack had said that no one would
dare disturb the Rat, and that was enough—he did not want
to think any more—until morning.

He groped his way forward to the electric light, reached
up to turn it on—and, with his arm poised in mid-air, stood
suddenly tense and rigid. He listened. It came again—as
though some one were knocking cautiously on the wall—and
it seemed to come from the far end of the room near
the bureau.

Billy Kane’s hand shot into his pocket and closed on his
revolver; and, quick and silent in every movement now, he
tiptoed across the room in the darkness, slipped in behind
the cretonne hanging and waited, peering through a corner
of the hanging.

And now it was absolutely silent again. Perhaps a half
minute passed, and then, grotesquely, as though it came
through the wall itself, the white ray of a flashlight streamed
into the room, and circled it slowly and deliberately. And
then a form moved forward—a woman’s form—and crossed
the room to the table. There was a slight sound as of
the rustling of paper, and, with the ray now flooding the top
of the table, Billy Kane could see that she was writing;
but her back was turned, and he could not see her face.
For a moment more she stood there bending over the
table, and then, turning, she retreated again to the rear of
the room.

The flashlight now was full on the rear wall—but there
was no opening there. Billy Kane leaned tensely forward,
watching through the corner of the hanging. This den of
the Rat’s that he, or fate for him, had appropriated, promised
much more than appeared on the surface! It was
obvious that there was another entrance than that from the
street, and to obtain its secret now was a matter upon which
his life, sooner or later, might very easily depend.

She was stooping now slightly, and her hand in the glare
of the flashlight was moving in a slow, tentative way up and
down one of the wall boards—and then her hand for an instant
remained motionless. Billy Kane drew in his breath
softly. It was ingenious, clever, cunning—and a craftsman’s
work. A small door swung open into the room—a
most curious door! Its top was of an absurd zigzag shape—due
to the fact that it followed the natural joints of the
wall boards. And the whole, three boards in width, in no
part therefore, to casual or even critical examination, would
show any signs of an opening, since it opened only where
boards joined one another, and since everywhere in the room
all the wall boards were more or less warped and ill-fitting!

The light was suddenly shaded, obliterated almost, as she
passed through the opening—and then was blotted out. The
door had closed without a sound. She was gone.

Billy Kane did not move. His eyes, as though fascinated,
as though fearful that he might lose it, were fixed through
the darkness on the particular spot on the wall where this
strange midnight visitor had run her hand up and down.
A minute, two, three, passed. Wherever that opening led
to, she must be far enough away now to make it safe for
him to act. But he dared not turn on the electric light.
It might throw a glimmer to the street. He was none too
sure of either the sill or panels of that front door! Whitie
Jack had passed the word around of the Rat’s return—was
this woman one to whom that word had come? In any case,
she had thought the room empty, the Rat away, and
therefore he could not run the risk of exposing the fact that
he had been *hidden* there—he knew too little—and perhaps
already too much!

He stepped silently over to the wall now. If he only had
a match! But he had lost his match-safe with his coat—no,
there were matches here, a box of them—his fingers had
been mechanically searching his pockets—he had forgotten—it
was not even the coat Whitie Jack had given him at the
second-hand shop, it was the Rat’s coat now he was wearing!

He struck a match, located the board, pressed his hand
up and down its length, and felt something give slightly.
The door began to swing open. He blew out the match
instantly, and, crouched there, listened. He could hear nothing.
He lighted another match, and this time held it above
his head. A short, tunnel-like passage through the ground,
strongly braced and stayed, and trending gently upward,
confronted him.

He stepped forward into the opening, and, bending head
and shoulders, for the roof was scarcely four feet in height,
followed the passage for some five or six yards to where
it ended abruptly in a blank wall of earth, but where,
above his head, a third match disclosed a trap-door. Again
Billy Kane listened, and then cautiously raised the door.
It was pitch black now. He drew himself up, and once
more listened. There was no sound. He lighted another
match—the stub of the one before being carefully consigned
to his pocket—and nodded his head in understanding. The
passage had led him into a shed, evidently little used, for it
was littered and stored with odds and ends that, judging
from the accumulated dust and dirt, had been untouched
for a long time; and the shed itself—yes, he was right—he
had pushed the back door open a little—the shed gave
directly on a lane.

Billy Kane closed the shed door; and, noting with grim
appreciation that the trap-door, as he closed it above his
head, was an ingenious arrangement of the floor planking
similar to the construction of the door within the Rat’s
quarters, and was moreover, as an added precaution, surrounded
by an apparently careless stowage of the shed’s
litter, he made his way back along the passage again. The
room door he examined as he passed through. It was manipulated
from the *inside* of the passage by an ordinary and
frankly obvious spring lock. He closed it, and stood for a
moment staring at it speculatively. There seemed no way
of locking it here in the room, of protecting himself from an
intrusion through the night that might not be either as instructive
or as harmless as this first one had been. There
might be a way, and there probably was a way of fastening
it, the Rat would surely have seen to that, but he, Billy
Kane, was too far gone, too weak, too tired, too nearly
all in to hunt or search for it now—and there *was* a way
of obviating the possibility of the door being opened without
first arousing him and putting him on his guard. He went
to the table, picked up a chair, and, carrying it back, tilted
it against the door in the wall.

And now he swayed a little, and his hand sought his
eyes. He was conscious again of his aching shoulder, and
that his head was swimming dizzily—but he seemed to have
forgotten something—yes, he remembered now—that paper—that
paper on which she had written something. He
laughed in a strained, almost delirious way. He must be
worse than he imagined, if he had, even for an instant,
forgotten that! Or was it just simply the reaction coming
now?

He stumbled toward the table, and, feeling with his hand,
secured the paper—but there was no chair here now, and he
stumbled across the room, and sat down on the edge of the
bed. He lighted another match, held it close to the paper,
and read the pencilled lines.

   | So you are back, are you?
   | Well, so am I! *Remember!*

The match burned down to his fingers, and he dropped it
on the floor. What did it mean? Who was she? He shook
his head. And then, with a queer, twisted smile, he folded
the paper, thrust it into his pocket—and, stretching himself
out fully dressed upon the bed, lay there staring into the
darkness.

VII—WHISPERING SHADOWS
======================

It was the next evening—in the Rat’s den. Through
half closed eyes, as he lay stretched out on the bed,
Billy Kane watched Whitie Jack across the room.
The man was tilted back in his chair, his legs were sprawled
across the table, and from his cigarette, which dangled
from one corner of his lower lip, a thread of blue smoke
spiraled lazily upward. Whitie Jack was not smoking;
the cigarette simply hung forgotten on the man’s lip. For
the moment Whitie Jack with bated interest was poring
over the evening paper.

And then Whitie Jack looked up suddenly, and spoke—out
of the unoccupied corner of his mouth.

“Say, dat secretary guy dat croaked de old geezer last
night was a sweet, downy bird—nit! But believe me, he
made some haul—*some* haul!”

Billy Kane made no reply. Whitie Jack resumed his
absorbing perusal of the newspaper. Billy Kane’s eyes
closed completely—but not in sleep. It had been a day
that, viewed in retrospect, made the brain whirl. It had been
a wild untrammelled phantasmagoria. That was it—phantasmagoria.
There was no other word. The day was
expressed in shadows, moving shadows, shadows that came
and went, many of them, shadows that were paradoxically
real and concrete, and shadows that were the reflection of
things felt and sensed, but unseen. And these latter, the
shadows of the mind, were weird, uncanny things like
denizens out of some black world apart—ghoulish things.
And the shadows that were real and concrete, that spoke
and whispered, seemed to take it for granted that he was
and always had been in their evil confidence, and so their
words were not rounded out, and there was only the hint
of dark and hideous things in which he was supposed to have
his part. It had been a day of mutterings, of whisperings,
of skulking things that had fled the sunlight. The brain
and mind was in riot from it. It was evening now; it had
been the strangest day through which any man had ever
lived.

He had held court that morning and through the day,
here in the Rat’s lair—a sort of grim, unholy court to
which grim, unholy courtiers had flocked to pay him homage.
And these courtiers had been admitted to the presence
one by one, their names announced by Whitie Jack, who had
acted—quite innocently, quite free from any thought of
connivance—as the master of ceremonies. Billy Kane’s
lips twisted in a mirthless smile. It had been very simple,
that part of it; much more simple than he had dared
to hope it would be. Bundy Morgan, alias the Rat, was
supposed to know all those who composed the élite of the
underworld intimately and well—but Billy Kane upon
whom fate had thrust for the moment the personality and
entity of Bundy Morgan, alias the Rat, knew none of them.
And yet it had been simple—so simple that, against the peril,
the certain death that would follow fast on the heels of even
a misplaced word or an unguarded look, it had been even
grotesquely absurd in its simplicity. Through the dens and
dives of the Bad Lands, spread by Whitie Jack when he had
gone away the night before, the whisper had passed that
the Rat had returned; and so, throughout the day, stealthy
footsteps had descended from the street to the basement
door here, and in response to the knock Whitie Jack had
opened the door a cautious inch, peering out; and then he,
Billy Kane, from the bed, his voice querulous for the occasion,
had demanded who it was, and Whitie Jack had
answered—and the unsuspected introduction thus performed,
he had bidden Whitie Jack admit the visitor.

There had been many like that—very many. And he
had learned many things. His hands clenched suddenly at
his sides. The rôle he played promised well! Innuendoes,
words toying with the fringe of things, had made it only
too glaringly clear that the Rat was enmeshed in devilishness
that ran the gamut of every crime in the decalogue.
And for the moment he was the Rat! There was some
hell’s syndicate, whose scope and power he could only dimly
plumb though he was satisfied that its branches were rooted
in every nook and corner of the underworld. And of this
syndicate he was now, by proxy, a member; and he was not
only a member, but he was one of those magnates of crime
who composed its inner council, its unhallowed directorate.

He twisted a little on the bed—more in mental than in
physical unrest. His wounded shoulder was still far from
healed of course, but it gave him very little discomfort, and
in no way interfered with his freedom of action—but it had
been the safer way, this accentuating of his hurt, this pretended
state of semi-helplessness. It had brought those he
must know *here* to him; it had brought about those unsuspected
introductions without which, had he first left this
lair of the Rat’s and attempted, trusting to luck, to pick
up the threads of the Rat’s life, would inevitably have
plunged him in his blind groping to certain destruction.
Also it had brought him a quite thorough understanding
of Whitie Jack—the man’s deference that had been almost
cringing at their first meeting, and then the man’s subsequent
eagerness to serve.

Whitie Jack was one of the lesser breed that looked up
to the heights the Rat had attained with both awe and unbounded
admiration. The man had come like a dog to heel,
but like a faithful dog. Whitie Jack was living in a sort of
reflected glory—he would be the envy of the proletariat of
the Bad Lands—he was associating now, was even on terms
of certain intimacy, with one of those in high places in that
inglorious commonwealth of crime to which, both by birth
and inclination, he owed allegiance. It opened a new prospect
to Whitie Jack, one that was full of dazzling possibilities—and
it had made of the man an invaluable ally.
Whitie Jack had been at once valet, nurse, surgeon and
attendant all through the day. He had returned at daylight
that morning, dressed the wound, and thereafter had
not left the place except to go out and buy certain necessities,
such as food—and a pocket flashlight, which Billy Kane,
mindful of his previous night’s experience in the underground
passage to the shed and lane, had ranked amongst
those necessities as the first on the list.

Billy Kane shifted his position restlessly on the bed again.
His mind was in a turmoil of feverish activity. It seemed
as though a thousand divergent thoughts fought with each
other to obtain undivided attention and recognition each for
itself, and the battle went on incessantly. Who was the
woman who had crept in here in the darkness through that
secret door last night? What did it mean, that message she
had written and left on the table? “So you are back, are
you? Well, so am I! *Remember!*” There was something
malignant, something ominous in that word—“remember.”
Remember what? Why? What sinister thing was it that
lay between her and the Rat—that he, Billy Kane, must
now accept and stand sponsor for—since he was now the
Rat!

The Rat! The Rat! The Rat! His brain was off again
at another tangent. In Heaven’s name, who was the Rat?
Where was the Rat at this moment? When would the Rat
return? Guarded questions all through the day helped
him little. The Rat’s absence had been accepted, that was
all—none seemed to know, or have any interest in the cause
of it. One ray of reassurance only had filtered through
the murk. The Rat’s return in his, Billy Kane’s, person,
had seemingly been premature, the Rat had seemingly not
been expected; and he could argue from that, and with fair
logic, that he might for a little while at least be left undisturbed
in his possession of the Rat’s personality, and the
Rat’s belongings—as far as the Rat was concerned. The
Rat! Those innuendoes, those whispers, those shadows,
that strange woman’s stranger message were back again,
seething and boiling in his brain. Naked ugliness! What
mess of iniquity was the Rat not mixed up in! And what
mess of iniquity might not he, Billy Kane, accepted without
question as the Rat now, with the Rat’s face and features,
with the Rat’s satanic partnerships, be forced to wallow in
to save his life, and, more than life, to——

The paper rustled in Whitie Jack’s hand.

“Some haul!” Whitie Jack rolled the words on his
tongue like some sweet morsel. “S’help me! Five hundred
thousand dollars’ worth of rubies! Dat guy Kane is
some slick gazabo! Say, d’youse get it, Bundy? Five hundred
thousand—an’ a bunch of de green stuff, too!” He
licked his lips. “Some haul!”

The paper had exaggerated. David Ellsworth’s rubies
at the outside would not exceed three hundred thousand
dollars in value. Billy Kane found himself curiously and
querulously irritated at the inaccuracy. He opened his eyes,
nodded unconcernedly at Whitie Jack—and closed his eyes
again. His mind was suddenly alert and concentrated. In
a few minutes now some of those who composed that inner
council of crime would be here. He had arranged that this
morning—with Red Vallon. Red Vallon was the biggest
gangster in New York. Whitie Jack had dropped that information
in an enthusiastic eulogy of Red Vallon. And
Vallon had bent over the bed that morning and whispered
of a meeting to-night at the usual time and place. But he,
Billy Kane, was not ready for that yet. He knew too little,
it was too great a risk; and he knew too much—to escape
alive, if a chance word or act betrayed him. But there had
come a thought, swift, in a blinding flash, a staggering
thing, a gambler’s stake, and he had whispered back what
was apparently the obvious reply—that he was too badly
hurt to go. And then: “One or two of you slip in here on
your way over,” he had said quickly. “Get me? I’ve
got something!” And Red Vallon had agreed—and with
Red Vallon would come Karlin. Karlin! The name had
somehow seemed familiar; but though Whitie Jack had
subsequently furnished a partial clew by referring
to Karlin as one of the high-brow lawyers of the city, he could
not definitely place the man.

Billy Kane turned on his side, with his face away from
Whitie Jack. Red Vallon and Karlin would be here in a
few moments—and he must make no mistake now. What he
meant to do was an impudent thing—impudent with a Titanic
impudence. He meant to pit the underworld in a fight
on the side of justice against the police. He meant to use
the craft, the cunning and the stealth of the Bad Lands to
establish his innocence. He too had read the papers—the
morning and the evening papers—and the headlines had
shrieked out at him the infamy of which he was accused.
His name was a by-word now from one end of the country
to the other. A viper and a degraded wretch, a thing inhuman
and apart, the papers had called him.

He had read them all to the last word. Murderer of his
benefactor! A thief—an assassin thief, who had fled for
his life with those blood-red rubies! A bead of sweat came
out on his forehead, and he raised his hand and brushed it
away. Yes, he had fled—to fight—to take the only chance
he had of bringing to justice the hell-hounds who had
struck down his old friend, the only chance he had of clearing
his own name.

Well, he would fight! It was beginning now, that fight.
But he was between two fires that threatened him at any
instant with destruction. The police, not only in New
York, but from the Atlantic to the Pacific, would search
ceaselessly for him, and if he were caught it was death.
Fate, that had made him the double of a character that
ironically seemed to measure up to everything the papers
had said about himself, had thrown in that way a temporary
mantle of protection over him, but let that mantle
slip but ever so slightly and he would better a thousand
times hand himself over to the law and have done with it—the
end would be more merciful!

But fate, too, had given him a weapon with which to
fight; and, two-edged though it was, with a chance always
that it might turn upon himself, he meant to use it now—and
that weapon was the underworld. He did not know yet,
he was not sure yet just how high he stood in that unsavory
command, but he had discounted rather than overrated his
power, and he believed he had power enough for his purpose—those
whispers and those shadows had seemed to assure
him of that. The Rat seemed to be the driving strategical
force in this crime syndicate that appeared to permeate the
Bad Lands with its influence, and move and sway the underworld
at its own imperious pleasure—and for the moment
he was the Rat!

There was Jackson—and Jackson was dead. His mind
had flown off at another apparently irrelevant tangent. But
it was not irrelevant. The papers had said that Jackson,
the footman, had died that morning after lingering in a
semi-conscious state through the night. Jackson was the
single clue in his possession. Jackson, he knew, was one of
the murderers, but Jackson was the *only* man he knew who
was concerned in that devil’s work last night—and Jackson
was dead. And now he, Billy Kane, was “wanted” on a
double charge of murder—for the murder of Jackson, who
had probably himself struck old David Ellsworth down, as
well as for the murderer of the old millionaire! Yet Jackson,
even if dead, must still have left some clue behind him, if
only that clue could be found. Who was Jackson? The
man had already been in service at David Ellsworth’s before
he, Billy Kane, had gone there as the old philanthropist’s
secretary, and he had naturally had neither motive
nor interest then in any of the footman’s personal concerns.
But those facts were vital now. Who was Jackson? Where
had the man come from? Who were——

Footsteps were descending from the street. There was a
low knock, twice repeated on the door. Whitie Jack was
on his feet, and looking inquiringly toward the bed.

“Watch yourself!” said Billy Kane gruffly. “I’m not
entertaining to-night, except——”

“Sure—I know!” said Whitie Jack. He crossed the
room, and, opening the door a crack, peered out. “Red and
Karlin,” he informed Billy Kane in a whisper.

VIII—A LEASH IS SLIPPED
=======================

Billy Kane lighted a cigarette. Red Vallon he
already knew—-Karlin he was *supposed* to know.
“Let them in,” instructed Billy Kane.

He raised himself on his elbow.

“Hello, Karlin!” he greeted, as the two men stepped into
the room. “Red’s told you I was laid up—-eh? Glad to
see you! Shake!”

His eyes, half closed, fixed on the other in scrutiny, as the
man advanced toward the bed. Karlin was immaculately
dressed—in sharp contrast to the untidy and careless attire
of the stocky, brutal-faced gangster who followed close at
his heels. The man was tall, slimly built, and, save that
the black eyes were too close together and too small, had a
pleasant and attractive face. It was a mask perhaps! The
smile was too engaging; and it was rather curious how
small the ears were, and how tightly they hugged the skull.
He toyed with a little black Vandyke beard, as he shook
hands.

“Same to you, Bundy!” The voice was soft, silky, persuasive.
“Glad you’re back, too!” He made an almost imperceptible
movement with his head toward Whitie Jack,
who still remained near the door.

Red Vallon was more blunt.

“What about *him*, Bundy?” he growled, and jerked a
thumb in Whitie Jack’s direction. “We got to mosey along
as soon as we can. Savvy?”

“Sure!” said Billy Kane. “Whitie, you take a holiday
for the night. Come back in the morning. Beat it!”

The cigarette hanging on Whitie Jack’s lip drooped in
sudden dejection; but if he swallowed hard to choke back
what was evidently a very grievous disappointment, he
made no demur.

“All right, Bundy, if youse says so,” he blurted out, and
went from the room, closing the door behind him.

The man’s footfalls mounting the cellar-like stairs to the
street died away, and for a moment there was no sound
except for a faint, irregular *tapping* from the floor above.

“What’s that?” demanded Karlin sharply.

Billy Kane blew a ring of smoke ceilingward, and lazily
watched it dissolve into air. Whitie Jack, through judicious
prodding, had served him well that day.

“Old Ignace—keeps the cobbler’s shop above—half blind,
and has to work overtime—wife’s nearly seventy, and deaf.”
Billy Kane was explaining almost wearily. “What do you
think I hang onto this hole for?”

“Sure!” grunted Red Vallon corroboratingly. “But Karlin’s
never been here before.” He pushed a chair with the
toe of his boot across the floor toward Karlin, and appropriated
one beside the table for himself. “Well, spill it,
Bundy!” he invited. “We got to hurry! It’s too bad you’re
laid up an’ can’t sit in on the showdown, but Merxler’s
plum’s got ripe, an’ we got to pick it to-night. Savvy?”

Billy Kane duplicated the first smoke ring. Merxler!
He had identified Karlin now! Karlin and Merxler! That
was where he had heard Karlin’s name—in connection with
Merxler—and it must, necessarily then be the same Merxler.
Was young Merxler, whom he had heard of and had even
met through David Ellsworth, more then than simply the
notorious spendthrift that he was credited with being?
Karlin, it was obvious, was leading a double life. Was
Merxler another of the inner circle, another from the higher
ranks of society—and the greater criminal therefor!

“Piker stuff!” commented Billy Kane complacently.

Karlin leaned forward with a jerk in his chair.

“Piker stuff!” he ejaculated, and the little black
eyes contracted and fixed on Billy Kane in a puzzled glitter. “Piker
stuff!” he echoed challengingly.

Billy Kane nodded indifferently. He was skating on
thin ice, on perilously thin ice. Whatever the “Merxler
plum” might be, it was obviously far from the definition he
had given it, and having apparently displayed an intimacy
with the affair, an intimacy that he was evidently supposed
to possess, it was decidedly best left alone!

“That’s what I said,” he drawled deliberately. “Piker
stuff—compared with what I’ve got. I told you I had something,
Red—didn’t I?”

Red Vallon hitched sideways in his chair, his head thrust
forward.

“Go to it, Bundy! Spill it!” He circled his lips with his
tongue. “If you say so, that goes! What’s the lay?”

“Five hundred thousand dollars—a half million—cold”—Billy
Kane had lowered his voice.

He did not look at either of the men, but he was watching
them both intently—his eyes were on the mirror, the mirror
of the bureau at the far end of the room, that bore testimony
to the cunning of his unwitting host. The mirror
held the door and the upper part of the room in focus; and,
lying there on the bed, he had the profiles of the two men in
distinct outline. Karlin was fingering his Vandyke in a
sort of hesitant incredulity. Vallon’s face had suddenly
blotched red with rapacious excitement.

“Gawd!” Red Vallon spluttered out. “D’ye mean that,
Bundy?”

“Sure, I mean it!” Billy Kane answered a little curtly.
“What do you think I told you to come here for? Sure, I
mean it! It’s all there—right on the table, hitting you between
the eyes.”

Red Vallon jerked himself around; and, as though he had
taken the words literally, stared with a frown of bewilderment
at the only thing in view upon the table—the newspaper
that Whitie Jack had dropped there when he had
answered the summons at the door.

Billy Kane laughed quietly.

“Get it, Red?” he inquired. “Five hundred thousand
dollars—better than diamonds—blood-red rubies—red with
blood, the paper says. Can’t you read?”

Karlin had forgotten his beard. His hands clenched on
his knees.

“You mean the Ellsworth murder—the robbery?” He
was whispering hoarsely.

“You win!” said Billy Kane.

“My God!” whispered Karlin. “Do you know where
that stuff is?”

Billy Kane’s eyes had returned to the mirror, and now
suddenly they shifted a little to the wall at the side of the
bureau. Something cold and forbidding seemed to grip at
him, numbing for an instant mental and physical action—and
then left him in a state of grim, unnatural calmness.
Was it imagination? He could have sworn that the wall
*moved* slightly. He swung over on his left side, as though
to face Karlin and Red Vallon more directly before he
answered them—but his hand, slipping into his coat pocket,
closed over his revolver. It *might* be imagination, but the
possibility remained that someone was on the other side of
that secret door, and, having pushed the door almost imperceptibly
open, was listening there. If that were so, he
must get rid of Red Vallon and Karlin before any dénouement
came if possible, get rid of them without an instant’s
loss of time; but equally vital was the necessity of
setting in motion, and equally without loss of time, the machinery
of the underworld upon which now he was practically
staking his all.

“Pull your chair over here, closer to the bed, Red—and
you, too, Karlin,” he said coolly. “We aren’t likely to be
heard from the street, but that’s no reason for shouting.
No; I don’t know where they are, I haven’t got the rubies in
my pocket—but I know how to get them there. What?”

Red Vallon’s face was working in a sort of anticipatory
and avaricious ugliness; Karlin’s expression was scarcely
less rapacious.

“Go on, Bundy!” Karlin said under his breath. “What
do you know about it?”

“What you could have read for yourself in the paper,”
Billy Kane answered tersely. “And it looks like a cinch.
It’s just a case of beating the police to it, and it sizes up
as though we had the jump on them.” He was speaking
almost mechanically. His mind was on that section of the
wall that *might* have moved; and through half-closed eyes,
but as though deep in thought and as though concentrated
on what he was saying, he was watching it narrowly. It
had not moved a second time, of that he was sure; perhaps
it had not moved at all, it might be only nerves on his part,
nerves high strung, taut to the breaking point, but his fingers
were still rigid around the stock of his revolver, and,
in the pocket, the weapon, resting on his hip as he lay sideways,
held a bead on the panels of the secret door.

“I don’t quite get you,” muttered Karlin, with a frown.

Red Vallon swore roughly, intolerant in his eagerness.

“Aw, give him a chance!” he said impatiently. “If he says
so, that’s good enough for me. Bundy never pulled a steer
in his life, an’ if he says this is a cinch—that goes! Give
him a chance!”

“It’s like this,” said Billy Kane. “It’s a thousand to one
shot that this secretary chap who croaked the old millionaire
and got away with the goods is still in New Work. Why?
Well, I’ll tell you why. After pulling the murder, according
to the papers, he beat it out of the house with the loot, and
evidently hid the stuff somewhere. Then he came back
to the house again, and the footman, Jackson, grabbed him.
But there was a good half hour between the time the police
found out about the murder and before this guy Kane came
back to the house. Get me? And during that time the
police got busy and shot flycops around all the stations and
ferries. It’s a cinch, the way I look at it, that after he
crawled into that lane and they lost him there, that he’s
been crawling ever since somewhere around New York.
He never left the city—he never had a chance.”

Red Vallon whistled low and complacently under his
breath; Karlin, fingering his Vandyke again, nodded sharply
now in approval.

“Besides,” added Billy Kane, “he had sort of queered his
own game. He’d hidden the loot somewhere, and he couldn’t
make a direct get-away then. He had to get hold of the
goods again before he went. All right! What I want to
know is who’s got the better chance of grabbing him—us
or the police? He isn’t one of us. He’s working on his
own. Well, all right! If we nip him, and he’s satisfied
with a little rake-off, and is willing to cough up the rest,
that’ll be treating him fair. If he isn’t strong on coughing
up, we’ll find another way of making him come across that
he won’t like so well, and we’ll get the half million, and
he’ll get——” Billy Kane completed his sentence with a significant
shrug of his shoulder.

An oath, the more callous and brutal for the soft purring
way in which it fell from his lips, came from Red Vallon.

“What do you want done, Bundy?” Karlin was terse
and to the point. “It looks good to me, if you can pull it
off.”

“It’s the biggest haul we’ll ever get our mitts on if we
live a hundred years!” Billy Kane’s eyes shifted for an
instant from the wall to fix themselves impressively on the
two men. “I’ve been lying here all day thinking it out.
What do I want done? Well, I’ll tell you! I want every
string and every wire we’ve got pulled. Savvy? We’ve
got to beat the police to it. We’ve got to get Kane—*first*.
I want all the boys that the bulls think they’ve got sewed up
as stool pigeons to stool-pigeon the police and get all the
inside dope. And then that fellow Jackson, the footman,
looks like a bet we can’t throw down. He’s dead—but he
looks like a good bet. He lived all through the night, but
the papers don’t say anything about the story he told. Perhaps
he knew something that will help, perhaps he didn’t;
but he doesn’t go into the discard yet. Find out who he
was and all about him, and get next to his family if he’s got
one. If he told any story to the police, any of the family
that were clustering around the bedside will be wise to it.
Get the idea?”

“Birdie Rose is the boy for that!” Red Vallon’s bullet
head was thrust forward in vicious earnestness, his red-rimmed
black eyes were glittering with a feverish light.

“Let Birdie go to it, then!” said Billy Kane.

“Birdie was slated for the Merxler affair to-night.” Karlin
spoke a little dubiously.

“Shift him!” snapped Billy Kane curtly. “Red’s right!
Birdie’s the boy for this job.”

“All right!” agreed Karlin, and shrugged his shoulders.
He turned to Red Vallon. “Put Bull McCann in Birdie’s
place, then. See that he gets to Jerry’s back room before
ten.”

“I’ll fix it!” grunted Red Vallon. “What’s next, Bundy?
This goes—all the boys’ll fall for it.”

“There’s only one thing more—until something begins to
crack open.” Billy Kane’s lips had tightened, his eyelids
had drooped still lower. It was only a bare fraction of an
inch at most—if at all—but it seemed that door had moved
again. His words were coming barely above a whisper
now. “There’s only one way he can get anything out of
those rubies, and that’s through a ‘fence.’ They’re no good
to him unless he can cash in. He’ll try to get rid of some
of them as soon as he can. How soon depends on how well
he knows his way about. But he’s probably slick enough
to have got a line on a blind uncle or two. All right! The
police, of course, have passed the word down the line, but
here’s where we put one over on the police. There’s some
of the joints they don’t know—we know them all. Kane
might get away from the police there—but he can’t get
away from *us* on that deal. I want every ‘fence’ in New
York tipped off that he’s to stall on the job the minute he
gets his lamps on a ruby that’s being shoved his way, and
that instead of opening up to the police he’s to wise us up
on the hop. That’s all for a starter—and now go to it!”

Red Vallon drew in his breath noisily, as though he were
sucking at some luscious and juicy fruit.

“Some head, Bundy!” he applauded with undisguised
admiration, as he pushed away his chair and stood up.
“Sure, we’ll go to it! Karlin’s running the Merxler game
to-night; but I’ll start this other thing bumping along on
the high gear. What about the reports? Who’ll the boys
make ’em to? You? Here?”

It was a moment before Billy Kane answered. It was
the one thing he must have, the one thing upon which he
was staking everything—an intimate knowledge of the
result of every move made in this game that he had initiated,
and, beyond that again, it was vital that he, and no
one else should control each successive move. But Whitie
Jack was gone for the night. In one way he deplored that
fact, in another way he was relieved. If it was only imagination,
if there was no one crouching there now on the
other side of that secret door, Whitie Jack’s presence would
not matter, but otherwise—his mind leaped to that other
point—if Whitie Jack was not here to perform those very
necessary introductions, and Red Vallon’s messengers came,
messengers that he would be supposed to know but would
not be able to recognize, it would spell almost certain disaster,
and——

“There isn’t anything likely to break to-night, Red,” he
said deliberately. “If there does you look after it; or if it’s
anything very important you come here yourself. I want
to get a night’s sleep if I can, I’m feeling pretty rocky.
But I ought to be on my feet to-morrow, and in the morning
you can swing the whole business over to me, and I’ll run
it.”

“Attaboy!” said Red Vallon heartily. “See you in the
morning, then.”

Karlin too had risen from his chair.

“Good-night, Bundy!” he said—and grinned. “I pay you
the compliment of being the trickiest crook unhung!”

IX—BEHIND THE DOOR
==================

The door closed behind the two men. Billy Kane
lay motionless, save that, as they climbed to the
street and their footsteps echoed back from the
stairs, his hand, gripping his revolver, stole silently from
his pocket. There was a grim whiteness around his set
lips. His ears strained to catch the slightest sound from
within the room, and strained to catch the last echo of
those retreating footfalls. He dared not make a move
until they were well away—out of earshot, say, of a revolver
report. If it were fancy, if the movement of that
door were only his imagination unhealthily stimulated, and
unhealthily preying upon his nerves, he would at least put
an end to it in short order now! The steps rang faintly
back from the pavement, still more faintly, and were lost.
And then Billy Kane spoke—a cold deadly monotony in
his voice:

“Those boards are thin! Come out into the room with
your hands up before I count three, or I’ll put a bullet
through. One—two——”

There was a laugh, undisguised in its mockery, but low
and musical. The door, bizarre and grotesque in its zigzag
projections, due to its ingenious adherence to the natural
joints in the wall boards, swung open wide, and a woman
stood in the room.

“I was only waiting for your friends to go, Bundy,”
she said coolly.

The revolver sagged a little in Billy Kane’s hand. He
could not see her face very well, the single incandescent
dangling from the ceiling was miserably inadequate, but
dark eyes flashed at him out of an oval face, and the chin
thrown up gave a glimpse of the contour of a full throat,
ivory white—and all this was merged in the background
of a slender figure clothed and cloaked in some dark material,
unrelieved by a single vistage of color.

She spoke again.

“I don’t think you are quite as badly hurt as you pretend,
Bundy,” she said, with a sort of icy composure. “You were
out last night when I came here, and if you could prowl
around the streets, I think perhaps you could manage now to
get from the bed over to the door there and back again
without doing yourself any serious injury. The door has
been unlocked since Red Vallon went out, and it might be
safer—locked.”

Billy Kane did not answer her. He got up, crossed to the
door, locked it, and, returning, sat down on the edge of the
bed. She had not moved from her position near the far
end of the room. He became conscious that he was still
holding his revolver in his hand, and he thrust the weapon
quietly now into his pocket. A grim smile came and hovered
on his lips. This complication, another of the ramifications
of his stolen identity, he did not understand at all—except
that it promised him no good. She was the author
of last night’s note—she had just said as much—and the
wording of that note was not reassuring as to her attitude
toward him, nor was the mockery in her laugh, nor was the
self-contained, almost contemptuous note of command with
which she had just spoken. Who was she? What was she
to the Rat, that she knew the secret of that underground
tunnel, and the secret of that door?

He jerked his hand toward the chair Red Vallon had vacated.

“Sit down, won’t you?” There was a tingle of irony in
his voice. His invitation was at least safe ground.

She came forward toward the table, a subtle, supple
grace in her movements. Subconsciously he noted that she
made no sound as she crossed the room. She was like a
cat—but a very beautiful cat. He could see her face
better now. The eyes were hard and unfriendly, but they were
great, brown, steady eyes of unfathomable depths.

She leaned against the table.

“I prefer to stand.” There was a challenge in her tones.
“What I have to say will not take long.”

Billy Kane waited. The initiative was with her. He
meant it to remain so. Her small white hand, ungloved,
clenched suddenly at her side until its knuckles stood out
like little chalky knobs.

“You look sleeker about the face, clearer about the eyes—you
beast!” There was a studied deliberation in her
voice that gave the words the sting of a curling whip lash.
“Perhaps you’ve been——”

“You were listening there at the door?” suggested Billy
Kane imperturbably, as he reached into his pocket for a
cigarette.

There was a mocking little lift to her shoulders.

“Of course! That is what I came for. I followed Red
Vallon here. I supposed that you would meet at the old
place, now that you are back; but since you are an invalid——” Again
the shoulders lifted.

“I am afraid it hardly paid you for the trouble—to
listen,” Billy Kane murmured caustically. “I’m sorry! I
rather fancied I saw the door move, and you see, my illness
has affected my voice, and at times I can scarcely speak
above a whisper, otherwise you might have overheard——”

“I overheard enough!” She took a sudden step toward
him. Her eyes were flashing now; there was a flush, angry
red, mounting from the white throat, suffusing her cheeks.
She raised her clenched hands. “You will die with insolence
and bravado on your lips, I believe!” she cried out
passionately. “How I *hate* you! But I’ve got you—like
*that*”—she flung out an arm toward him, and the small
clenched hand opened and then closed again, slowly, as
though in its grip it were remorselessly crushing and exterminating
some abhorrent thing. And then her hand was
raised again, and was brushed across her eyes, and a little
quiver ran through her form, and she spoke more calmly.
“I overheard enough. I thought this Merxler affair would
be worked to-night, and I came to tell you that you are to
stop it. I came to tell you to—*remember*! I promise, before
God, that if there is murder done to-night you will
be in the hands of the police within an hour. And it’s not
very far from the Tombs to the death chair in Sing Sing—Bundy
Morgan.”

Billy Kane’s eyes were hidden by drooped lids. His eyes
were studying with curious abstraction the pattern of the
faded, greasy, threadbare strip of carpet on the floor beside
the bed. Murder! The word had come with a shock that
for a moment unnerved him. He had not associated anything
that Red Vallon or Karlin had said with murder.
They had spoken so lightly, referred to it in so humdrum a
way. Murder! There was something ghastly in that lightness
now. A tightness came to his lips, a horror was creeping
into his soul. He was only on the verge of things, of
hidden and abominable things, here in this shadow land,
this night land of skulking shapes, this sordid realm of the
underworld. He pulled himself together. He was the Rat—he
had a part to play. He was conscious that those
brown, fearless eyes were fixed on him contemptuously.

“What have I to do with it?” he muttered sullenly.

“Do with it! *You!*” Her voice rose, as though suddenly
out of control. “You dare ask that! You, with your devil’s
brains—you, who planned it all before you went away!”

The cigarette that he had lighted had gone out. He
sucked at it, circling it around his lips. He was fencing
now with unbuttoned foils.

“Well, you’ve said it!” There was a snarl creeping into
his voice. “I’ve been away. I don’t know what they’ve
done since I’ve been away.”

“You know about the will, and the sealed envelope in
Merxler’s safe, and you know the combination to the safe,”
she said levelly. “And that’s all you need to know to stop
this from going any further.”

He laughed out shortly.

“And suppose I don’t know the combination! You don’t
think I can carry a thing like that in my head forever, do
you?”

“No,” she said. She smiled curiously, and one hand
slipped into the bodice of her dress. “I don’t think you
ever did memorize that combination. But perhaps you will
recognize it again—the original in your own handwriting.”
She held up a crumpled piece of paper before him, then
tossed it on the table.

“Where did you get that?” he demanded roughly.

Her shoulders lifted mockingly again.

“There are other secrets in this room besides that door
and the tunnel to the shed, aren’t there—Bundy?”

He eyed her now for a long minute, biting openly at his
lip, his face twisted in a well-simulated ugly scowl.

“So, I’m to queer this game, am I?” he snarled suddenly.
“And if I’m caught—as a snitch—they’ll tear me to pieces!”

She leaned a little forward from the table, a tense, lithe
thing, and her voice came low with passion:

“We’re wasting time—and you’ve none to lose. We’ve
gone over this ground before, haven’t we? It’s the one
chance you have—to save yourself. Some day you won’t
be able to save yourself. Some day the reckoning will
come; but you will always have the *hope* that it won’t, and
that you will always succeed in staving it off each time as
you have in the past. But until that day does come the only
chance you have for life is to pit your wits against the fiends
like yourself that are around you. For what you have
done there is no atonement—only punishment. I mean
you to live in suspense, but even while that suspense lasts
you will pull apart and unravel your devil’s work as fast
as you knit it together. You have a chance that way!
When the end comes and they get you, you know how the
underworld will pay—but there is the chance—that is what
holds you—and with the alternative—the police—there is
no chance.”

She was breathing hard. She leaned back against the
table, her hands gripped tightly at its edge.

For a moment there was silence in the room. Billy
Kane’s mind was groping blindly now, as in some utter
darkness. In some way, for there was no question of the
genuineness of her self-assurance, her very presence here in
seemingly placing herself in the Rat’s power proved that she
held the Rat, and the Rat’s life and liberty in the hollow
of her hand, at her beck and call. How? What was the
secret of the power she possessed over him? He lighted a
match nonchalantly, and, as he applied the flame to the
half-burned cigarette he lifted his eyes to her through the
blue haze of smoke that he blew negligently in her direction.

“Sometimes,” he said in a low, menacing tone, “people,
even women, who grow troublesome, have been known in
this neighborhood—to disappear.”

She laughed sharply.

“You have no time to waste in foolish words!” she
warned him curtly. “You know the consequences of my—disappearance.
You are at liberty to take those consequences
any time you choose. But you do not like them,
do you—Bundy?” She moved suddenly across the room,
back to the secret door through which she had entered.
“I am going now,” she said steadily. “If there is murder
to-night, or if any part of that plan goes through—*remember!*”

X—THE PIECES OF A PUZZLE
========================

Billy Kane made no effort to stop her, as she
closed the door silently behind her. She was gone.
The minutes passed, and he still sat there on the
side of the bed, his eyes mechanically fixed on the spot, an
innocent blank wall now, where she had disappeared. His
face, hard and set at first, grew harder. What was he to
do? There seemed to yawn before him, to have opened
at his feet an abyss, bottomless, pitiless, and he tottered on
the brink of it, and unseen hands reached up and snatched
at him to drag him from the narrow ledge that was all that
was left to him of safety. What was he to do? To go on?
Every hour that he clung to this role of the Rat held a surer
promise, not only of desperate peril to himself, but a promise
that he would find himself launched in a sea of crime,
of shuddering things, of murder, of blood, of sordid viciousness,
of hate. In God’s name, who was this Rat, who
in this hole here with its secret opening and its gnawed
tunnel to the daylight made the pseudonym so apt!

He clenched his hands suddenly, and rising to his feet
began to pace the room. He began to see now what,
strangely enough, though it should have been plainly obvious
all through that day, he had not seen until she, this
unknown, mysterious woman, had, herself unconscious of
it, made him see. Her power over the Rat to which he was
subject in his assumed character, did not, in the final analysis,
whatever the source of that power might be, materially
affect the situation. It was not her threat that was the driving
force that must actuate him. There was another and
a far greater force which he could neither ignore nor
escape. He saw that now. If the foreknowledge of proposed
crime came to him, he was as guilty, if he stood idly
by, as those who became the actual perpetrators of that
crime. To-night, if there was to be murder done, and it
was within his power to prevent that murder, or even if it
were only within his power to attempt to prevent that
murder—and he did nothing—he was a murderer himself.
And so to-night he had no choice. He must act. It did
not seem to him that there had been any question in his
mind about this in a specific way at all from the moment
she had spoken of murder. But afterwards—if he went
on—the crimes that Red Vallon and Karlin and their confederates
would plot, and that he would know of—what
then?

He halted by the table, and laughed in a short, harsh way,
and in the dark eyes there burned a sudden fire. Was there
really any question about that, either? Had there ever
been! He asked only one thing in life now, and to that
everything else was subordinate—to feel his hands upon
the throat of the man who had murdered David Ellsworth,
and who had fastened that guilt upon him—Billy Kane—to
wring from that man a confession that would clear his
name. Nothing else mattered. He could run for it, discard
this rôle of the Rat, and perhaps effect his escape, but
he would thereby throw away almost every hope of bringing
the guilty man to justice. The other way was to fight.
Well, he would fight! It would be a good fight! And, as
the Rat, he would not have to fight alone! If he accepted
the chances as they stood, he must accept the risk involved
in foiling the plots and crimes of those who thought him
their confederate; but against this, the first step already
inaugurated, he had the craft and cunning of the underworld
at his back in the one purpose that meant anything
to him now. It would be a good fight! If he failed, he
might as well go out this way as any other—better this way,
for then at least some of the projected deviltry would
never know fruition. He drew in his breath sharply as in
a sort of strange relief. It was settled now, once for all!
He would go on—as the Rat—to the end. And to-night
he would see this Merxler plot through to the end.

Billy Kane picked up the crumpled piece of paper she
had dropped on the table, studied it for an instant, then
placed it in his pocket. It contained the scrawled figures
of a safe’s combination, nothing more. And now, glancing
at his watch and finding that it was already a little after
eight o’clock, Billy Kane worked quickly. The mask that
had served him the night before was already in his pocket,
as was his revolver. To these he added the electric flashlight
that Whitie Jack had procured for him that morning,
and, from where they dangled in the lock of the door,
Whitie Jack’s bunch of skeleton keys. He extinguished
the light; then passing out through the secret door, which
he closed carefully behind him, he made his way quickly
through the little underground passage, gained the shed
through the trap-door, emerged on the lane, and from there,
cautiously, he reached the street.

He walked rapidly now, but keeping always in the shadows,
shunning the direct rays of the street lamps. He
cared nothing for the police; his danger did not lie in that
direction. Seen anywhere in the city by either police or
plain-clothes man he would be recognized, not as Billy
Kane, but as the Rat—and the authorities, he was fairly
well satisfied, had no particular or immediate interest in
the Rat. His danger lay to-night in an unlucky recognition
by some prowler of the underworld, the report of which
might reach the ears of Red Vallon and his crowd. Supposed
to be confined to bed, pleading physical inability to
take his place at that unhallowed council board of which he
was accepted as a member, it would be very awkward to
explain his presence on the street within half an hour after
Red Vallon and Karlin had left his room! To-morrow,
the day after, it would be a different matter, he could go
and come then as he pleased, but to-night it multiplied his
difficulties and his dangers a thousandfold. And yet, after
all, that was the most simple of the problems that
confronted him—with luck, he could see his way out of that.
But for the rest, he was almost like a blind man groping
his way along in what was already near to an inextricable
maze. He knew something of Merxler both by sight and
hearsay, he knew where Merxler lived, that there was a
will in the safe which he must secure, that he possessed the
combination of the safe, and that afterwards there was
“the back door of Jerry’s before ten,” which referred undoubtedly
to the notorious gambling hell of that name, and
that in these fragments, once pieced together, there was
murder—that was all he knew. And there was something
grim, and horribly ironic, and mocking, and something forbidding,
and ominous and premonitory in the fact that he
was supposed to know *all*!

The street for the moment in his immediate vicinity was
deserted, and just well enough within the radius of a street
lamp to enable him to see, he drew the package of money
from his vest pocket that the old millionaire had confided to
his keeping the night before. He selected several bills of
the smaller denominations, placed them in his trousers’ pocket,
and returned the package to the inside pocket of his vest.
Thank God for the money! He had enough in the bank
twice over to replace this two thousand that now belonged
to the Ellsworth estate, but he could not get it! He was
a fugitive from the law! But this should see him through—by
the time two thousand was exhausted he must either
have won or lost. He smiled a little bitterly. Win or
lose, the estate at least would get its two thousand back!
If he won, he would pay it back himself; if he lost—well,
his money in the bank had probably already been attached!

And now he retreated to the shadows of the buildings
again as he went along. His surreptitious excursion from
the Rat’s den last night had, to one who knew the East
Side as intimately as he knew it, supplied him with a mental
map, as it were, of the neighborhood in which the Rat had
chosen to reside. A block further on was The Purple
Scarf, a so-called Bohemian restaurant and dance hall, as
lurid as its name, that for the moment was the craze with
the slummers and those of New York’s upper strata who
aped all things Bohemian—and from early evening until
early morning a line of taxis waited to snatch their share of
the spoils from the free-handed and, quite often, hilarious
clientele. It was a taxi that he wanted—without attracting
any unnecessary attention to himself—a taxi that he could
not stand on a crowded thoroughfare and hail—and there
was, as usual, a line of them there now in front of the
restaurant.

He reached the corner, drew his hat far down over his
eyes, stepped out into the street, and approached the last taxi
in the line from the side away from the curb. The chauffeur
was nodding in his seat. Billy Kane touched the man
on the arm.

“I want to go up to the Nineties—Broadway—probably
several places after that,” said Billy Kane pleasantly.

The chauffeur yawned, and shook his head.

“I’m waitin’ for a party in there.” He jerked his hand
toward the restaurant. “I got a fare.”

“I know you have,” said Billy Kane coolly. “You’ve
got me.” He extended a ten-dollar bill. “There’s another
one just like this, perhaps more than one, coming later—on
top of the fare.”

The chauffeur grinned, pocketed the banknote, and,
leaning out, opened the door. His grin broadened.

“What did you say the address was?” he inquired.

“The one I gave you will do for the present,” Billy
Kane answered quietly. “I’ll let you know where to stop.
Get up there as fast as you can. I’m paying for speed
to-night. Get the idea?”

“Leave it to me!” said the chauffeur. “Hop in!”

Billy Kane settled back in the seat. The car swung out
of the line, shot forward, and took the first corner on little
better than two wheels. Billy Kane smiled grimly. Between
here and that purposely vague address in the Nineties
which he had given, the chauffeur could very obviously be
depended upon to do his part! In the meanwhile, and for
the first time, he, Billy Kane, had an opportunity to study
those scattered pieces of the puzzle in detail.

He lighted a cigarette. That there should be a will in
Merxler’s safe at all had a nasty look—unless it were
Merxler’s own will, which was altogether too highly improbable
a supposition to be entertained seriously. And
besides, in that case, what was Karlin’s, and Red Vallon’s,
and the underworld’s interest in the matter? He shook
his head decisively. The existence of a will did not tend
to place young Merxler in an enviable light.

Merxler’s uncle, a man by the name of Theodore Rodgers,
who had died some few months before, had been quite an
intimate friend of David Ellsworth—that was where his,
Billy Kane’s, personal knowledge of Merxler came from.
He had met Rodgers several times at the old millionaire’s
home; and once he had met the nephew there as well. The
two did not get on very well together. Young Merxler was
a notorious “high-roller.” Left a large fortune by his
father two years ago, he had squandered it to the last
copper. Theodore Rodgers, his uncle, had time and again,
both privately and publicly, stated that he would have
nothing more to do with the boy. That was the gist of
it. It had occasioned some surprise then that, when
Rodgers had died, it was found that he had taken no steps
to keep his money, what he had of it, some sixty or seventy
thousand dollars, out of the young spendthrift’s hands.
But no will had been found. Rodgers was a bachelor;
young Clayton Merxler was a dead sister’s only son—and
Merxler had inherited as next of kin, and had promptly
moved his family—he was married—into his late uncle’s
residence.

Billy Kane finished his cigarette, and finished still another,
as the taxi made its way uptown. There had never
been anything criminal, so far as was known, about young
Merxler, nothing wrong up to now, except that he had gone
the pace, and that, perhaps more than anything else, he had
been a foolish and unbalanced boy and had lost his head;
but now there were two very unpleasant facts that loomed
up insistently. First, it was common knowledge that at
the time of his uncle’s death young Merxler was having an
exceedingly hard time of it to make both ends meet. And,
second, was the fact that Karlin was in this too. Knowing
Karlin now for what Karlin really was, it looked ugly
enough for young Merxler. Karlin, accepted in the upper
circles in which he moved, as a respected citizen and an
excellent attorney, had always been trusted as a friend and
the legal adviser of both young Merxler’s father and uncle—which
placed him now in a position where he could be a
very useful, if not indispensable confederate in assisting
Merxler to enter without obstacle into the possession of his
uncle’s estate.

The minutes passed. Billy Kane, within a few blocks of
his destination, noted the cross streets carefully now, as
he shook his head again. The pieces did not fit so perfectly
after all. Suppose that Rodgers *had* left a will disinheriting
his nephew, and suppose that young Merxler had found
that will and that it was in Merxler’s safe now, and that
Karlin was a party to it—why hadn’t the will been *destroyed*?
That would seem the obvious and safe thing
to have done! And if Merxler and Karlin and Red Vallon
were all hand in glove in the affair, where was the incentive
for murder that she had spoken of? Whose murder?
There was a snarl in the thing. He was conscious that he
had not untangled it at all to his satisfaction.

He tapped suddenly on the glass front, signalling the
chauffeur; and, as the taxi drew up at the curb, he stepped
quickly to the sidewalk.

“Wait for me here,” he directed, and started at a brisk
pace up the block.

He turned at the first corner, heading east along the
cross street. It was purely a residential neighborhood here.
There was no other pedestrian in sight for the moment.
Merxler’s house was one of a row halfway up the block.
Billy Kane’s pace became a nonchalant stroll. He passed
the row of houses slowly, though apparently indifferent to
their existence, and then, retracing his steps quite
as negligently, slipped suddenly into the shadows of a flight of
high front steps, and the next instant was crouched against
the basement door.

A skeleton key from Whitie Jack’s comprehensive assortment
crept into the lock. It proved abortive. Billy Kane, as
he made a second attempt with another key, was subconsciously
rehearsing certain details in his mind. There was
a light in the vestibule or front hallway above him, but the
windows on that floor were dark. Above that again the
windows were lighted, and it was a fair presumption that
the family proper were all upstairs. There was probably
a maid, but as there was no sign of life here in the basement
it might well be her evening out.

Again Billy Kane selected another key, still another—and
then the door opened silently under his hand. He
stepped inside, closed the door noiselessly behind him, and
stood listening. There was no sound and no light. It was
pitch black. He could not have seen his hand before his
eyes. And then his flashlight winked through the black,
went out, winked inquisitively again, and he moved forward.
The stairs were just at his right, and made a right-angled
turn halfway up. He gained the stairs and began
to mount them, testing each separate tread cautiously before
the next step was attempted. Stairs before now had been
known to creak out discordantly! Billy Kane smiled in a
grim, mirthless way. He was becoming an adept at this
burglarious trade where silence was so prime a factor.
Since last night he——

*What was that?*

He felt his muscles, as though without volition of his,
strain suddenly and grow rigid. He was halfway up the
stairs now, and he drew back into the angle made by the
turn, his body hugged tight against the wall. What was
that! He thought he had heard a sound as of someone
moving in the hall above, but it was gone now and there
was only a stillness in the house, a stillness that, as he listened,
became exaggerated until it seemed to possess noises
of its own that began to throb, and pound, and palpitate,
and make his eardrums ring, and—*no!*—there it was again—a
light, quick step—and, unmistakably now, upon the topmost
stair.

It was inky black. He could not see. He pressed still
closer, flattening himself against the wall. The step was
very light, scarcely audible; a woman’s step probably, and
probably the maid’s. Billy Kane held his breath. If he
were found here, discovered, caught, the Rat would——He
did not care to dwell upon the consequences.

Something, a shapeless thing, a deeper, shadowy blackness
passed by him. It seemed to escape contact with him
by the barest fraction of an inch. He heard the sound of
breathing—then a step along the passageway below—and
the basement door closed quietly. There was silence again,
save for that din infernal that beat at his eardrums. He
lifted his hand to his forehead—it was moist as he brought
it away again.

A moment more, and he was grimly composed again. It
was the maid probably. That seemed the natural conclusion.
Who else would have gone out by the basement door?
Well, if that were so, he was left now with almost unrestricted
freedom of action; the family being all upstairs,
he might reasonably expect to have the first floor quite to
himself without very great fear of interruption.

He crept on up the stairs, and reached the main hallway.
Here the dim light in the vestibule sifting down the
length of the hall metamorphosed the blackness into a murky
gloom. He listened again. A murmur of voices came intermittently
from above. There was no other sound.

There was a door at his right. He opened it silently, and
stepped through into the room beyond. He closed the door,
and the flashlight winked out again. He was in luck now!
This, at the first venture, was the room he was looking for.
The round, white ray of the flashlight, cutting a filmy path
through the darkness, fell upon the nickel dial of a small
safe that stood against the opposite wall. He crossed to the
safe, knelt before it, and took the crumpled piece of paper
that bore the combination from his pocket. Thereafter for
a moment, as his fingers moved swiftly, the silence was
broken by the faint, musical whirling of the dial—and
then a low, metallic thud, as he shot the lever over—and
the safe door swung open.

The ray from the flashlight flooded the interior of the
safe. It was a small safe, but even so it was evidently more
than large enough for its requirements. On the floor of the
safe was a package of securities, held together by broad
elastic bands, but the pigeon-holes were but sparsely filled,
some being entirely empty. A few minutes’ examination
disposed of the pigeon-holes—and the skeleton keys came
into service again on a little locked drawer. The drawer
contained a single envelope, sealed. He slit the envelope
open. It contained two folded sheets of paper. He examined
only one of them, and that only to the extent of glancing
at the first few words: “I, Theodore Rodgers, being
of sane mind and——”

Billy Kane’s face darkened, as he thrust the envelope into
his pocket and locked the drawer. It was true then! His
lips pursed grimly, as his eyes fell upon the package of
securities again. He took up the package and riffled it tentatively
through his fingers. Theodore Rodgers had perhaps
been a little eccentric—if eccentricity was defined by a
divergence from the general habits and customs of others!
He had made no secret that he kept his securities in his own
safe, preferring that method to depositing them in a safe-deposit
vault, and claiming that, as the securities were made
out in his name and were therefore valueless to anyone
else, they offered no temptation for robbery. Young Merxler
had evidently followed in his uncle’s footsteps in this
particular! But Theodore Rodgers had been credited with
being worth in the neighborhood of seventy thousand dollars!
Billy Kane’s lips pursed tighter, as he replaced the
package of bonds and stock certificates in the safe, and
closed and locked the safe door. At a generous estimate
there remained no more than twelve or fifteen thousand
dollars. Young Merxler, in the brief period following his
uncle’s death, had evidently done well!

Billy Kane retreated from the room, descended the stairs,
and let himself out through the basement door—and five
minutes later, in his taxi, was being whirled downtown
again. “The back room at Jerry’s before ten.” He had
directed the chauffeur to drive to a side street just off the
Bowery near Chatham Square—that was close to Jerry’s.
He had looked at his watch, as he had entered the taxi.
It was just nine o’clock. He had therefore plenty of time
now. He took the envelope from his pocket and extracted
the two folded sheets. There was not light enough to read
by, but that was quite easily rectified. He had his flashlight.

He bent well down toward the floor of the cab so as
not to attract the chauffeur’s attention, read both of the
papers, read them again—and a look of stunned surprise
and bewilderment settled on his face. One was a will,
evidently drawn and written by Rodgers himself, and duly
witnessed, bequeathing practically everything to charity, and
specifying four or five different organizations as the beneficiaries.
It appointed Karlin, who was referred to as a
“trusted and lifelong friend,” the sole executor; and, “as a
mark of personal esteem,” and as a “slight compensation”
for the administration of the estate, left Karlin a legacy
of two thousand five hundred dollars. The other paper
was a letter signed by young Merxler. Billy Kane read
this again for the third time:

    “If I die before Karlin does, this is a joke on Karlin;
    if Karlin dies before I do the will and this letter go into
    the fire. Damn him—I hate him! He’s a smooth oily-tongued
    hypocrite! It was Karlin more than anybody else
    who backed my uncle up in the idea of cutting me off. Well,
    I guess this is where I get even! If there’s two thousand
    five hundred dollars left when I get through, I hope Karlin
    will enjoy it—but there won’t be! I just wanted him to
    know how thoughtful my uncle was, and it was worth the
    risk of keeping the cursed will for the sake of the jolt it
    will give Karlin’s miserly, snivelling soul. If there’s anything
    Karlin loves, it’s money. If Karlin’s got any God
    at all, it’s money. He worships that, all right!”

Here the letter veered abruptly into direct address:

    “It’ll break your heart, Karlin, won’t it, to think I spent
    two thousand five hundred dollars of *your* money! That’s
    the joke, Karlin! It’s rich, isn’t it? And I just want to
    tell you, too, that you had the will in your own hands once—and
    overlooked the bet! That’s where you slipped up,
    Karlin. It was the day my uncle died, and we were going
    over the papers together. It was in a plain, unsealed envelope—and
    didn’t look like anything. You tossed it on a
    heap of other stuff to be looked into later—all you could
    think of was counting stocks and bonds, getting your
    fingers into money—that you didn’t know was yours—some
    of it, anyway! I was looking for something else—and
    found it. I only had to read about two words and see
    that it was in my uncle’s handwriting, and—well, since
    you’re the executor, you’ll find it enclosed herewith!

    .. class:: right

       Clayton Merxler.”

Billy Kane refolded the papers, returned them to the envelope,
restored the envelope and flashlight to his pockets,
and leaned back in his seat. The taxi lurched and swayed
along at a pace that gave small deference or heed to speed
laws. Billy Kane stared out of the window.

The letter was viciously facetious, callous and unscrupulous.
The boy was a self-confessed and blatantly unrepentant
thief. In that at least his first supposition had evidently
been justified, and it was quite clear now why Merxler had
not destroyed the will—but otherwise the whole affair had
now assumed an entirely different aspect. Instead of Karlin
being in league with Merxler, Karlin, unknown to Merxler,
it now appeared, was aware of the existence of the will—and
Karlin, if *she* had not exaggerated, meant murder.
And, since no one else was involved, meant Merxler’s murder.

Billy Kane’s face hardened in perplexity. But why?
What could Karlin hope to gain thereby? Certainly it was
not on account of the little legacy of two thousand five
hundred dollars—Karlin had only to expose the fact that
the will existed to obtain that. And that applied equally
to the executorship. And what good could the executorship
do Karlin? With the stocks and bonds there open to
inspection and their value known, Karlin’s executorship
could afford no opportunity for crooked work—he could
simply turn the securities into cash, turn the cash over to
the various charities, and the cash must correspond with the
valuation of the estate’s schedule of assets. Why, then—murder?
Personal enmity? No; Red Vallon and the underworld
were interested in this, and the enmity that had
caused Merxler to preserve the will, an enmity that no doubt
was fully returned by Karlin, had nothing to do with Red
Vallon and the rest.

Five, ten, fifteen minutes went by. The taxi reached the
lower section of the city. Billy Kane still stared from the
window, his face still hard in perplexity. Murder! No,
he did not understand. But there was still the “back room at
Jerry’s”—where he was going now! Did the answer lie
there? Jerry’s, safely entrenched in one of the most abandoned
neighborhoods of the city, was a gambling hell that
yet boasted a certain exclusiveness—and its patrons quite
made good the boast. It was an open secret that men whose
names ranked high in the city’s commercial and professional
world went there for their fling. Jerry, it was said, was an
ex-croupier from Monte Carlo, and had brought the spirit
of Monte Carlo with him. He, Billy Kane, had heard of the
place often enough—the entertainment was lavish, the play
unlimited. Did the answer lie there—in the back room
at Jerry’s? He shrugged his shoulders philosophically now,
and a grim little smile came and flickered across his lips.
Well, if there were any means by which an uninvited guest
could gain access to that back room, he would know within
a very few minutes now!

XI—THE BACK ROOM AT JERRY’S
===========================

The taxi drew up to the curb. Billy Kane’s hat was
far over his eyes as he stepped out. He stood an
instant debating with himself, then handed the chauffeur
another bill. What might happen at Jerry’s he did not
know—he was going it blind again. But as a means of
retreat, a taxi waiting around the corner would at least add
to his chances, if necessity arose. And a chauffeur well
paid was a guarantee of fidelity than which there was none
better.

“You’ve struck a gold mine to-night,” he said coolly. “I
may be gone half an hour, or I may be gone an hour—wait
for me.”

“You bet your life, I’ll wait!” said the chauffeur fervently.
“I——”

Billy Kane was hurrying down the street. He turned
the first corner, and headed along the intersecting street,
that was dark, narrow and deserted. He passed another
cross street, and thereafter counted the houses as he went
along. Here tenements and the old-fashioned dwellings of
New York’s early days incongruously rubbed shoulders
with one another. Jerry’s, he found, was the fifth house
from the cross street. There was no mistaking Jerry’s. It
was one of the old private dwellings, and it had been
pointed out to him more than once. He returned to the
cross street, turned down it, slipped into the lane that passed
in the rear of the houses he had just inspected from the
front, and, guardedly now, making his way silently along,
he again counted the buildings that here in the darkness
loomed up like black, uncouth shapes against the sky line.
He stopped in the rear of the fifth house. Here and there
a thread of light showed from a window, but it was a
stealthy light, a light that played truant through the interstices
of closed shutters, or seeped perhaps through the folds
of curtains hanging inadvertently awry. It was abnormally
dark, and in the darkness there seemed to lurk a somber
secrecy, like a pall, cloaking evil things.

Billy Kane swung himself up and over a high fence,
and dropped noiselessly to the ground on the other side.
He found himself in a yard that, even in the darkness,
he could make out was strangely restricted in area. A few
feet in front of him was the wall of the building itself. He
crept forward, skirting along this wall. There was no window,
but opening almost on a level with the ground were
shuttered French doors. He continued on, rounded the
angle of the building, and suddenly stooped down in a
crouching posture. There was a window here just above his
head, and from it came a meager gleam of light. His eyes
grown accustomed to the darkness, he could distinguish his
surroundings a little more clearly now. The yard here, a
narrow strip of it paralleling the side fence, seemed to run
back quite a distance, taking up a jut in the building.
They had puzzled him, those shuttered French doors where
logically he had expected to find an ordinary back door and
porch, but it was obvious now that the “back room at
Jerry’s” was an addition that had been built onto the house,
extending almost to the fence in the rear.

The window beneath which he crouched was shoulder
high. He straightened up. The light came through slightly
parted, heavy portières. He felt the blood quicken suddenly
in his veins. He could see in quite well. There were two
men in the room—Karlin, and another man whom he did not
recognize. The room was luxuriously, if somewhat garishly
furnished. A green baize card table, with several
unopened packs of cards upon it, stood in the center; there
was a blue-and-gold Chinese rug with a huge dragon pattern
upon the floor; and at one side a large buffet groaned
under a load of wine and whisky bottles, bowls of fruit,
and refreshments of various descriptions. The two men
were talking earnestly. Karlin pulled out his watch, and
scowled.

Billy Kane’s lips tightened. He could see, but he could
not hear. He took his penknife from his pocket, and slipped
the blade under the window sill. If he had luck, if the window
was not locked, he—ah!—his breath came in a soft,
long-drawn intake—the window gave slightly under a cautious
pressure. An inch was all that was necessary, half an
inch even. The window went up by infinitesimal fractions of
that inch.

Billy Kane returned the penknife to his pocket. He
could hear them now. Karlin was speaking; and the other
man, it appeared now, was the proprietor of the place, Jerry,
the ex-croupier of Monte Carlo.

“What’s the matter with you, Jerry—getting nervous
waiting?” said Karlin curtly. “Well, forget it! This is the
Rat’s plan—and that ought to be good enough, what?
Nothing is going wrong, nothing can go wrong. Certainly,
the police will close you up for a month, but that’s all
there is to it, so far as you are concerned. They have
nothing on you. That’s the inside of the whole thing—that
the killing is done in an unpremeditated, drunken brawl
over cards—that it just happened—just an untimely end
without any other strings to it! There’s no reason why you
should lose your nerve—your story is straight. Young
Merxler came here often. He gives a little party here to-night.
Neither you nor your doorkeeper knows a damned
one of his guests. He vouched for them, and that’s all
you know. You heard a row in here, then a revolver shot,
and when you got here the table was upset, wine, cards and
glasses all over the place, the boys beating it out through the
French doors there, and young Merxler dead on the floor.
You just notify the police. Your loss through being closed
for a month makes it a cinch your story’s straight—you don’t
have to tell the police that your share of the split is the
best bet you ever made in your life! Let *me* do the worrying!
I’m the one who’s taking the risk. I’m the one who’s
been showing a seamy side to Merxler in confidence lately.
I’m the one who’s invited him to the party that the police
will be told *he* was giving. You can leave it to me that
nothing goes wrong. I’ve got my own skin staked on this.
There won’t be any mistake made—dead men can’t talk.
The only thing I’m bothering about is what is keeping Bull
McCann. He might——”

Billy Kane drew suddenly back from the window, and
crouched down again against the wall of the building. Someone,
unless he were curiously mistaken, was out there in the
lane at the rear of the place. He was listening intently
now—but there was a strange turmoil in his brain that
seemed somehow to divide his attention, that had made
his act of caution one that was almost purely automatic.
Murder! That *casual* discussion of murder! There was
something within him, soul deep, that he could not quite
analyse—save that it seemed a lust for murder was upon
him too, possessing him, engulfing him. Would *that* be murder?
Was it murder to crush out the life of a poison-fanged
snake! There was a fury upon him, but a most
strange fury, a fury that was utterly cold—and utterly merciless.
Murder! Yes, he knew now beyond question that
there was to be murder, that the stage for it was set with a
devil’s craft, with the craft of the Rat whose identity *he*
had assumed; that it would appear on the face of it nothing
more than quite a logical outcome of the life led by young
Merxler, that there would appear to be no connection whatever
with young Merxler’s death and what was to follow—but
what was it that was to follow? How, in what way,
was this murder, in dollars and cents, to show a profit at the
next meeting of that unhallowed directorate of crime? How
did Karlin——

Strange how his mind should isolate itself from his immediate
surroundings, and yet leave him fully conscious of
those surroundings! He was still listening—listening intently.
There was no mistake. A boot scraped against a
board. Someone was climbing the fence. Came then the
soft thud of feet dropping to the ground, and now a quick
step across the yard.

Billy Kane’s revolver was in his hand. If the newcomer
came around the corner of the house, dark as it was, it
was almost certain that—no! The other had halted evidently
before those shuttered French doors, and was rapping
softly—three raps, a single rap, two raps. The raps
were repeated. Someone moved swiftly across the floor of
the room. There was the faint clash of portière rings,
and the sound of the French doors being opened.

Billy Kane was at the window again. A third man was
in the room now. Karlin was speaking sharply.

“You’ve been a long time coming, Bull!”

The newcomer, his back turned to Billy Kane, shrugged
his shoulders.

“I had to wait until Merxler went out,” he answered.
“I didn’t lose no time after that, an’ I came downtown as
fast as I could. I ain’t been much more’n half an hour
from Merxler’s to here.”

“Well, all right!” grunted Karlin. “Have any trouble?”

“Nix!” said the other. “I slipped the envelope into the
drawer of the safe, all right. It was a cinch! The family
was all upstairs.”

Karlin nodded.

“Where are the securities?” he demanded.

The man took what Billy Kane could see were a number
of stock and bond certificates from his pocket, and handed
them to Karlin.

Karlin nodded again, as he ran through the papers rapidly.

“How much did you leave in the safe?” he inquired
crisply.

“What Red told me—about ten or twelve thousand.”

“All right!” said Karlin. “Good work, Bull! Beat it,
now!”

The man turned, and left the room. Billy Kane heard
him step across the yard, heard him climb the fence, heard
Karlin within the room close the shuttered French doors—but
this time Billy Kane made no movement, save that there
was a curious twitching of his face muscles as his jaws
locked together. All the bald, hellish brutality of the scheme
was beginning to take form now in his mind. It was a
plant, all of it, the letter, the will; a plant with the devil’s
stamp of ingenuity upon it—and it was the man who had
just gone from the room, Bull McCann, who had passed
him on that black stairway from the basement in Merxler’s
home!

Karlin was laughing in a viciously jubilant way, as he
came back to the ex-croupier’s side.

“Fifty thousand dollars!” said Karlin, as he thrust the
securities into the inside pocket of his coat, and patted the
pocket complacently. “Fifty thousand, Jerry, and all of it in
Theodore Rodger’s name—I kept stalling the kid on the idea
of transferring the securities into his own name—told him
there was no hurry—that he could clip the coupons and get
the dividend checks through all right, just the same. I
was his attorney too—see? Works pretty smooth, eh,
Jerry? Too bad you didn’t get a chance to have a look
at that letter and the will! The Chipper did the job, and
they’re the best pieces of forged penwork that were ever
pulled in America! Some head the Rat’s got, I’ll give him
credit for that—he worded the letter. It’s *prima facie*
evidence that the kid was blowing the coin just as fast as
he did when he came into his father’s money—and nobody’s
surprised that most of it has gone up in smoke. And,
besides that, it’s a confession. Well, what happens? Merxler
is killed in a gambling brawl—at which nobody is surprised,
either!—his safe is opened, the will is found, and
with it that little hymn of hate against me, which accounts
for what would otherwise have been a fool play in having
kept the will. I am found to be the executor, empowered
to transfer and sell, and administer the estate—and we find
that all that’s left is about ten thousand—which is *all* I have
to account for. I enter that as the value of the estate, split
it up among the beneficiaries, and”—he chuckled softly—“I
generously waive my claim to any share in the legacy on
the score that the estate has been so hard hit. Neat little
play, eh, Jerry? Well, after that, there’s nothing to it! My
signature is legally good on any document, and little by little,
here and there, we turn the fifty thousand into the long
green—and pocket it. If it’s done quietly, a security or
so at a time, no one would ever think of digging around
to find out if it was one of those on the schedule filed by
the estate. Feeling better, Jerry?”

The ex-croupier walked over to the buffet, poured out for
himself a stiff four fingers of whisky, and tossed off the
neat spirit at a gulp. He forced an uneasy grin.

“I don’t often drink in business hours,” he said nervously.
“But I’m not used to playing this high—maybe I’m
a little shaky. Are you sure-fire on the witnesses to that
will? Their signatures would have to be proved.”

“They’re the only things that are genuine,” said Karlin,
with a malicious laugh. “We had two of our boys working
around the hotel down on Long Island where Rodgers spent
a month this spring, and where he is supposed to have written
the will. They identify their signatures, and their
story’s straight. Rodgers asked them to witness his signature
to a paper, that’s all. He didn’t tell them what the
paper was, and they didn’t know—see? If there’s any
question crops up, the hotel proves that the two men were
its employees at the time Rodgers was staying there.” He
pulled out his watch again. “It’s ten o’clock!” he said
brusquely. “Merxler ought to be showing up. I——”

The ex-croupier had suddenly laid a finger to his lips
in caution. A knock was sounding on the hall door.

“Here he is now,” said the ex-croupier, in a lowered voice.
“I told them to send him here as soon as he came.”

“All right, let him in,” instructed Karlin. “And tell the
boys to drift along as soon as they like. *It’s the man who
cuts the first jack.*”

The ex-croupier opened the door, and was instantly continental
in both manner and speech. He bowed profoundly,
as a young man entered.

“Ah, Monsieur Merxler—a great pleasure! I was telling
Monsieur Karlin that——”

Billy Kane had drawn slightly back from the window.
His lips were thinned, compressed. The fiendishness of it
all had got him now—-Karlin with his suave, oily, Judas
smile, preening at his Vandyke beard—and Merxler, for all
that he had played the fool for several years now, still with
a frank and boyish face, his broad shoulders squared back
as he laughed a pleasant greeting. There was a whiteness
in Billy Kane’s face, a whiteness that was like to the fury,
no longer cold, that was white-hot in his soul. Murder!
Well, perhaps—but it would not be Merxler’s murder! He
whipped his mask from his pocket, and adjusted it swiftly
over his face. His fingers automatically tested the mechanism
of his revolver, as he again looked in through the window.
The ex-croupier was bowing himself out of the room,
closing the door behind him.

Quick and silent now in every movement, Billy Kane
crept around the corner of the house, and crouched before
the shuttered French doors. He had a minute, perhaps two
at the outside, in which to act before Karlin’s confederates
entered the room. He tapped softly with his revolver on
the shutters—three raps, a single rap, two raps; he repeated
it—three raps, a single rap, two raps.

From within a step came hurriedly across the floor, there
was the faint clashing of the curtain rings again as the
portières were drawn aside, and through the interstices of
the shutters came little gleams of light. Billy Kane shifted
his grip upon his revolver—to the muzzle end. The doors
opened a few inches cautiously. And then Karlin’s voice:

“Who’s there? What—-”

But Billy Kane was in action now, and the words ended
in a wild shout of alarm. His left hand shot forward like
a flash into the opening, wrenching the doors wide apart;
and, lithe as a panther in its spring, he launched himself forward,
and struck with the butt of his revolver, struck as he
would have struck at a mad dog, full on Karlin’s head.

There was a crash as the man went limply, senseless,
to the floor, and another cry, from Merxler now, and then,
dazing Billy Kane for an instant by the sudden and unexpected
onslaught, Merxler had sprung and locked his arms
around him in a grip of steel. They crashed against the
table, upsetting it.

“Let go!” Billy Kane panted frantically. “The hall door—lock
it! You don’t understand!”

There was no answer from Merxler, save another hoarse
shout for help. The boy was fighting like a demon. Here
and there about the room they lurched, staggered, reeled,
but Billy Kane was the stronger. It seemed only by inches,
but still by inches they were nearing the hall door. There
was something of ghastly irony in this frenzied effort of the
boy to bar his own road to safety; but there was something
fine in it too, something that, even as he fought, found recognition
in Billy Kane’s mind. The boy, spendthrift though
he might be, a fool with his money though he might be,
was game to the core in standing by a man whom he believed
to be his friend.

There was an uproar now from the interior of the house.
There came the rush of feet along the hall. Another instant
and they would be at the door. Massing his strength
for the effort, Billy Kane tore himself free, flung Merxler
back, and plunged forward. The door was being opened
now. He hurled his weight against it.

“Quick, Merxler! Quick! The inside pocket of Karlin’s
coat!” he gasped out. “Quick!”

There was a yell of fury from the hall, as the door
slammed shut, and Billy Kane turned the key—and then a
crash upon it, and another, as human battering rams
launched themselves madly against the panels. Over his
shoulder Billy Kane saw Merxler standing hesitant, glancing
in stupefaction alternately from the door to Karlin on
the floor.

A panel cracked and splintered. Billy Kane’s revolver
roared like a cannon shot through the room. The bullet,
aimed low, ripped along the threshold.

“Merxler, the inside pocket of Karlin’s coat!” he said in
deadly quiet. “Man, are you mad! Hurry! They’ll have
us both in another minute!”

The revolver shot had checked the rush against the door
for an instant, though only for an instant, but that instant
was enough. Merxler, stung into action, had leapt to Karlin’s
side, and was bending over the man. And then he was
on his feet, staring wildly at the papers in his hand.

“Good God, what’s this!” he cried out. “What’s——”

“The French doors—the fence—run for it!” said Billy
Kane tensely, and fired again. And the next instant the
room was in darkness, as he switched off the light; and in
another, with Merxler running now beside him, he had
crossed the few feet of yard and was swinging himself over
the fence.

From behind came the rip and tear and smash of the
yielding door, shouts, yells, oaths, a confusion of noises;
but Billy Kane had reached the cross street now, and, pulling
the mask from his face, jerking his hat brim far over
his eyes, turned in the opposite direction from that in which
he had entered the lane, and, urging Merxler on, was running
at top speed. At the next block they swerved again—and
Billy Kane, with a restraining pressure on Merxler’s
arm, here dropped into a slower and less noticeable pace.
There was little or no chance of pursuit now; no one, it
seemed, had taken the immediate initiative of following
them into the lane, yet Billy Kane made a wide detour
before he finally reached his waiting taxi cab.

“Get in,” he said to Merxler; and, crisply, to the chauffeur:
“Drive as fast as you know how! Go up the street
at the rear of The Purple Scarf!”

He followed Merxler into the cab.

Merxler drew his hand across his eyes in a dazed way,
and laughed nervously.

“I can’t see your face now, and you had a mask on before,”
he said jerkily. “This is a queer business! Who
are you? What’s it mean? Those securities were in my
safe an hour ago—how did they get into Karlin’s pocket?
What was he doing with them?”

“Stoop over!” said Billy Kane quietly. He handed Merxler
the forged letter, and flashed the ray of his lamp upon
the paper.

His head bent forward, Merxler read the letter, and his
face, already white under the ray, gradually took on a
drawn, grayish pallor.

“I—I never wrote this,” he faltered. “It’s my handwriting,
but I—I never wrote it.”

“Nor your uncle this,” said Billy Kane, the same grim,
quiet intonation in his voice, as he placed the will in turn
in Merxler’s hand.

The light played on the paper, and over Merxler’s face.
Billy Kane sat drawn back in the shadows.

There was moisture on Merxler’s forehead, as he looked
up after a moment.

“My God,” he whispered hoarsely, “what does this
mean?”

The flashlight was out. It was dark in the cab now, and
the taxi rattled on traversing block after block. Billy Kane
spoke swiftly, sketching the events of the night. Merxler
did not move, save that at the end his hand sought and
found and closed tight upon Billy Kane’s arm.

It was Merxler in a new light who spoke.

“You’ve saved my life—and you haven’t preached,” he
said slowly. “I’m a fool! I’ve played the fool—they never
would have tried to get away with it if I hadn’t played the
fool all my life. I guess perhaps I’ve had my lesson tonight.
But fool, or not”—his voice rasped suddenly, bitter
hard—“Karlin will pay for this, or——”

“You will—yet!” Billy Kane cut in grimly. “You know
too much, and you haven’t a minute to lose. They lost their
heads for a moment in the confusion and the darkness
when we got away, but their one hope now will be to get
you before you tell your story. They may figure that you
will hesitate about telling it, as you would have to admit
your presence at Jerry’s gambling hell—and they may figure
that you wouldn’t act anyway before morning. Do you
understand? That’s *their* chance. Your chance is the police
without a second’s delay—you may even get Karlin before
he regains consciousness, or before they try to move him, if
you’re quick enough. I know your story will sound strange
with an unknown man in a mask running through it, but
you have only to tell the truth. You have all the evidence
you need. The police will know the Chipper, who forged
the papers; and the police will know how to make those
fake witnesses to the will squeal—it’s a different proposition
now with them than simply appearing before Karlin and a
notary public and swearing to the signatures. Understand?”

“Yes,” said Merxler tersely. “You’re right—and I’ll see
it through. But you—you saved my life, and——”

“I get out here,” said Billy Kane, and leaning forward
suddenly, tapped sharply on the glass front. They had
turned into the street that was not only in the rear of The
Purple Scarf, but was equally in the rear of that secret
entrance into the Rat’s lair. He held out his hand to Merxler.
“Good-night, Merxler—I——”

“But,” Merxler cried, as the taxi stopped, “I can’t let
you go like this! I owe you too much. Who are you?
What is your name? Where can I find you to——”

“I’m trying to find—myself,” said Billy Kane, with grim
whimsicality. “Let it go at that!” He caught Merxler’s
hand in a hard grip. “Good-night, Merxler—and good
luck!” he said, and stepping quickly from the taxi, closed
the door. He handed the chauffeur another bill. “Drive
this gentleman to police headquarters—fast!” he ordered,
and, turning, moved swiftly away down the street, hugging
the shadows again, avoiding the rays of the street lamps.

He slipped into the lane, gained the shed, and from the
shed made his way through the underground passage to the
secret door, listened here intently for a moment, then
stepped through into the Rat’s room, and groped forward
toward the electric light that hung over the table.

It was strange! There was something almost mockingly
ironic in it all! It was like the night before again. In
peril himself as grave as Merxler’s, he had saved Merxler—and
his own peril remained, was increased even, for the
inner circle of this crime world that ranked him as a trusted
confederate would be aroused now to an unbridled pitch of
fury and excitement, seeking the unknown man in the mask
who had foiled them to-night. Suspicious as they would
be of every one, he now had that suspicion to combat, and
he could ill afford that a breath of it should touch him.
His all was at stake—Red Vallon, with the underworld at
his heels, was enlisted now in a hunt for those rubies, which,
if successful, must inevitably discover too the identity of the
man, or men, who had murdered David Ellsworth, and who
had driven him, Billy Kane, into this damnable exile! It
was paramount, vital, that he should preserve his authority
to keep the underworld at that work, the power to command,
the——

Billy Kane switched on the electric light, and stood staring
at the table, grim faced, his jaws locked tight together,
his hand like a flash seeking his revolver in his pocket. His
eyes lifted, and swept around the room. The swift, quick
glance went unrewarded. The room was apparently as he
had left it. He crossed quickly to the street door. It was
still locked.

Again his eyes searched the room. He remembered that
she had spoken of other secrets that the room possessed.
What were they? Still another entrance? There was no
sign of it! He knew only that someone had been here in
his absence—and was now flaunting that visit in his face.
Was it mockery? A warning? What?

It could not have been Red Vallon, or any of his pack.
It was almost certain that Red Vallon had no knowledge
of any secret entrance, and besides it was too soon for Red
Vallon. Was it the woman? He shook his head. It was
hardly likely, and his reason told him no—she had been outspoken
enough that evening, and she had given no hint of
*this*. Who then? And what was its meaning? Was it
grim mockery? A grimmer warning? What?

On the table, ostentatiously placed in full view, and
identified beyond possibility of mistake by a piece cut from
the corner of the original plush tray on which it and many
of its fellows had rested, was one of the rubies stolen from
David Ellsworth’s vault!

XII—A CLUE
==========

Billy Kane’s eyes lifted from his plate, and fixed
in a curiously introspective way on Whitie Jack’s unhandsome
and unshaven face across the little table.
Twenty-four hours! He was out in the open now—“convalescent.”
Twenty-four hours—and as far as Red Vallon
and Birdie Rose were concerned specifically, and the underworld
generally, there had been not a shred of success. He
had unleashed the underworld, but the underworld had
picked up neither thread nor clue; the underground clearing
houses for stolen goods, the “fences,” had yielded up no
single one of the rubies belonging to the Ellsworth collection;
the lead that he had given Birdie Rose in respect of
Jackson, the dead footman, had, up to the present at least,
proved abortive.

Well, perhaps he, Billy Kane, would be more successful!
The twenty-four hours had not been wholly fruitless. Perhaps
before the night was out there would be a different
story to tell—perhaps a grim and ugly story. There was
one clue which had developed, but a clue that was to be entrusted
to neither Red Vallon, nor Birdie Rose, nor any of
the pack. Even they, case-hardened, steeped in crime though
they were, might balk at pushing that clue to its ultimate
conclusion. They might weaken at the limit! He, Billy
Kane, would not weaken, because, as between his own life
and the life of one who he was already satisfied was a murderer,
he would not fling his own life away! His life was
at stake. Red Vallon’s wasn’t. Birdie Rose’s wasn’t. It
made a difference in—the limit!

An attendant, in a dirty, beer-stained apron, sidled to
the edge of the table. The man had been eager in his
attentions, deferential, almost obsequious.

“Wot’re youse for now, Bundy?” he inquired solicitously.

Billy Kane smiled, as he shook his head and jerked his
hand by way of invitation toward Whitie Jack. He, Billy
Kane, was the Rat, alias Bundy Morgan! He had never in
his life before been in this none-too-reputable place run by
one Two-finger Tasker, that combined at one and the same
time a restaurant and dance hall of the lowest type, yet he
found himself not only well known but an honored guest!
He had known of the place by name and reputation; it was
the sort of place that seemed naturally one the Rat would
frequent, and he had told Red Vallon that he would “eat”
here this evening. Red Vallon would have to make a report
somewhere, and he, Billy Kane, had become none too sure of
his own temporary quarters—that secret door, that underground
passage into the Rat’s lair had not proved an altogether
unmixed blessing! There was the Woman in Black,
who had been an uninvited, unwelcome, and almost sinister
visitor on two occasions already; and there was, far more
disturbing still, the matter of that ruby from the Ellsworth
collection which had found its way mysteriously to the table
in that room—the single stone from the collection that had
come to light since the murder two nights ago.

Whitie Jack accepted the unspoken invitation.

“Gimme another mug of suds,” he said.

The glass was replenished.

“You seem to have pulled a good job, Whitie,” said Billy
Kane approvingly. “The tenement is next to the café on
the corner, eh? All right, I know the place. What next?”

Whitie Jack gulped down half the contents of his glass.

“I guess I did,” he said complacently. “I wasn’t pipin’
de lay all day for nothin’—wot? De place has three floors,
an’ two flats on each floor, savvy? It ain’t much of a place,
neither. Peters’ flat is on de second floor, on de right as
youse go up. Dere’s nobody at home, but he comes down
dere himself to give de place de once-over one night a week.
De family’s away somewhere for a vacation, sniffin’ in de
ocean breezes at some boardin’ house. Gee, say, de guy
must have money to pull de high brow, out-of-town-in-de-summer
stuff for de family!”

Billy Kane nodded.

Whitie Jack finished his glass, and drew his sleeve across
his mouth.

“Two of de flats is vacant,” he said. “One on de second
floor, an’ one on de top. De other one on de top over
Peters’ flat is where dat crazy old fiddler guy, Savnak,
hangs out all by his lonesome. But Savnak won’t bother
youse none. He’s out every night. He goes down to
Dutchy Vetter’s jewelry shop, an’ him an’ Dutchy, bein’
nuts on music an’ pinochle, dey goes to it for half de night.
Old Savnak’s got bats in his belfry, I guess; but I guess he
can fiddle all right. I heard he used to be a big bug leadin’
some foreign or-kestra, an’ was a count or dook or something,
an’ den de dope got him, an’ den he came out here.
He ain’t livin’ like a dook now, an’ I guess it takes him all
his time to scratch up his rent. Bats, dat’s wot he’s got—bats
an’ dope. Dey got him to play one night down to
Heeney’s music hall, an’ he went up in de air an’ quit flat
’cause de waiters kept circulatin’ around an’ dishin’ out de
suds while he was playin’! Say, wot do youse know about
dat! An’ den——”

“Stick to cases, Whitie,” interrupted Billy Kane patiently.
“I’m expecting company in a few minutes. What about
the ground floor? Who lives there?”

“Oh, dere!” said Whitie Jack somewhat contemptuously.
“I dunno wot yer lay is, but dere’s nothin’ dere to bother
youse neither. Dere’s a couple of sisters about sixty years
old apiece on one side, an’ a young guy dat’s just got married
on de other.”

“Back entrance?” inquired Billy Kane casually.

Whitie Jack shook his head.

“Nope!” he said. “Nothin’ doin’! Dere’s a back yard
about four inches square, but the buildin’ behind butts right
up against it, an’ dere ain’t no lane. But youse can get in
de front door to-night whether it’s locked or not, for dere
ain’t any street lamp near enough to do youse any harm.”

“Good work!” said Billy Kane. He pushed his plate away
from in front of him. “I guess you’d better beat it now,
Whitie.”

Whitie Jack, of the lesser breed of criminal, self-attached
familiar to the man he believed to be the Rat and an
aristocrat of Crimeland, rose from his seat with evident
reluctance. There was a sort of dog-like faithfulness and
admiration in his eyes, the same deference in his manner
that seemed to mark the dealings of everyone in the underworld
with the Rat; but the look on Whitie Jack’s face
was nevertheless one of undisguised disappointment.

“Ain’t I in on dis any more?” he pleaded. “Ain’t I got
anything more to do?”

“Yes,” said Billy Kane. He lowered his voice. “You’ve
got more to do, and what will count for a lot more than
you’ve already done—keep your mouth shut tight.” He
leaned across the table, and his hand closed in a friendly
pressure on the other’s arm. “Take the night off. Show
up in the morning. Beat it now, Whitie.”

Whitie Jack left the place. The waiter removed the
dishes from the table. Billy Kane leaned back in his chair,
and his eyes, the introspective stare back in their depths,
travelled slowly over his surroundings. The tables, ranged
around the sides of the room, were but sparsely occupied;
the polished section of the floor in the center was deserted—it
was too early for the votaries of the bunny-hug and the
turkey-trot to start in on their nightly gyrations. Two-finger
Tasker’s was in a state of lethargy, as it were; a few
hours later it would awake to a riot of hilarity, and come
into its own with a surging crowd and packed tables, but it
was too early for that yet.

Billy Kane’s fingers slipped mechanically into his vest
pocket, and, hidden there, mechanically began to twirl a
small, hard object, irregular in its shape, between their tips.
His face hardened suddenly. The touch of that little object
stirred up in an instant a grim flood of speculation. It was
the ruby from the Ellsworth collection that he had found
on his return to the Rat’s den last night. It worried him.
How had it got there? Who had put it there? And why?
Above all—why?

Only a few hours before, turning his purloined authority
to account, he had set the underworld the task of tracing
the Ellsworth collection—and mysteriously there had appeared
upon his table this single stone, ostentatiously identified
by a piece cut from one of the original plush trays in
which the stones had been kept. The bare possibility that
it had been Red Vallon, or some of his breed, who had stumbled
upon the stone in their search through the underground
exchanges, and had left it there as evidence of a partial success
for him to find on his return, had occurred to him; but
a cautious probing of Red Vallon that morning had put a
final and emphatic negative on that theory.

Who, then? And why? It had seemed like a ghastly
jeer when he had seen that stone there on the table, and
the prelude to some sinister act that he could not foresee,
and against which therefore he could not prepare any defense.
Did someone know that he was not the Rat, that,
desperate, with no other thing to do, he had snatched at
the rôle fate had thrust out to him, and was playing it
now?

Who, then? Not the Woman in Black—her acceptance
of him as the Rat had been altogether too genuine! Not
the underworld—even a suspicion there would have been
followed by a knife thrust long before this. Not the actual
perpetrators of David Ellsworth’s murder, if they knew him
to be Billy Kane—for their one aim had been to fasten the
crime irrevocably upon him, all their hellish ingenuity had
been centered on that one object, and they would certainly,
therefore, have lost no time in giving the police, in some
roundabout, guarded way, a tip as to his identity.

His brain whirled with the problem, and ached in an
actual physical sense. It had been aching all day. He could
minimize his peril, if he cared to make the wish father to
the thought; he could not exaggerate it. It seemed
impossible that his identity was known, but, even so, the question
as to where that stone had come from, and why, still remained
unanswered. Was it, then—another possibility—the
murderers of David Ellsworth, who, while still believing
him to be the Rat, and having discovered in some way
that, as the Rat, he was working against them, had given
him this ugly and significant warning to keep his hands
off? Well, if that were so, he was still in no less danger,
for he must go on. To turn aside was to fail, and to
fail, quite equally, meant death.

The hard pressure of his lips curved the corners of his
mouth downward in sharp lines. Nor was the question of
that stone all! Since last night when the cloak of respectability
had been stripped from Karlin, and the “man in the
mask” had turned the tables on the crime coterie in the
gambling hell run by Jerry, the ex-croupier of Monte Carlo,
the underworld had been in a nasty mood, ugly, suspicious,
in a ferment of unrest. It was another alias added to his
rôle, another alias to safeguard even more zealously, if possible,
than his unsought rôle of the Rat. He was the man
in the mask. He shrugged his shoulders suddenly. Quite
so! The mask was even at that moment in his inside coat
pocket. If it were found there! He laughed harshly. It
seemed as though he were being sucked in nearer and nearer
to the center of some seething vortex that hungrily sought
to engulf him. It seemed as though his brain ground
and mulled around in a sort of ghastly cycle. When he tried
to bring one thing into individual outline some other thing
impinged, and all became a jumbled medley, like pieces of a
puzzle, no one of which would fit into another.

The underworld looked askance and whispered through
the corners of its mouth as it asked the question: Who was
the man in the mask? And he, Billy Kane, who could answer
that question, sitting here in Two-finger Tasker’s in
the heart of that underworld, was asking himself another,
a dozen others, whose answers were vital, life and death to
him in the most literal sense. Who was the Woman in
Black, who, like a Nemesis, hovered over the Rat? Where
was the man whose personality had been so strangely thrust
upon him, Billy Kane? When would the Rat return? Had
he, Billy Kane, even the few hours at his disposal this
evening that were necessary to enable him to run down
the clue which he had discovered, and upon which he was
banking his all now to clear himself, to bring to justice the
murderers who had so craftily saddled their guilt upon him—had
he even that much time before the inevitable crash
came?

This evening! Yes, this evening! His fingers came from
his vest pocket, and his hand clenched fiercely at his side.
He would go the limit. His mind was made up to that.
He had never thought that he would consider, calculate and
weigh the pros and cons of taking another’s life, much less
come to a deliberate decision to do so! But he had made
that decision now; and, if it were necessary, he would carry
it through. It seemed to affect him with an unnatural,
cold indifference that surprised himself—that decision. It
seemed to be only the result, the outcome that continued to
concern him. If he had luck with him to-night he would
win through. Red Vallon, Birdie Rose and the underworld
had so far failed. He had kept prodding them on, and
would continue to prod them on even now on the basis that
he could not afford to let go of a single chance; but his
hopes, that amounted now to a practical certainty of success,
were almost wholly centered on his own efforts in the
next few hours.

He stirred impulsively in his chair. The murderers of
David Ellsworth had been *too* cunning, it seemed, had overstepped
themselves at last in their anxiety to weave their
net of evidence still more irrevocably around him. The
affair of last night, the capture of Karlin by the police, and
the social prominence of both Karlin and Merxler, had
furnished the morning papers with material for glaring
headlines and columns of sensational “story”; but, even so,
all this had not by any means overshadowed the Ellsworth
murder and robbery. The press was still alive with it,
New York was still agog with the old millionaire-philanthropist’s
assassination, and with what it believed to be the
traitorous and abandoned act of, not only a trusted and
confidential secretary, but of one who at the same time was
the son of a lifelong friend.

The blood surged burning hot into Billy Kane’s face.
From coast to coast they had heralded him as the vilest of
his kind—he was a pariah, an outcast, a thing of loathing!
Yes, the papers were still giving him and the Ellsworth
murder prominence enough! But that prominence was not
without its compensation, since it had furnished him with
the clue now in his possession.

The inquest had been held late yesterday afternoon, too
late for more than brief mention in the evening papers, but
this morning the papers had carried a full and practically
verbatim report of the proceedings. He had read the report,
not daring at first to believe what he wanted to believe,
afraid that his eyes were playing a mocking trick upon him—and
then he had read it again in a sort of grim, unholy
joy.

Jackson, the footman, who he knew was one of the murderers,
was dead, and so far Birdie Rose had been unable
to trace the man’s family or connections; but Peters, the
butler, was not dead, and out of Peters’ own mouth, in his
effort apparently to seal for all time his, Billy Kane’s,
guilt, Peters had convicted himself!

True, before a jury, Peters had done himself no harm—that
was the hellish ingenuity of the scheme that fitted in
with all the rest of the devil’s craft with which the affair
had been planned. Peters, in the public’s eyes, or before
any court, was treading on safe and solid ground, for his,
Billy Kane’s, simple denial was worth nothing in any man’s
opinion to-day; but he, Billy Kane, *knew* that Peters’ testimony
was not fact. Peters had testified that he had seen
him, Billy Kane, leave the house about seven o’clock—which
was true. Peters had then deliberately testified that half
an hour later, though he had not seen Mr. Kane return, he
had seen Mr. Kane come quietly down the back stairs, and
enter the library—which, besides being untrue, since he,
Billy Kane, was not even in the house at that time, was also
equivalent to swearing away his, Billy Kane’s, life. Peters,
continuing his evidence, had stated that he was quite sure
he had not been seen by Mr. Kane, as he, Peters, at that
moment was standing just inside the cloakroom off the
hall. He did not see Mr. Kane emerge again from the
library, but some fifteen minutes later a telephone call came
in for Mr. Ellsworth, and, knowing Mr. Ellsworth to be in
the library, he connected with that room. He tried several
times, but could get no reply. Finally he went to the library
door and opened it, and found Mr. Ellsworth with his skull
crushed in, dead upon the floor, the private vault and safe
open and looted. He at once called the police. He stated
that it was obvious Mr. Kane had made his escape from
the library through the stenographer’s room at the rear, and
from there to the back entrance, where, later on again, as the
police already knew, returning once more in the hope presumably
of recovering the card with the combinations of the
safe and vault on it in his handwriting, he had been discovered
by Jackson, the footman, and had killed Jackson,
who had tried to capture him.

Billy Kane’s hands were shoved in an apparently nonchalant
manner into the side pockets of his coat—to hide
them from view now. The nails were biting into the palms
of his hands. “*Killed*” that was the word Peters had used—“killed.”
It was very subtle of Peters to have used that
word—it just clinched the whole story with the seemingly
obvious. Everybody believed that he, Billy Kane, had
killed Jackson, as well as David Ellsworth. Yes, Peters had
put the finishing touch on the evidence that was meant to
free the actual perpetrators, himself quite evidently amongst
them, from punishment, and to send him, Billy Kane, if
caught, as their proxy to the death chair in Sing Sing.

Quite so! And Peters thought himself quite safe. What
had Peters to fear from a hunted wretch who he undoubtedly
believed was miles away, fleeing for his life, cowering
from the sight of his fellow humans, afraid to show his
face? But Peters and his accomplices had overshot the
mark! The evidence was final, incontrovertible, damning—only
it was not *true*. He, Billy Kane, would not dispute
it with a jury—he would put Peters on a witness stand of a
grimmer nature than that! He had known on the night
of the crime that Jackson, the footman, was one of the
guilty men; but he had not suspected that the dignified,
perfectly trained Peters, the butler, with his fastidiously
trimmed, gray, mutton-chop side-whiskers, was likewise one
of the band. And now he wondered why he had not
thought of it.

He saw Peters in quite a different light now! A hundred
little incidents metamorphosed the man’s excessive
efficiency and attentiveness into a smug mask of hypocrisy.
And, corroborative from this new viewpoint, where, for
instance, had Peters, as it now appeared, got the money
to send his family away even to a boarding house? Butlers
were not in the habit of sending their families away to the
seaside for the summer! Even Whitie Jack had not failed
to comment on that fact. Well, he was satisfied that he
knew the real Peters now, and it was not too late. It was
Peters, or himself now. It was his life, or Peters’ life—unless
Peters laid bare to the last shred the whole plot,
and the name of every man connected with it.

And the stage was set. From the moment he had read
the papers that morning, he had put Whitie Jack at work—and
Whitie Jack had done well, exceedingly well. He, Billy
Kane, knew that Peters was married and had a family,
but he had not known Peters’ home address. Whitie Jack
had proved a most praiseworthy ferret. He, Billy Kane,
knew that Thursday was always Peters’ night off. This
was Thursday night. Peters, then, if he followed his usual
custom, would visit his flat to-night; and, since the man’s
family was away, Peters and he would be *alone*. It was
fortunate that the family was away, luck seemed to be turning;
it precluded the necessity of getting Peters somewhere
else—alone. It simplified matters. Peters’ flat would serve
most excellently for that interview!

He laughed a little now. He was strangely cool, strangely
composed. He was in a mood in which he found difficulty in
recognizing himself. He was going to-night to wring from
a man either that man’s life, or that man’s confession. He
was absolutely merciless in that resolve; he would not turn
back, nothing would make him swerve one iota from that
determination, he would go the limit—and yet he sat here
entirely unmoved, callous.

Well, after all, why not? If the man was already a murderer,
his life was already forfeit. If he, Billy Kane, must
choose between losing his own life and permitting one of
the murderers of David Ellsworth to profit further thereby,
would one hesitate long over that choice, or hesitate to go—the
limit?

XIII—THE CIPHER MESSAGE
=======================

Billy Kane’s hands came from his pockets again,
and he leisurely lighted a cigarette. Though sitting
sideways to the door, he nevertheless unostentatiously
commanded a full view of the entrance. Red Vallon had
just entered, and, after a moment’s pause in which the man’s
eyes searched around the dance hall, was coming forward,
threading his way through the intervening tables.
Billy Kane flung a short nod of recognition in the direction
of the approaching gangster; and then his eyes fastened
in a sort of hard, curious expectancy on the street door
again. Whether or not it was intuition or premonition, induced
by what had happened the previous night when Red
Vallon had been followed, he did not know, but he was
somehow prepared now, a little more than prepared, almost
sure, in fact, that there would be a repetition of last night’s
occurrence.

Red Vallon dropped into the seat vacated by Whitie
Jack.

“Hello, Bundy!” he greeted affably.

“Hello, Red!” The response was purely mechanical.
Billy Kane shifted his cigarette from one corner of his
mouth to the other—to hide a smile in which there was no
humor. His intuition, if it were intuition, had not been at
fault. A woman had just entered the dance hall. He
was not likely to mistake that slim, graceful figure, nor those
dark, steady eyes—that were spanning the room and resting
upon him. He could not see the lurking mockery in those
eyes, the distance was a little too great for that, but his
imagination could depict it readily enough. Nor did
it require much imagination! It was the Woman in Black.
He glanced at Red Vallon. Red Vallon’s back was turned
to the door, and he had quite evidently not observed her.

The beer-stained attendant hurried to the table.

“What’ll you have, Red?” inquired Billy Kane pleasantly.

Red Vallon waved the man away.

“Nix!” he said in a lowered voice. “I got to beat it—I
got to meet Birdie Rose. There’s something doing.”

Billy Kane, even as he watched that trim figure make
its way to a table near the wall on a line with his own,
leaned abruptly, eagerly forward, toward Red Vallon.
He felt his pulse throb and quicken. Luck seemed to be
breaking wide open at last. If, coupled with his own clue,
Red Vallon and Birdie Rose had unearthed another, this
infernal masquerade that threatened his life at every turn
was as good as ended.

“What is it?” he demanded sharply. “Have you spotted
the stones?”

Red Vallon shook his head.

“Not them stones,” he said a little uneasily. “Some others.
I got orders.”

Billy Kane’s face hardened.

“Orders!” he echoed shortly. “Didn’t I tell you last
night that everything else was piker stuff? A half million
in rubies, that’s what we’re after—to the limit! Understand?
To the limit! Orders! Who gave you any orders
except to stick to the game?”

“You know,” said Red Vallon, and pushed a sheet of
paper across the table. “Tear it up when you’re through.
It’s no good to me any more. I just wanted to show it
to you, so’s you’d know I wasn’t side-stepping on my own.”

Billy Kane did not tear it up. His face, still set hard,
showed no other signs of emotion, as his eyes studied the
paper, but inwardly there came a sort of numbed dismay.
It was a code message. It meant nothing to him in one
sense, in another it meant a very great deal. He was *supposed*
to know what this jumble of letters signified. Red
Vallon expected him to know. To arouse Red Vallon’s
suspicion for an instant was simply and literally equivalent
to bringing down the underworld upon him—and the underworld
would be as gentle and merciful as a pack of starving
wolves! The jumble of letters seemed to possess a diabolical
leer all their own, as he stared at them.

   | zidu6vesfuu6fwefwjf8dfsuofnIIohjtopdteop8nbje3ofueobt8v
   | piutsb7mmpez5bepun4psgnb9esfutnbf4wbiopjubIInspgoj3fiuf
   | m4p2ntjho6jzbImbuo5bm2qpuu3fhnf4iuuih7jopuoff7xufcu5ih
   | j3feobf4ojold6pmd3peobu6sfwjeopjd9jqtv2tpuf4np3tfopf4tm
   | 3fov3sf4iufmp2npui5usb3fe4obflb3nn5jiih2vpdqv.

Was it a code that, with the key in one’s possession, one
could read at a glance? He did not know. Was it a code
that required elaborate and painstaking effort to decipher?
He did not know. Did Red Vallon, sitting there across the
table watching him, expect him to give instant indication
that the code message was plain and intelligible to him?
He did not know. There was only one course to take—the
middle course. He laid the paper on the table, and laid
his clenched fist over the paper, as he leaned farther over,
truculently, toward Red Vallon.

“I tell you again that everything else is piker stuff,”
he said angrily. “Do you get me? What have you done,
you and Birdie, and the rest? Have you got anywhere to-day?
Do you know where that secretary guy, Billy Kane,
is? Do you know where those rubies are?”

“No,” said Red Vallon hurriedly, “we haven’t turned anything
up yet, but——”

“But you’re going to—by nosing around after something
else!” snapped Billy Kane. “Do you think I’m going to see
the biggest thing that was ever pulled slip through my fingers?
If you do, you’ve got another think coming! Things
have changed since I’ve been away—eh? How long since
there’s been any monkeying with what I dope out?”

“Don’t get sore, Bundy,” said Red Vallon appeasingly.
“It’s nothing like that. You know how it was. Karlin’s
arrest last night queered everything. That cursed snitch
with the mask on put everything on the rough. There
wasn’t any meeting. You know who sent that code there;
well, *he* didn’t know about the other job, or that he was
butting in on you. Tumble? There ain’t nothing to be
sore about, Bundy. Say, me and Birdie ain’t going to be
more’n an hour or two doing this trick, anyhow. Someone
of the Mole’s gang must have leaked; or maybe one of our
boys piped him off. I dunno. But we got him cold this
trip. He’s a slick one all right, and he’s been getting away
with the goods quite a lot lately, and giving us the laugh.
You know all about that. Well, this is where he doesn’t
laugh—see? He’s pulling a nice one to-night. Got it all
fixed up to make it look like somebody else did it. Sure!
Well, we’re not kicking at that—so long as *we* get the loot.
Sure! We’ll let him pull it, all right, all right, believe
me!”

Billy Kane appeared to be unmoved. He studied the
gangster coldly.

“And how does it happen that you and Birdie, out of
all the rest, are picked for this?”

Red Vallon indulged in an ugly grin.

“’Cause we know the Mole down to the ground,” he
said; “but principally because the Mole knows *us*! There
won’t be any fooling when we spring a show-down, he’s
wise to that, and he’ll come across. And, besides, ’tain’t
only Birdie and me, I’m taking some of my own gang along
as well.”

Billy Kane scowled. It probably mattered very little
indeed that Red Vallon’s efforts were to be sidetracked for
the next few hours, and should he, Billy Kane, during that
time, be successful, it mattered not at all; but his play for
the moment was to preserve his rôle in Red Vallon’s eyes,
to keep away from anything intimate concerning the purport
of this cipher message that still lay beneath his clenched
hand, and that might so easily betray his ignorance, and
above all now to get rid of Red Vallon before any such
awkward and dangerous *impasse* could arise. He shrugged
his shoulders, but his voice was still sullen as he spoke.

“Well, go to it!” he growled. “Go and pick up your
chicken feed! But you get this into your nut, Red, and let
it soak there. After this”—he leaned far over the table, his
face thrust almost into Red Vallon’s—“you stay with the
game every minute, or quit! It’s the limit, or quit! There’s
just one thing that counts—those rubies, or the man who
pinched them. If we get the man, he’ll cough—red—the
stones, or blood. Do you think I’m going to let anything
queer me on my share of half a million? You don’t seem
to get what I mean when I say the limit. Look out I don’t
give you an object lesson!”

Red Vallon licked his lips, and drew back a little. There
was something in Red Vallon’s eyes that was not often there—fear.

“It’s all right, Bundy,” he said with nervous eagerness.
“I’m with you. Sure, I am! This thing must have broke
loose quick, and there wasn’t no idea of crabbing anything
you’d started. I got ten of the best of ’em combing out the
‘fences’ for you right now.”

“All right,” responded Billy Kane gruffly. “Make a report
to me on that before morning.”

“Where’ll you be?” Red Vallon was apparently relieved,
for his voice had recovered its buoyancy.

“At my place—some time,” said Billy Kane curtly. “You
can wait for me there.” He smiled suddenly with grim
facetiousness. “My shoulder’s a lot better—enough so that
maybe I can sit in for a hand myself to-night.”

“I hope you do,” said Red Vallon fervently. “You always
had the knock-out punch, Bundy, and it’ll seem like
old times.” He half rose from his chair; then, looking
furtively about him, bent forward over the table. “There’s
something else, Bundy, before I go—that snitch last night
at Jerry’s, the man in the mask. He’s played hell with the
crowd. There’s no telling what’ll tumble down behind Karlin.
And it don’t look like he’s just stumbled on that deal
by *accident*. It don’t look good, Bundy. We got to get
him, and get him quick, before he pulls anything more.
The word’s out to bump him off.”

Billy Kane nodded.

“Well, don’t lose your nerve over it, Red,” he said coolly.
“If it was by accident, he won’t do us any more damage,
and we’ve only got to settle with him for what he’s done,
providing we can ever find him; if it wasn’t accident he’ll
show his hand again—won’t he?”

“Yes,” said Red Vallon.

Billy Kane’s smile was unpleasant.

“Well, you’ll know what to do with him then, won’t you?”
he inquired softly.

The gangster’s red-rimmed eyes narrowed to slits.

“Yes, I’ll know!” said Red Vallon coarsely. He made
an ugly motion toward his throat. “Well, so long, Bundy!”

Billy Kane nodded again by way of answer. He watched
Red Vallon thread his way back among the tables, and pass
out through the front door. With the gangster out of the
way, he picked up the sheet of paper upon which the code
message was written, studied it for a moment, then thrust
it into his pocket—and his glance travelled to the table
opposite to him and against the wall, where that slim little
figure in black was seated. She appeared to be quite indifferent
to his presence, and quite intent upon the consumption
of a glass of milk and the sandwich on the plate
before her.

Billy Kane smiled with grim comprehension. The frugality
of the meal was not without its object. It was fairly
obvious that she could dispose of what was before her in
short order, and leave the place at an instant’s notice without
inviting undesirable attention to an unfinished meal—if
she so desired! It was his move. She had followed Red
Vallon in, but she had not followed Red Vallon out—she
was waiting for him, Billy Kane. The seat she had
chosen had been in plain view of Red Vallon, therefore she
was evidently free from any fear of recognition on the part
of the gangster, and, as a logical corollary, from probably
anybody else in the room. That she gave no sign now therefore
could mean but one thing. It was his move. If he
cared to cross swords with her here, he was at liberty to
do so; if he had reasons of his own for preferring a less
public meeting, he had only to leave the place—and she
would undoubtedly follow.

In one sense she was most solicitous of his welfare! She
would do nothing to hamper or hinder him in protecting
himself, as long as he continued to double-cross and render
abortive the crimes of that inner circle of the underworld
in which she believed him to be a leader; failing that, as
she had already made it quite clear, she proposed, as near
as he could solve the riddle, to expose some past crime of
the Rat’s to the police, and end his career via the death
chair in Sing Sing. Also she had made her personal feelings
toward him equally clear—she held for him a hatred that
was as deep-seated as it was merciless and deadly.

He shrugged his shoulders. He, by proxy, stood in the
shoes of one who, seemingly, had done her some irreparable
wrong, and since she would dog him all night until she had
had the interview that she evidently proposed to have, it
might as well be here as anywhere. It mattered very little
to him, as the Rat, that he should be observed by those in
the room to get up from his table and walk over to hers.
He was not being watched in the sense that anyone held
surveillance over him, and, in any case, the conventions
here in the heart of the underworld were of too elastic a
character to have it cause even comment; and, besides, in a
few hours from now, if luck were with him, he would be
through with all this, done with this miserable rôle of super-crook,
which, though it brought a new and greater peril at
every move he made, was the one thing that, for the present,
he was dependent upon for his life.

He rose, crossed the room nonchalantly, and dropped as
nonchalantly into the chair at the end of her table, his back
to the door.

She greeted him with a smile—but it was a smile of the
lips only. The dark eyes, under the long lashes, studied
him in a cold, uncompromising stare; and there was mockery
in their depths, but deeper than the mockery there was
contempt and disdain.

A cigarette, pulled lazily from his pocket and lighted,
preserved his appearance of unconcern. In spite of himself,
in spite of the fact that that contemptuous stare was
his only through a damnable and abhorrent proxy, he felt
suddenly ill at ease. He had never seen her as closely as
this before. He had only seen her twice before—once in
the dark; and once with the width of the Rat’s den separating
them. He had been conscious then that she was
attractive, beautiful, with her clustering masses of brown
hair, and the dainty poise of her head, and the pure whiteness
of her full throat; but he was conscious now that beyond
the mere beauty of features lay steadfastness and
strength, that in the sweetness of the face there was, too,
a wistfulness, do what she would to hide it, and that there
was strain there, and weariness. And he was suddenly conscious,
too, that he disliked the rôle of the Rat more than
he had ever disliked it, and that the loathing in those eyes,
which never left his face, was responsible for this added distaste
of the fact that nature had, through some cursed and
perverted sense of humor or malevolence, seen fit to make
him the counterpart of a wanton rogue, and, worse still,
seen fit to force upon him the enactment of that rôle.

He could not tell her that he was not the Rat, could he?—that
he was Billy Kane! Would the loathing in those
eyes have grown the less at that? Billy Kane—the thief,
the Judas assassin, whose name was a byword throughout
the length and breadth of the land at that moment, whose
name was a synonym for everything that was vile and
hideous and depraved! He was the Rat—until to-night
was over! After that—well, after that, who knew? Now,
he was the Rat, and he must play the Rat’s part.

She broke the silence, her voice cool and even:

“I left it entirely to you as to whether you would come
over to this table here or not.”

“I quite understood!” Billy Kane forced a sarcastic
smile. “You are almost too considerate!”

“Am I?” she said. Her eyes flashed suddenly. “Well,
perhaps you are right! I have thought sometimes that even
the chance I give you is more than you deserve. I feel so
strongly about it, in fact, that the only thing which prevents
me from putting an end to it—and you—is that by using
you to defeat the ends of your own criminal associates a
great deal of good is being done. They will trap you
sometime, of course, and, knowing them, you know what
will happen, and I am satisfied then that, as an alternative,
you would prefer Sing Sing and the chair; but you are
clever—that is why you grasp at the chance I give you.
You are extremely clever—and you believe you can continue
to outwit them indefinitely. I don’t think you can,
though I admit your cleverness, cunning and craft.”

“You flatter me!” said Billy Kane ironically.

“No,” she said, her voice suddenly lowered, passionate,
tense; “I hate you.”

“You told me that last night.” Billy Kane indolently
blew a ring of cigarette smoke ceilingwards. “I am beginning
to believe you. Did you follow Red Vallon in here
to tell me the same thing again?”

She did not answer for a moment.

“Sometimes you make me lose my faith in God,” she said,
in a slow, restrained way. “It is hard to believe that a God,
a just God, could have created such men as you.”

Billy Kane removed his cigarette from his lips, and
flicked the ash away with a tap of his forefinger. He felt
the color mount and tinge his cheeks. There was something,
not alone in her words, but in her tone, that struck
at him and *hurt*. The brown eyes, deep, full of implacable
condemnation, burned into his. What was it that the Rat
had done to her, or hers? He turned slightly away. An
anger, smoldering in his soul, burst into flame. He was the
Rat by proxy—and the proxy was damnable. He could not
tell her he was not the Rat. He could not tell her he was—Billy
Kane. He must play on with his detestable rôle! He
must play the Rat. What answer would the Rat have made
to her?

“Cut that out!” rasped Billy Kane.

“Yes,” she said quietly, “I spoke impulsively. There are
only two things in life that affect you—your own safety,
and to be quite sure that you get all of your share out of
your crimes, and, if possible, somebody else’s share as well.
But the latter consideration is at an end now, isn’t it,
Bundy? I think I have taken care of that. It’s just a
question of whether you can save yourself or not with
those clever wits of yours. Well”—she shrugged her
shoulders suddenly—“you did very well last night. His life
would not be worth very much if the underworld should
ever lay hands on the man in the mask. Would it, Bundy?”

He did not answer her.

“Yes, you did very well, indeed,” she went on calmly.
“You will meet somewhere else, of course, as soon as you
can find a suitable place, but you will hold no more of your
secret council meetings at Jerry’s for some time to come.”

Billy Kane’s face was impassive now. He was apparently
intent only on the thin blue spiral of smoke that curled
upward from the tip of his cigarette. So those meetings of
that cursed directorate of crime had been held at Jerry’s,
had they? He had not known that.

“Suppose,” suggested Billy Kane, curtly, “that we come
to the point. What is it that you want to-night?”

“I am coming to the point,” she answered levelly. “Owing
to the events of last night your organization is in confusion,
some of the more faint-hearted of your partners have temporarily
even taken to their heels; but, even so, the organization’s
activities can hardly come to an abrupt standstill.
You will perhaps remember a somewhat similar occasion
once before? There are perhaps certain matters that are
imperative, that cannot wait. Is it not so, Bundy? And in
such an emergency it is left to—shall we call him the organization’s
secretary?—to keep things going. Personal
touch is lost with one another, but there is still a way. I
know, it does not matter how, that Red Vallon received a
written order a little while ago. I followed Red Vallon
here. I *think* he gave that order to you.”

Billy Kane looked at her for a moment, a quizzical, whimsical
expression creeping into his face. She was in deadly
earnest, he knew that well. And yet there was a certain
sense of humor here too—a grim humor with something of
the sardonic in it, and nothing of mirth. Red Vallon’s code
order was quite as meaningless to him as it would be to her!

“Sure!” said Billy Kane, alias the Rat—and chuckled.
“Sure, he gave it to me! You don’t think I’d hold anything
out on *you*, do you? Sure, he gave it to me!” He
tossed the paper across the table toward her. “Help
yourself! All you’ve got to do is ask for anything *I’ve*
got, and it’s yours. You’re as welcome as the sunshine to
it.”

She studied it for an instant calmly. Billy Kane, watching
her narrowly, frowned slightly in a puzzled way. She
appeared to be neither agitated nor confused. She raised
her eyes to his, a glint half of mockery, half of menace, in
their brown depths.

“Did you think I did not know it was in cipher?” she
inquired coldly. “You would hardly have been so obliging
otherwise, would you? It is always in cipher under
these circumstances, isn’t it? Well, what is the translation?”

“Red Vallon didn’t tell me,” said Billy Kane complacently.

“Quite probably not!” she countered sharply. “It was
hardly necessary, was it? But since you have decoded it
yourself?”

Billy Kane shrugged his shoulders.

“I’ve been away so long,” he said, “that I’ve forgotten
the key.”

“Really!” She was smiling at him in derision now. “In
other words, you refuse to tell me what it is.”

“Don’t you think you expect a little too much from me?”
He forced a sudden roughness into his tones. “I haven’t
decoded it yet, as a matter of fact; but if I had, do you
think I’m looking for trouble—to give you the chance to
force me into another mess?”

She shook her head in a sort of mocking tolerance.

“Does it really matter, Bundy?” she asked softly. “You
are not as bright this evening as usual. I know that some
crime is planned and set forth here on this paper. It really
makes no vital difference to me to know beforehand
specifically just what that crime is, for if it succeeds I shall
know about it, and, in that case, I shall equally know that
you did not prevent it. I think you quite understand what
that means, don’t you, Bundy? However”—she smiled
again, as she opened her purse and took out a pencil—“let
us put it down to a woman’s insatiable curiosity, if you
like, and decode it together.”

Decode it! The twisted smile that came to his lips was
genuine enough. He couldn’t decode it. He had only one
card to play—a flat and unequivocal refusal.

“Nothing doing!” he snarled.

“Oh, yes, I think there is,” she said softly again.

He stared at her. Her pencil was flying across the paper.
Who was this woman? She knew the key! Was there anything
that she did not know? He watched her in a stunned
way, his mind in confusion. And then he leaned forward
to observe her work more closely. Beneath the original
cipher she had written this:

   | ziduve sfuufw efwjfdfs uofnohjtopd teopnbje ofu eobtvpiu
   | tsbmmpe zbepu npsg nbesfutnb fwbi opjubnspgoj fiu fmpn
   | tj hojzbm b uobmq pu ufh nfiu uihjopu offxufc uihjf eob
   | fojo lpmdp eob usfwje opjdjqtvt pu fnpt fop ftmf ovs fiu
   | fmpn pu iusbf eob flbn nji ihvpd qv.

“It is so simple, Bundy,” she murmured caustically. “The
numerals to designate the number of letters in the words,
the transposition of ‘a’ for ‘b’, and so on, and the words
spelled backwards. It is so simple, Bundy, that it is strange
you should have forgotten—and forgotten that there are
other secrets I have found in that den of yours, apart from
that very convenient and ingenious door!”

She was working as she spoke, paying no attention to him.
He made no reply, only watched her as she set down a
second series of letters:

   | yhctud rettev deviecer tnemngisnoc sdnomaid net dnasuoht
   | srallod yadot morf madretsma evah noitamrofni eht elom
   | si gniyal a tnalp ot teg meht thginot neewteb thgie dna enin
   | kcolco dna trevid noicipsus ot emos eno esle nur eht elom
   | ot htrae dna ekam mih hguoc pu.

A moment more, and she had written out the message in
plain English:

   Dutchy Vetter received consignment diamonds ten thousand
   dollars to-day from Amsterdam. Have information the
   Mole is laying a plant to get them to-night between eight and
   nine o’clock, and divert suspicion to some one else. Run
   the Mole to earth and make him cough up.

She was studying the paper in her hand. Billy Kane
lighted another cigarette. He was still watching her, but
it was in a detached sort of way. Between eight and nine
o’clock! Peters was rarely able to leave the Ellsworth home
on his evenings off until well after eight o’clock; Peters,
therefore, would not reach his flat much before nine, and
certainly was not likely to leave there again immediately.

Billy Kane’s mind was working in quick, and seemingly
unrelated snatches of thought. There was time enough to
see this Vetter game through without interfering with that
interview he meant to hold with Peters.... It was strange
that it should be Vetter ... Whitie Jack had spoken of
Vetter ... Savnak, the violin player, and Vetter ...
Whitie Jack said that Savnak and Vetter spent most of
their evenings together at Vetter’s playing pinochle and
the violin.... Savnak would likely be there then between
eight and nine.... Upon whom was it that the so-called
Mole intended to point suspicion?... Here was the moral
obligation again.... He had fought that out last night....
She, this woman here, was not the driving force....
She only represented disaster from an entirely different
source if he failed.... If he stood aside with the foreknowledge
of crime in his possession he was as guilty as this
Mole.... Perhaps he had been trying to trick his own
conscience in not pressing Red Vallon for explanations....
Perhaps, in a measure, he had allowed the argument
that he might invite Red Vallon’s suspicions to act as an
excuse for evading the responsibility that this foreknowledge
of crime entailed.... Well, that responsibility was
his now, thanks to her.... He had no choice.... It
was likely to be the man in the mask again, and——

She pushed the paper toward him.

“Perhaps you would like to destroy this—for safety’s
sake,” she observed complacently.

He took the paper mechanically, and mechanically tore
it up.

“I do not know the Mole personally”—she was speaking
almost more to herself than to him, as though feeling her
way cautiously along a tortuous mental path—“I only know
him as an exceedingly clever scoundrel, and as the head of a
small, but very select, band of criminals. He is a sort of
competitor of yours, I believe, and more than once has had
the temerity to act as a thorn in the side of your own rapacious
and diabolical crime trust. But I do know that this
Vetter is an honest old man. It would be too bad”—her
voice, still low, was suddenly vibrant with a significance
that there was no mistaking—“if Vetter should lose his
diamonds, wouldn’t it, Bundy?”

The spiral of cigarette smoke again occupied Billy Kane.
It was quite true that his mind was already made up; but
for the moment he was the Rat, and the Rat would not be
likely to accede to her suggestion with any overwhelming
degree of complacency.

“You are a little inconsistent, aren’t you?” he inquired
sarcastically. “If you are so anxious to prevent this crime,
why don’t you warn the police?”

“You can put down my inconsistency to the frailty of
my sex again, if you like,” she answered quickly. “But
you know quite well why. And, besides, one Bundy Morgan,
having more at stake than the police, is more likely to
accomplish the task successfully. Yes—Bundy?”

“But this isn’t my hunt!” he protested, with a snarl. “I
can’t stop all the crimes in the world! This isn’t *my*
crowd! I’m not responsible for the Mole. I don’t know
*his* plans. How can I put the crimp in them? The game
is to let the Mole go ahead, isn’t it, and then Red Vallon is
to grab the chestnuts out of the Mole’s pocket? Well, that’s
all right! But suppose I butt in, and, knowing nothing
about the Mole’s plans, fall down, and he gets away with
the goods, and is too sharp for Red Vallon so that I can’t
even get the loot away from Red—am I responsible?”

“I’m not unreasonable,” she said—and smiled. “There
is a good deal of truth in what you say. But there is a
way to provide against both contingencies.”

The snarl was still in his voice.

“What is it?” he demanded.

“Steal the diamonds yourself before the Mole gets to
work,” she proposed calmly.

Billy Kane’s gasp was wholly genuine.

“What?” he ejaculated.

“You’ve plenty of time,” she said sweetly. “Vetter’s
isn’t far from here, and it’s not much more than half past
seven now. The diamonds can be returned to Vetter tomorrow.
After having had them stolen once, I think Vetter
could be trusted to put them somewhere where neither the
Mole nor anyone else would be likely to succeed a second
time.”

“But I don’t know where the diamonds are now!” His
voice was helpless in spite of himself.

She lifted her shoulders.

“Neither do I,” she said imperturbably.

“Well, you’ve got your nerve!” he burst out—and it was
Billy Kane, not the Rat, who spoke.

The interview, as far as she was concerned, was evidently
at an end. She had resumed her frugal meal, and
was picking daintily at the sandwich on her plate. Her
eyebrows arched.

“I hope you’ve got yours,” she murmured.

He stood up. He could have laughed ironically, and
likewise he could have sworn. She was distractingly pretty,
as she sat there quite the mistress of herself; but her profound
and utter disregard as to how the perilous project
might result for him personally brought suddenly a vicious
sweep of anger upon him—and abruptly, without a word,
he swung from the table, and made his way toward the
door. But the few steps cleared his brain a little, brought
things into sharper focus. After all, he had forgotten! To
her, he was the Rat. And the Rat—he did not question it—merited
little of either mercy or consideration at her
hands. At the door he looked back. She nodded to him
pleasantly, and smiled—not in the manner of one who
might very well be sending another to his death!

“Well, I’ll be damned!” muttered Billy Kane, and, opening
the door, stepped out to the street.

XIV—THE ROBBERY
===============

It was not far to Vetter’s place, but—Billy Kane looked
at his watch under a street lamp—it was later than
she had said. It was ten minutes of eight. He knew
where Vetter’s was. That point presented no difficulties;
he could hardly have spent the months he had amongst the
queer, heterogeneous lives of the East Side without knowing
at least that much about so outstanding a character as
the old Holland diamond merchant—but that was quite
another matter from knowing where the old Hollander
domiciled his diamonds!

Billy Kane frowned, as he went along. Well, was it
necessary to steal the diamonds? That task, on the face
of it, was so almost practically impossible as to render it
bizarre. He had nothing to work on, no information, just
the cool suggestion that he should steal the diamonds *first*;
and, under ordinary circumstances, he might well be filled
with dismay at the prospect of failure in view of the threat
which she held over his head, though that side of it need not,
and did not, concern him to-night. In a few hours from now
he no longer expected to be the Rat; in a few hours Peters
would have had his choice between losing his life and telling
the truth, and under those conditions there was very little
room for doubt but that Peters would have told—the truth.
If, however, he could meanwhile save the old Hollander from
loss, he, Billy Kane, was quite ready to go to almost any
length to do so.

He went on at a quick pace, traversing block after block.
He smiled ironically to himself, as he finally turned a corner,
and with more caution now, approached a low frame
building that was bordered by a dark and narrow lane.
Yes, it was bizarre enough! He could not very well inform
the police himself! The Rat—and particularly Billy Kane—was
not at the moment on speaking terms with the police!
But was it necessary to steal the diamonds?

Her idea, of course, was that then they would be absolutely
safe from any attempt, or, perhaps what she feared
most, physical coercion on the part of the Mole—even if
Vetter were given a warning.

But surely Vetter could take care of himself if he were
warned! He, Billy Kane, certainly preferred that method!
But, even that, as an alternative, was not quite so simple as
it appeared. He was still the Rat. He did not know the
plan this so-called Mole had evolved, and, more vital still,
he did not know how closely Red Vallon was, in
turn, watching the Mole. It was eight o’clock now,
and any or all of them might already be here. If he, Billy
Kane, were discovered there would never be that little interview
with Peters! The corollary was self-evident. Even
for the purpose of warning the man, to reach Vetter inside
this house here, that he was just passing, demanded the
same degree of caution and secrecy on his part as though he
entered for the purpose of stealing the stones himself. Also
the little shop that made the front of the building was closed
and dark. Vetter’s living quarters, he had heard, which was
one of the eccentricities that had made the man a talked-of
character on the East Side, consisted of no more than a
single room, serving for every purpose, at the rear of the
shop itself. He did not dare take the risk of inviting attention
by rapping and bringing the old Hollander to the door.

He turned, and retracing his steps, sauntered nonchalantly
along, passed by the house again—and slipped into
the lane. Circumstances, as he found them, alone could
govern his actions.

Billy Kane took stock now of the surroundings. The
frame building was an old affair, and the floors therefore
would be outrageously creaky. Billy Kane scowled. The
prospect of creaky floors and protesting boards was not a
pleasant one. And then the scowl vanished, and a smile
flickered across his lips. From somewhere at the back of
the house there came suddenly the throbbing notes of a
violin. The smile broadened. That was Savnak, doubtless,
and, for the moment at least, it was the violin, rather than
pinochle, that was engaging the two men. Personally,
under the circumstances, he, Billy Kane, was very much in
favor of the violin. The violin would help a good deal—if
it became a question of creaky floors!

He moved silently forward now farther into the lane,
keeping close to the wall in the darker shadows of the house.
The old Hollander and his crony were obviously in the
back room. He glanced sharply up and down the length
of the building. He could see nothing. It was intensely
dark. The wall of the house was blank. There were no
windows opening on the lane.

An expression, grimly quizzical, settled on his face. It
was a queer setting for a robbery, this unpretentious, even
tumble-down, little shop, with its back-room living quarters!
But the unpretentiousness of the old Hollander’s surroundings
in no way argued poverty! He had known of Vetter
by reputation, quite apart even from any connection with
the East Side. The man had a clientele among the best in
the city. He was an authority on diamonds. He dealt only
in the choicest stones, and he was absolutely reliable and
honest. The world of fashion had made a path to Vetter’s
door, not he to theirs. In this ten-thousand-dollar consignment,
for instance, there would probably not be more
than fifty or sixty stones, not enough to make a small handful,
but not one of them, probably, would be worth less than
a hundred dollars, and most of them would be worth a
great deal more.

Billy Kane reached the end of the building, and found
that a board fence, some seven or eight feet high, continued
on down the lane, obviously enclosing the back yard of the
place. The violin throbbed on. The notes came clear and
sweet, entirely unmuffled now, as though from an open
window. He stood there for a moment listening. The
playing was exquisite. It was some plaintive, haunting
melody given life by a master touch. He remembered Whitie
Jack’s description of the expatriated musician. Without
question Savnak could “fiddle”; the man, in spite of having
come a moral cropper, was, if he, Billy Kane, were any
judge, little short of a genius.

Glancing sharply about him once more, Billy Kane, with
a lithe spring, caught the top of the fence, and drew himself
cautiously up until he could peer over. He hung there
motionless for a moment. A few yards away from him, in
a slightly diagonal direction, and between himself and the
back door, was the window of the rear room; and, as he
had suspected, the window was open. He could see inside;
that is, in a restricted sense. A man, it was Savnak of
course, chin on his violin, standing, was swaying gently to
and fro on his feet to the tempo of the music, his back to
the window; and at the table, side face to the window, but
with his back toward Billy Kane, Vetter, the old Hollander,
white-haired, sat rapt in attention, staring at the violinist.

Billy Kane drew himself further up, and straddled the
fence. The position of the two men rendered him safe
from observation. The notes of the violin, in a tremolo,
died softly away. The old Hollander dug his knuckles
across his eyes; and his words, spoken in perfect English,
evidently the language common to the two men of diverse
nationalities, reached Billy Kane distinctly:

“You are wonderful, my old friend Savnak. It is divine.
My friend, you are wonderful.”

The violinist shrugged his shoulders.

“Once,” he said, “I could really play. Yes, I tell you,
you who will believe me, that I could sway the people, that
I could do with them as I would, that I——” He stopped
abruptly, and shrugged his shoulders again. “But what is
the use of memories? Memories! They are bad! They
leave a bad taste! Let us forget them! You were to show
me the great purchase that arrived to-day.”

“These!” The old Hollander took from his pocket what
looked like a soft, pliable, chamois-skin pocketbook, which
he opened and laid on the table, disclosing a cluster of gems
that, nesting on a snowy bed of wadding, sparkled and
scintillated as the rays of the gas jet above the table fell
upon them; and then, impulsively closing the pocketbook
again, he pushed it a little away from him. “They can
wait!” he said. “By and by, we will look at them one by
one. But they do not feed the soul, my Savnak, like your
music. Play some more. They are not worth one of your
notes.”

“Are they not?” Savnak’s voice seemed tinged with
bitterness. “The soul may be well fed, Vetter, but that does
not keep one often enough from tightening the belt! I
think I would be fortunate to make the exchange—my gift,
such as it is, for your diamonds.”

“You do not mean what you say!” the old Hollander
replied, shaking his head reprovingly. “I know better!
But I do not like to hear you talk like that. Things are not
so bad with you now. You are moody. Play some more,
my friend.”

“As you will!” Again Savnak shrugged his shoulders.
He nestled his chin on the violin. “It will be something
gay, then, and lively—eh, Vetter?—to chase the blue devils
away.”

The notes of the violin rose again. Billy Kane began to
lower himself from the fence into the backyard. His mind
was made up now. Since there were two of them there,
a warning surely was all that was necessary. The window
was not much more than shoulder high from the ground,
and he had, then, only to cross the yard and call to Vetter
through the window. His appearance there would no doubt
startle and alarm the old Hollander half out of his wits,
but that was exactly what would cause the man to guard
his diamonds all the more zealously for the rest of the night.
Once warned, the two men in there between them ought
certainly to be able to take care of themselves and that
chamois pocketbook.

Billy Kane dropped softly to the ground, straightened up,
took a step forward—and stopped as though rooted to the
spot. There had come a cry from Vetter. The violin
broke off with a jerky, high-pitched, screaming note. Then
silence. Billy Kane raised himself on tiptoes. He could
just see in through the window; no more. It seemed like
some picture flashed on a cinema screen, quick, instantaneous.
A third man, hat drawn far over his face, was standing
by the table, covering Vetter and Savnak with a revolver.
The man snatched up the chamois pocketbook, reached above
his head, turned out the gas—and the room and window
were in blackness.

It had happened with the suddenness and swiftness of a
lightning flash, so quick that the brain stumbled a little in
a dazed way in an effort to grasp its significance. And then
Billy Kane wrenched his automatic from his pocket. The
thief, when or in whatever way he had got into the house,
must necessarily make his escape either by the front door,
or by the back door and through the yard here. If it were
the latter, which seemed the more likely, he, Billy Kane, had
the man at his mercy; if it were the former, the man
would probably reach the street, in any case, before he,
Billy Kane, could get over the fence and rush down the
lane.

Billy Kane was moving swiftly in the direction of the
back door. He had to choose one way or the other. He
could not attempt to guard both exits at the same time! If
the man——

Vetter’s voice rose in a furious cry from the room:

“It is by the front, Savnak, he has gone! Quick! I
hear him going out! Quick! The street!”

“Yes! Quick! The street!” Savnak, like a parrot, in a
shrill, hysterical voice, was echoing the other’s words.
“Quick! Chase him! And shout for the police!” A
chair fell over. The two men were evidently floundering
their way to the door. “Curse him for turning out the
light!”

Billy Kane whirled, and dashed for the fence. As he
straddled the top, he saw a figure, thrown into relief on the
lighted street, speed past the head of the lane—and then, with
a wry smile at a sudden realization of his own impotence,
he dropped to the lane, and, instead of running now, made
his way slowly and cautiously forward, hugged close against
the wall. If he ran out of the lane into the arms of Vetter
and Savnak, besides hampering the pursuit by distracting
their attention from the fugitive, he invited the decidedly
awkward and very natural suspicion of being connected
with the thief himself; and the police would be very apt
to listen with their tongues in their cheeks to any explanation
that the Rat might offer to account for his presence in
the lane at that particular moment! And if there was any
one thing that he wished to avoid to-night, it was a complication
with the police that would inevitably interfere with
his freedom of action during the next few hours.

Came a wild cry now from both Vetter and Savnak
from the front of the house; and then the two men, yelling
at the top of their voices, both hatless, Savnak, apparently
unconscious in his excitement that he was brandishing his
violin frantically in one hand and his bow in the other,
tore madly down the street in pursuit of their quarry.

Billy Kane slipped out to the street. Doors of tenements
and houses were beginning to open; heads were beginning to
be thrust out through upper windows; the street was beginning
to assume a state of pandemonium. A block down,
the quarry, well in the lead of the old Hollander and the
violinist, leaped suddenly into a waiting automobile, and
vanished around the corner.

Billy Kane turned away. He felt a curiously chagrined
resentment against this so-called Mole, that was quite apart
from his angry resentment of the fact that the old Hollander
had been victimized. He had expected something quite different
from the Mole! Red Vallon—and she, too—had
given the Mole a reputation for cleverness, craft and cunning;
but, instead of having shown any cleverness, or even
a shred of originality, the Mole, or his minion, had perpetrated
nothing more than a bald, crude theft that any house-breaker,
or broken-down old “lag” could have pulled off
with equal lack of finesse! Well, anyway, for the moment
so far as he was concerned, the affair was at an end, and
he could only await developments. It all hinged on Red
Vallon now—on Red Vallon, who proposed in turn to rob
the robber—on Red Vallon, who, later on, would keep an
appointment with him, Billy Kane, in the Rat’s den!

As he turned a corner, Billy Kane consulted his watch.
It was still early, just a trifle after eight—too early for that
interview with Peters yet. He might as well go back to
Two-finger Tasker’s then. It was scarcely likely that *she*
was still there, but, if she were, so much the better! She
could hardly hold him responsible for failure; and, in any
case, she would realize that there was still the chance
of recovering the stones by, in turn again, outwitting Red
Vallon, if the gangster had been successful. If she were not
there, Two-finger Tasker’s was as good a place as any in
which to put in the time.

He reached the dance hall, and found, as he had half
expected, that she had already gone. He sat down at a
table, ordered something from the waiter, and, apparently
absorbed in the dancers, who had now begun to gather, he
made a sort of grimly-reassuring inventory of his equipment
for the night’s work that still lay ahead of him—his
mask, his automatic, Whitie Jack’s skeleton keys, were in
his pockets. His lips twisted in a curious smile. The
Mole, Vetter, the diamonds, the old violinist—all these
seemed suddenly extraneous, incidents thrust upon him,
dragged irrelevantly into his existence. They sank into
inconsequential obtrusions in the face of the stake for
which he was now about to play: his freedom, a clean name
again, the end of this devil’s tormenting masquerade, his
life or, perhaps, another man’s life—Peters’?

Half an hour passed. Once more he looked at his watch.
A few minutes later he consulted it again. And then at a
quarter to nine he rose from the table, and left Two-finger
Tasker’s resort.

XV—THE ALIBI
============

Twenty minutes later, having satisfied himself that
the immediate neighborhood was free of passers-by
for the moment, and that he had not been observed,
he tried the street door of the tenement that had been the
subject of Whitie Jack’s earlier investigations. The door
was unlocked, and he stepped silently into the vestibule, and
closed the door softly behind him.

He stood for a moment listening, and taking critical note
of his surroundings. A single incandescent burning here in
the lower hall supplied ample illumination. The stairs were
directly in front of him, and on the right of the hallway.
There was a closed door, also on the right and just at
the foot of the stairs, and from behind this there came the
murmur of voices. There was no other sound.

He moved quietly forward, mounted the stairs, gained
the landing, and, with more caution now, turned back along
the hall, making for the door on the right—Peters’ door,
according to Whitie Jack—that, if in the same relative location
as the one below, would be at the foot of the next
flight of stairs. A faint light came up through the stair
well, but the end of the hall itself beyond the second flight
of stairs was in blackness. He nodded grimly in satisfaction.
He would not need any light to find Peters’ door!

His lips pressed hard together. He had reached the door
now, and now he crouched against it, his ear to the panel.
He listened intently. A sudden doubt came and tormented
him and obsessed him. What, if by any chance Peters had
someone with him! A bead of moisture oozed out on his
forehead, and he brushed it hurriedly away. He was not
so callous now! Behind that door lay, literally, life and
death; behind that door, if it proved necessary, he meant
to take a man’s life, a miserable life, it was true, a murderer’s
life, a life that had no claim to mercy, but still a
man’s life. Had he ever laid claim to being callous? But
that did not mean that his resolution was being undermined.
The issue to-night was clearly defined, ultimate,
final, and he had accepted that issue, and he would see it
through. His lips relaxed a little in a smile of self-mockery.
Well, suppose Peters were *not* alone he, Billy Kane, had
only to wait until the visitor conjured up by his doubts
had gone.

He steadied himself with a mental effort. His nerves
were getting a little too high strung. To begin with, there
wasn’t anybody in there with Peters. He would have heard
voices if there had been, and he had heard none. He
glanced around him now, but the act was wholly one of
exaggerated caution. Here at the end of the hall he could
see nothing. Opposite him was probably the door of the
other apartment on this floor that Whitie Jack had said was
unoccupied. There was no fear of interruption. He took
his automatic from his pocket, tried the door cautiously,
and finding it locked, knocked softly with his knuckles on
the panel.

There was no response. He knocked again, a little louder,
more insistently. There was still no response. Billy Kane
was gnawing at his under lip now. Not only had Peters
no visitor, but even Peters himself was not there! Out
of the darkness it seemed as though a horde of mocking
devils were suddenly jeering at him in unholy glee. He
had somehow been very sure that everything to-night would
go as he had planned, and, instead, there had been nothing
so far but stark futility.

But the night was not ended yet! He thrust the automatic
abruptly back into his pocket. There was still time
for Peters to come. It was only a little after nine. And
Peters would have a visitor after all—a visitor waiting
there inside that room for him!

Billy Kane drew Whitie Jack’s bunch of skeleton keys
from his pocket, and, crouching now low down in front of
the door, inserted one of the keys in the lock. It would not
work. He tried another with the same result. He was not
an adept at lock-picking as yet! He grinned without mirth
at the mental reservation—and suddenly drew back from the
door, retreating into the deeper blackness at the end of the
hall. Here was Peters now, and Peters would have much
less trouble in opening the door!

Footsteps were ascending the stairs. A figure, in the
murky light from the stair well, gained the landing, and
came forward along the hall. Billy Kane’s sudden smile
held little of humor. It was not Peters. It was Whitie
Jack’s tenant of the third floor, Savnak, the old violin
player, hugging his violin case under his arm, and as he
came into the shadows, feeling out with his other hand for
the banisters of the second flight of stairs. Fifteen feet
away, flattened against the wall, himself secure from observation,
in the darkness, Billy Kane, in a sort of grim
philosophical resignation, watched what was now little more
than a shadowy outline, as the other went on up the stairs
to the third floor.

A door above slammed shut. Billy Kane returned to
Peters’ door. Again he tried a key, and still another, until,
with a low-breathed ejaculation of satisfaction, he finally
unlocked the door. He exchanged the keys for his
automatic once more; and once more his hand on the doorknob,
he held tense and motionless, listening. From below
there came again the sound of footsteps on the stairs. It
was Peters at last, probably; but, if it was Peters, Peters
was *not* alone. The footsteps of two men were on the
stairs.

Futility again! The door was unlocked, but it availed
him nothing at all now. He had meant to go in and wait
for Peters, but it would be a fool play from any angle to
go in there now if Peters had anybody with him. Nor was
there time to lock the door again. He had returned the
bunch of keys to his pocket, and it would take a moment
to sort out the right one, and there was not that moment
to spare. The footsteps were already on the landing. Billy
Kane drew back once more silently and swiftly to the front
of the hall. He was tight-lipped now. It seemed as though
every turn of the luck had gone against him. Peters was
certain to notice that the door was unlocked. What effect
would that have on Peters? What would the man do,
and——

Billy Kane was staring down the hall in a numbed, dazed
way. Two men had come into the radius of light from the
stair well, and were moving quickly along the hall in his
direction. He brushed his hand across his eyes. That
little horde of devils were at their jeers of unholy mirth
again. Peters! There was no such man as Peters! Peters
was a myth! The whole cursed night was a series of
damnable hallucinations. This wasn’t Peters—it was Red
Vallon, and Birdie Rose.

Out of the darkness he watched them, his mind fogged.
What were they doing here? Why had they become suddenly
so quiet and stealthy as they went up that second flight
of stairs—where Savnak had gone! Savnak—Vetter—the
diamonds—Red Vallon! He remembered the tribute paid
to the Mole’s cleverness, a tribute that, in his estimation
as an eyewitness to the theft, had come far from being
borne out in practice. Was there something that he had
not seen, something behind that bald, crude scene which he
had witnessed? His brain was stumbling on, groping,
striving for understanding. He remembered the code message—the
Mole was to divert suspicion to someone else.
Had the Mole in some way outwitted Red Vallon? Birdie
Rose and Red Vallon obviously believed that the old violinist
had the diamonds—there was no other possible explanation
to account for their presence here hard on Savnak’s
trail. And if that were so, it would go hard with Savnak,
very hard, indeed, when, believing Savnak was lying, Red
Vallon failed to secure the stones. Red Vallon was not a
man to trifle with; Red Vallon was perhaps the most
dangerous and unscrupulous gangster in New York,
and——

Billy Kane was creeping forward, and mounting the stairs
step by step with infinite caution. They had disappeared
now into Savnak’s room, presumably.

He had no choice, had he? The man-handling they would
give Savnak would be little short of murder. Murder!
His lips tightened. There was to have been murder in that
room below there—wasn’t there? But that was different—one
man was guilty, the other innocent. Much as it meant
to him to settle with Peters, he had no choice but to let that
go to-night now, if necessary—to let it go, if necessary, until
to-morrow, or until he could formulate some other plan, for
it was not likely that he could frustrate Red Vallon now,
and still be left quietly to return to a reckoning with
Peters.

His fingers closed in a sudden spasmodic clutch over the
stock of his automatic. He had passed Peters’ door, and
left it unlocked, and Peters might come in the meantime.
Well, it didn’t matter now! His own luck was out! The
night had done nothing but toss him hither and thither like
a shuttlecock in mockery and sport. And at the last fate
had played him this most scurvy trick of all. He could
not stand aside and see an innocent man left to the mercy
of a devil like Red Vallon, and so, instead of playing Billy
Kane to Peters, he was playing the man in the mask to Red
Vallon and Birdie Rose! And that jeering horde of imps
out of the darkness were shrieking in his ears again!

He slid his mask over his face. He had reached the door
over Peters’ flat, which Whitie Jack had described as Savnak’s.
Red Vallon had failed to close it tightly behind him—perhaps
unwilling to risk the chance of any additional
sound. It was slightly ajar. A dull glow of light, as
though from an inner room, seeped through the aperture.
Came a sharp, startled exclamation, and then Red Vallon’s
voice, snarling viciously:

“Come on! Come across! And come—*quick*!”

Billy Kane pushed the door open inch by inch, and suddenly
slipped into the room. He was quite safe, providing
he made no noise that would betray his presence. Across
from him, at an angle that kept him out of the line of light,
was the open door of what was obviously the front room of
the apartment. Savnak had evidently been flung violently
down into a chair; Birdie Rose’s fingers were crooked,
claw-like, within an inch of the violinist’s throat; and Red
Vallon, leaning on a table in front of the two, was leering
at Savnak in ugly menace. Savnak was speaking, low and
earnestly, but Billy Kane could not catch the man’s words.
Red Vallon interrupted the other with scant ceremony.

“Can that!” he snarled. “It don’t go! That stagehand of
yours ain’t got the goods—*you* got ’em. We’re wise to
your game. We know you, Birdie and me, and you know
we know it. How long you been cultivating the old Dutchman,
and waiting for something worth while like to-night
to break loose? Pinochle and a violin! Pretty nifty, that
violin stunt! It helped a lot—we got in the same as that
boob of yours did—while you was making enough noise fiddling
to let an army in without being heard. Sure, you got
a tricky nut on your shoulders, all right! It’s too bad,
though, you don’t know enough not to stack up against a
better crowd! And the guy turned out the gas to help him
in his get-away, did he? Yes, he did—like hell! That’s
where he slipped you the sparklers, old bucko! Well, we’ve
got your number, ain’t we? We hung around after that to
give you a chance to finish out the play. We’re with you
there! Nothing suits us better than to have the police
chasing some guy they don’t know, and that ain’t got the
white ones anyhow! Come on now, come across!”

Billy Kane, like a man bewildered, mentally stunned,
stood there motionless. A singsong refrain repeated itself
crazily over and over again in his brain: “Savnak was the
Mole! Savnak was the Mole!” He lifted his hand and
swept it across his eyes. Savnak’s face in there in that room
was working in a sort of livid fury. Yes, of course—Savnak
was the Mole. It was quite clear now, quite plain—and
the Mole was not lacking quite so much after all in craft
and cunning! So Red Vallon had been in Vetter’s, too,
had he? There came a sudden, grim set to Billy Kane’s
lips. Well, at least, the diamonds were *here* now!

Savnak was speaking again.

“Who put you wise to this?” he demanded sullenly.

“I dunno!” said the gangster indifferently. “I got orders,
that’s all. Mabbe some of our crowd piped you off
making your play with Dutchy during the last month, and
figured two and two made twenty-three—for you; or mabbe
one of your own bunch whispered out loud. I dunno! Are
you coming across without getting hurt, or aren’t you?”

Billy Kane was moving softly toward the inner door.
Savnak had apparently regained his composure. He looked
from one to another of his captors, and forced a smile.

“Look here,” he said ingratiatingly, “we’re all in this.
Suppose we play fair. I’m willing to split.”

“D’ye hear that, Birdie?” jeered Red Vallon, with a nasty
laugh. “He wants a split! Well, give him one—mabbe it’ll
help him to get a move on! Twist his pipes a little more—that’s
the sort of split he won’t argue over!”

Birdie Rose’s two hands closed with a quick, ugly jerk
on Savnak’s throat. There was a gurgling cry.

“Wait!” Savnak choked out. “Wait! It’s—it’s all right,
boys.” He rubbed his throat, as Birdie Rose released him.
“I know when I’m beaten.” He shrugged his shoulders in
a sort of philosophically fatalistic way, and, reaching into
his inside coat pocket, threw Vetter’s chamois pocketbook
down on the table.

“That’s the stuff!” grunted Red Vallon maliciously. “But
seeing it’s you, we’ll just take a look at it to make sure
you’re *honest*!” He picked up the pocketbook, opened it,
nodded and chuckled over the gleaming array of diamonds,
and closed the pocketbook again. “Well, I guess that’ll
be all for to-night, *Mister* Savnak, and——” His words
ended in a sudden gasp.

Billy Kane was standing in the doorway, his automatic
covering the men.

“Don’t move, please, any of you!” Billy Kane’s voice,
gruffly unrecognizable, was facetiously debonair.

Birdie Rose’s face had gone a pasty white; Savnak,
hunched in his chair, stared helplessly; Red Vallon, his
jaw dropped, still holding the pocketbook, found his voice.

“The man in the mask!” he mumbled.

“I was a little late for the tombola myself at Vetter’s
to-night,” said Billy Kane coolly. “I understand you were
all there. I only got as far as the back yard when the
gathering broke up, and I was a little disappointed because
I had a hunch that I held the winning number. However,
if you, there, with the pocketbook, whatever your name is,
will just toss the prize over here, I’m willing to overlook
any slight irregularity there might have been in the drawing.”

Red Vallon did not answer.

The muzzle of Billy Kane’s automatic lifted to a level
with the gangster’s eyes.

“Did you hear me?” The facetiousness was gone from
Billy Kane now. His voice rasped suddenly. “*Toss it
over!*”

With an oath, Red Vallon flung the pocketbook over the
table.

Billy Kane caught it deftly with his left hand.

“Thank you!” said Billy Kane politely. He tucked the
chamois case into his pocket, and reached out for the doorknob.
“I think that is all—gentlemen,” he said softly; “except
to wish you—good-night!”

In a flash he had shut the door upon them, and, turning,
was running across the outer room. But Red Vallon, too,
was quick. Before Billy Kane reached the door leading
into the hall, he heard the window of the front room flung
up—and Red Vallon’s voice:

“Quick, boys, come in! The man in the mask! Head him
off! Jump for it! He’s going downstairs!”

Billy Kane’s jaws clamped hard, as he swung through
the door to the head of the stairs. It was true! He remembered
that Red Vallon had said he had some of his
gang with him. He could hear them now. They were running
into the lower hall; and, though he was taking the
stairs three and four at a time, they would meet on the
lower staircase, if he kept on. His escape was cut off.
There was only one chance—Peters’ door—it was unlocked—Peters’
door, before Red Vallon above opened the door of
Savnak’s flat and saw him.

It had been a matter of seconds, no more; but seconds
that had seemed of interminable duration. He was at the
foot of the stairs now. Came the pound of approaching
feet from below. Red Vallon, whether because he had not
had time, or because he was wary of a trap, had not
opened the door into the hall above yet. Billy Kane, cautious
of any sound, slipped through the door into Peters’
flat, half drew back in sudden dismay—then grimly closed
the door behind him softly, and, working with desperate
haste now, and still silently, took out his skeleton keys and
locked it. He turned, then, with his automatic flung out in
front of him—and faced toward the door that opened on his
left. He knew it, of course! But it had been too late to
turn back. He was doubly trapped! His lips, thinned,
curved in a bitter smile. If there was any murder to be done
here in this flat to-night, it was likely now to be his own—not
Peters’! *There was a light in that room!* Peters must
have come in while he, Billy Kane, was upstairs. He was
between two fires. A cry, any alarm given by Peters, would
bring Red Vallon and his blood-fanged pack bursting
through that door behind him. Was Peters deaf? True,
he, Billy Kane, had slipped as silently through the door as he
could, and had locked it as silently as he could, but he
must have made some noise!

Feet raced by in the hall, and went thumping up the
stairs. It was strange that Peters had not heard him! It
was stranger still that Peters did not hear the commotion
now that Red Vallon’s pack was making!

Billy Kane moved forward stealthily until he could see
into the lighted room—and stood suddenly still. He felt
the blood leave his face. He lifted his hand to his eyes
in a queer, jerky, horrified motion; and then, with a low
cry, he ran forward into the other room. The place was in
confusion. It was a bedroom, and bureau drawers had been
wrenched out and thrown around; every possible receptacle
that might have concealed the smallest object had been ransacked
and looted, and the contents strewn in wild disorder
everywhere about—and on the floor a man lay sprawled,
dead, murdered, a brutal wound in the side of his head from
a blow that had apparently fractured the skull.

He knelt for a moment over the man. It was Peters. He
rose, then, and stood there, fighting to rouse his brain from
blunted torpor, to force it to resume its normal functions.
Peters had been lying here dead, all the time that he, Billy
Kane, had been waiting outside there in the hall! It must
have taken quite a little while to have accomplished this
murder and ransack the room. Peters, therefore, must have
left the Ellsworth house earlier than usual, since the murderer,
allowing for the length of time he would have required
for his work, must have completed it and made his
escape before he, Billy Kane, had arrived here at nine
o’clock. It was very strange, horribly strange—to *find*
Peters murdered! Who was it, who had done it? Who
was it, other than himself, who could have had any motive?
What did it mean? What was it that Peters had had here,
that had been the object of such a frantic search? Billy
Kane drew his breath in suddenly, sharply. What could
it be save *one* thing! The Ellsworth rubies! That was it,
wasn’t it—*rubies*!

A sound from somewhere out in the hall brought surging
back upon him a realization of his own imminent peril.
There must be some way out, he must find a way. If he
knew Red Vallon at all, he knew that he, Billy Kane, would
never leave by the door! Well, a fire escape then, perhaps!

Quick now, every faculty alert, he ran noiselessly from
room to room, and from window to window. He returned
a moment later to the hall door, his face a little harder
set and strained. There was no escape by the windows.
There was nothing, except an increasing sound of disturbance
that seemed to be affecting all parts of the house.
Nothing, save Red Vallon’s voice just outside the door,
talking, evidently, to some of his men:

“He *ain’t* got out—and he ain’t going to get out till
we’ve searched every flat in the place! He’s most likely
on this floor, and Birdie and me’ll tackle this door here
first; but you go down there and tell those people below
to shut up their row, and some of you look through their
rooms. Beat it!”

Footsteps scurried away. The doorknob was tried. Billy
Kane’s lips were a thin line. There was no physical way
of escape. Was there a way of wits? His wits against
Red Vallon’s! He stood there motionless, a queer, grim
look creeping into his face, as the door now was shaken
violently. And then, suddenly, he jerked his mask from his
face, and thrust it into his pocket. Yes, there was a way,
but a way that held a something of ghastly, abysmal irony
in it. He could prove an alibi—he had a witness to it.

The door quivered, but held, under a crashing blow.
Then Red Vallon’s growling voice:

“Get out of the road, Birdie, and let me at it! I’ll
bust it in!”

And then Billy Kane spoke.

“Is that you, Red?” he demanded harshly.

There was a surprised gasp from the hall without, a second’s
tense silence, and then Red Vallon’s voice again,
heavy with perplexity and amazement:

“Who in hell are you?”

Billy Kane unlocked the door, flung it open, and stepped
back. The hall had been lighted now, evidently to facilitate
Red Vallon’s search, and the light fell full upon Billy
Kane through the doorway.

“The Rat!” The gangster’s little red-rimmed eyes
blinked helplessly—then suddenly narrowed. “What are
you doing here?”

“You fool!” snarled Billy Kane angrily. “I thought I
recognized your voice! You gave me a scare! What are
you doing here? What’s all this cursed noise about?”

“What’s it about?” repeated Red Vallon mechanically.
He spoke automatically, as though through force of habit at
the Rat’s command. “The Mole lives upstairs. He got
those diamonds from Vetter; then Birdie and me took ’em
from him, and not five minutes ago that blasted man in the
mask turned the trick on us, and”—his voice changed with
a jerk, and became suddenly truculent—“it’s *damned* funny
where he got to!”

“Come in here, both of you!” ordered Billy Kane peremptorily.
“Come in here, and shut that door! Now”—as
they obeyed him—“that’s the story, is it, Red? Well,
listen to mine!” His voice grew raucous, menacing, unpleasant.
“This is the second time to-night you’ve run foul
of my plans with your infernal diamonds and your piker
hunts, and if trouble comes from this, look out for yourself!
Five minutes ago, you said. Well, I wish he’d beaned you
while he was at it! You’ve put an *hour’s* work of mine
to the bad! How long do you think this disturbance is
going on, before the police butt in? Take a look in that
room, there!”

The two men took a step forward, and shrank suddenly
back. Birdie Rose’s face had gone gray. He looked wildly
at Billy Kane.

“My Gawd!” whispered Red Vallon.

“I said something to you to-night about needing an object
lesson, so that it would sink into you that when I said
the limit I meant it,” said Billy Kane evenly. “Well, you’ve
got it now! Do you know who that man is?”

Red Vallon shook his head. Birdie Rose was nervously
plucking at a package of cigarette papers that he had drawn
from his pocket.

“His name is Peters,” said Billy Kane curtly. “Peters
was the butler at Ellsworth’s. Jackson’s pal. Get me? I
found this”—the ruby, from his vest pocket, was lying now
in the open palm of Billy Kane’s hand. “Do you understand
what ‘limit’ means now, Red? I found this. He
wouldn’t talk, and so——” Billy Kane shrugged his shoulders
coolly, and his hand jerked forward, pointing to the
disordered room. “I hadn’t found any more of them when
you messed it up with your noise.”

Red Vallon circled his lips with his tongue.

“Let’s get out of here!” he said hoarsely.

“We’ll have to now, thanks to you!” snapped Billy Kane
shortly. “That’s the only room that’s been searched, and
you’ve queered any chance of doing anything more now.”
He whirled impetuously on Red Vallon, and shook his fist
in the gangster’s face. “You see what you’ve done! Even
if the police haven’t got wise to the row, those people in
the apartments downstairs will call them in the minute
they get a chance. Yes, we’ve got to beat it! You and
your diamonds are likely to give us a ride by the juice
route up in that little armchair in Sing Sing. If your man
gets away it’s a small matter now. Anybody that’s caught
here will have to stand for—*this*. You go first, Birdie,
and call the crowd off, and *scatter* the minute you’re outside
the house. I don’t want it published in the papers that
I was with Peters in his expiring moments! Tumble? I
can trust you two, because”—Billy Kane’s smile was unhappy—“if
anything leaks, I’ll know *where* it leaked from!
Get the idea? Now, beat it, Birdie! We’ll give you a
couple of minutes ahead of us.”

The man went out. Billy Kane walked coolly to the door,
took the skeleton key from the inside of the lock, and fitted
it again to the outside.

“Come on, Red!” he said.

He locked the door, and put the bunch of keys in his
pocket. It was comparatively quiet in the house now. A
door of one of the lower apartments opened cautiously,
but closed instantly again, as Billy Kane, with the gangster
beside him, went down the stairs. In another moment
they were out on the street, and had turned the first corner.

The gangster was muttering to himself:

“There’s Birdie and me. But Savnak won’t dare let a
peep out of him, ’cause he was in on the diamond pinch
himself. I’ll get that guy with the mask yet, if I swing for
it. Spilled every blasted bean in the bag—that’s me!” His
voice took on a sudden, half cringing, half deferential note.
“It wasn’t my fault, Bundy—honest! You know that!
You ain’t sore, are you, Bundy?”

Billy Kane pushed his hat to the back of his head. The
night air was cool, even crisp, but his hatband was wringing
wet. He brushed his damp hair back from his forehead.
It was strange that he should have murdered Peters,
after all!

He answered gruffly.

“Forget it!” said Billy Kane, alias the Rat.

XVI—TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER
===========================

From above, faintly, through the flooring, came the
tap-tap, tap-tap of the old Italian cobbler’s hammer.
Billy Kane, from his hands and knees, straightened
up, easing his body from the discomfort of his cramped
position; and, as he listened, he toyed now with the steel
jimmy, commandeered from Whitie Jack, that was in his
hand. He had been even more assiduous in his own tapping,
at least for the last hour or more, than was the old fellow
above there. The old fellow seemed to work all day—and
all night. It was night now—or, rather, evening. If
there was any sound heard from the street it would be attributed
to the old cobbler, of course, which was just as
well.

The murky light from the single incandescent across the
room threw the sparse furnishings of the Rat’s den into
uncouth shadows on the walls, and threw his own shadow
into a grotesque, shapeless blotch upon the floor. From
the street level, down through the cellar-like stairway to this
underground abode, seeping in through the closed door,
came the muffled roll of traffic, and a footstep now and then
on the pavement like the echo of some sound that was detached,
far distant.

He resumed his work, tapping with infinite pains with
the butt of his steel jimmy on board after board of the
flooring. And now this board or that seemed to give
back a more resonant sound than its fellows, and he tapped
it again, and still again, only to shake his head finally, and
pass on to the next board.

There were other secrets in this crime hole besides that
ingenious door and its tunnel to the shed and lane behind;
secrets that *she* had plainly stated existed, and had as plainly
stated were no secrets to her; secrets that she wielded in
such a manner as to complicate a situation that was already
one of extreme peril and desperate enough. They were
the Rat’s secrets; and for the moment he was the Rat, and
self-preservation made the possession of those secrets vitally
essential to him.

The net seemed to be drawing closer around him; at
moments it seemed to be strangling him. He had built so
heavily on Peters. And Peters was dead. And he, Billy
Kane, was still the Rat. It was difficult enough to carry
out the rôle, as it was—but if the Rat should unexpectedly
return! Where was the Rat? If he could glean a hint
of when the Rat might probably return, or of the Rat’s
whereabouts! Surely those secrets hidden here somewhere
would answer, in a measure at least, those questions. Or,
if not, then the fuller and more intimate knowledge they
must give him of the Rat would make his assumed rôle more
secure, safer as long as he was forced to play it, since they
would place in his hands the trumps that would enable him
to preserve this character he had usurped as he came more
and more into direct contact with that malignant Crime
Trust of which the legitimate Rat was obviously one of
the leading spirits. And she, that strange, mysterious being,
whom he had come to call the Woman in Black, whose
hatred, a hatred that was boundless, more bitter, more deliberate,
more merciless than, it seemed, any human could
hold for another, he had acquired through this abhorrent
proxy that fate had thrust upon him—surely these things
hidden here, if he could but find them, must too, in a measure
at least, explain what lay between her and the devil in
human guise whose part he, Billy Kane, was compelled to
play.

He worked on, his ear attuned to the sound as the steel
jimmy tapped the flooring, his mind feverishly, insistently
active. He had counted on forcing the truth from Peters
last night. Instead, he had found the old butler murdered,
and had only managed to escape destruction himself at the
hands of Red Vallon and the underworld through a spurious
alibi that was in itself a ghastly thing. He, as the Rat,
stood now the self-confessed murderer of Peters! Yes,
the net seemed to be drawing its strands so tightly about
him sometimes that they strangled him, and strangled his
soul, and made his courage falter.

Peters was dead, murdered—and to have made the man
talk he would have gone the limit himself. He had meant
to wring the truth from Peters’ lips at any cost. But a dead
man couldn’t talk!

It was not warm in the room, nor was he overheated by
his exertions, but Billy Kane, with the back of his hand,
swept away a bead of moisture that had oozed out upon his
forehead. Who was it who had murdered Peters? And
why? His brain had wrestled with that problem since last
night. There seemed to be but one answer, one solution.
Peters’ connection with the Ellsworth murder, the search
that had been made in Peters’ bedroom, and carried no
further than that single room, indicating that what had been
sought had been found, seemed to be proof positive that the
author of the crime was at least conversant with the details
of David Ellsworth’s murder, if he were not, indeed, as
seemed even more likely, one of those who had actually
participated in that murder himself. And with this as a
premise the motive behind Peters’ murder was apparently
clear enough. Nearly fifteen thousand dollars and a fortune
in rubies had been taken from the steel vault in the
Ellsworth home. Peters might have been the temporary
custodian, in whole or in part, of the proceeds of the robbery,
or he might only have been in possession of his share.
In either case it was enough to account for his having
been double-crossed and murdered by one of his own accomplices,
or else by some one sufficiently well informed
about the Ellsworth murder to know that Peters had at
least a tempting enough portion of the “goods” in his flat
to make a visit there very much worth while.

Billy Kane smiled a little grimly now, as, moving forward,
he pushed the bed to one side in order to continue
his examination of the flooring. That had been his solution;
but, strangely enough, the newspapers for once had
had no solution to offer. The known presence of so many
men—when Red Vallon’s gang had invaded the house—indicated
quite clearly, the papers said, that it was the work
of an organized band; but, apart from that, they were
frankly mystified. But because Peters had been the butler
of David Ellsworth, and had been murdered just three
nights after his master had been murdered, the morning
papers had flung clamorous headlines across their front
pages, and had filled their columns with every detail that
had even the remotest bearing upon the affair. They, however,
scarcely hinted at even a possible connection between
the two crimes, for the very simple reason that Peters had
obviously been attacked by a gang, whereas, in the case
of David Ellsworth, they *knew* that the old millionaire
had been done to death by his private secretary, Billy
Kane!

He had read the papers, all of them. But out of the welter
of words there had been only one thing that had possessed
any value for him in the shape of information, and
even that had been of a negative character. Some reporter
had unearthed the fact that a stranger, whose description
answered in a general way to Whitie Jack, had been seen
loitering around the neighborhood of Peters’ apartment during
a good part of the previous day. The description was
not accurate enough to identify Whitie Jack positively; but
as Whitie Jack *had* been there, and there on his, Billy
Kane’s instructions, he had immediately sent the man away
that morning, and had told him to keep under cover until
further orders.

The steel jimmy tapped with persistent inquisitiveness
along another board. Billy Kane’s lips were tight now.
Peters’ death had seemed at first to have robbed him of all
he had been building upon; and during the hours alone
here in this den last night, facing what looked like the ruin
of the final chance and hope of establishing his own
innocence, of clearing his own name, of bringing to justice the
wantons who had struck down old David Ellsworth, he had
known those bitterest of hours where the will weakens, and
courage seems a useless thing and a mockery. But
he had fought through those hours, and the morning had
brought its reward. Peters’ murder had broken the thread
of evidence, but equally, it seemed, after all, it had knitted
it together again—there was the Man with the Crutch.

His lips relaxed a little in an ironical smile. The papers
had overlooked the Man with the Crutch! It was Red Vallon
who, all unconsciously, had joined together the broken
thread. The gangster had come here to the den that noon.
There had been a marked increase of deference in the man’s
attitude and manner, a sort of unholy admiration, awe, respect
and fear. The man, hardened though he was himself,
was still visibly affected by the fact that he stood in the
presence of the Rat, alias Bundy Morgan, who, as he believed,
had coolly and imperturbably given gruesome evidence
that, to gain his ends, he would neither hesitate nor
stop at murder. Red Vallon had not forgotten, and was
not likely to forget, his “object lesson!”

Red Vallon had told his story furtively, leaning across
the table, talking in a guarded whisper. He had got it
straight enough from one of his own men, who the police
in turn believed was one of their own stool pigeons. Shortly
before the confusion incident to the exit of Red Vallon’s
men on the previous night, the exact hour not positively
established, a man with a crutch, and carrying a small hand
bag, was known to have crept cautiously out of the apartment
house where Peters had his flat. After that the
man had disappeared. “The police have elected the cripple
as the guy that waltzed off with the swag while the rest
of the bunch made a noise to smear up his tracks,” Red Vallon
had said, with a malicious grin. “What’s the matter
with pushing a good thing along, Bundy? What’s the matter
with pushing out a few feelers, and trying to spot this
crutch gazabo? The Pippin’s the one that put me wise, and
the Pippin can make good nosing him out if any one can.”

There had come upon Billy Kane an overwhelming
surge of relief. More than anything else on earth that he
had suddenly wanted at that moment was—the Man with
the Crutch.

“Yes!” he had answered gruffly, afraid almost to trust
his voice.

“Sure!” Red Vallon had responded. “I thought you’d be
strong for it! Mabbe it won’t last long, ’cause the guy
ought to be able to clear himself unless we can hitch it onto
him for keeps, but there’s nothing like heaving a little dirt
in the eyes of the bulls, and shooting ’em off on the wrong
lay. It’ll keep ’em guessing for a while anyhow. You leave
it to me, Bundy. I owe you something for queering your
game last night, though I guess there wasn’t any more of
them rubies there besides the one you found, for the Pippin
says the bulls didn’t get anything, and I owe you something
for the lemon I’ve handed you so far in falling down on
spotting the ruby collection in any of the speak-easy joints;
but I won’t fall down here. You leave it to me! I’ll pull
some slick stuff this time!”

The steel jimmy tapped on. Billy Kane’s face was set.
The Man with the Crutch! Was there any doubt but that
the Man with the Crutch was not only Peters’ murderer,
but, more vital still, one who, in Peters’ stead now, embodied
the clue to the hell-hatched plot that had cost David
Ellsworth his life, and had craftily woven the evidence of
murder around him, Billy Kane? The Man with the
Crutch! If only Red Vallon and the Pippin did not fail,
then— The steel jimmy, almost perfunctorily, tapped
over the same board again; and then Billy Kane suddenly
bent lower, his ear close to the floor. He tapped once more.
There was no doubt of it! The sound was unquestionably
and distinctly *hollow*. He felt his pulse quicken. Off and
on during the day he had covered almost the entire flooring
of the room. He had started with the flooring. Only the
flooring and the walls could contain any hidden recess.
He had not touched the walls yet, and it might not be
necessary now!

He was examining the board critically. It was a short
board, rough and uneven, about ten inches wide, that ran to
the edge of the wall. There seemed to be no sign of any
secret spring, either on the adjacent flooring or on the wall,
nor did the board itself appear to be in any way loose or
show any evidence of ever having been removed before.
He frowned as he tapped it again and found that, quite
as unmistakably as before, the hollow sound came back
to him; and then, inserting the point of the jimmy in the
joint at the end of the board, he gave the board a sharp
wrench. It came away readily, but with it came a weary
smile to Billy Kane’s lips. Nothing! The under flooring
had rotted away, which accounted for the hollow sound,
and he was rewarded with nothing more than a hole bounded
both in depth and width by the floor joists which rested on
the ground. Half angry, half ironically amused, he reached
forward to replace the board—and, straightening up suddenly,
listened.

Someone was coming down the steps from the street.

In an instant he had the board and bed back in place,
and the steel jimmy in his pocket. And now a cigarette
was drooping languidly from his lips, as, in answer to a low
knock, he crossed the room, and halted in front of the
door.

“Who’s there?” he demanded.

“It’s de Cadger,” a voice answered.

Billy Kane opened the door. The Cadger, unknown to
him personally, was known to him by reputation. As one
of those details vital to the preservation of the rôle he
played, he had stored up in his memory during the past few
days the name of every one connected with the Crime
Trust that he had heard mentioned either by Red Vallon
or others. The Cadger was one of the lesser breed; a stage
hand, in the expressive vernacular of the underworld.

The Cadger, a shrivelled, unkempt figure, his coat collar
turned up over a collarless shirt, an aggressively checkered
peak cap pulled far down over his eyes, thrust an envelope
unceremoniously into Billy Kane’s hand.

“Dis is fer youse, Bundy,” he said hurriedly, already turning
and making his way up the steps to the street again.
“See youse later! I gotta go to Gannet’s joint fer his
kit.”

Billy Kane closed the door, and locked it. He had not
heard from Red Vallon since noon, nothing in reference to
the Pippin’s quest for the Man with the Crutch. He tore
the envelope open eagerly, the thought uppermost in his
mind that this was a message from Red Vallon now; and
then, staring at the sheet of paper which he had extracted
from the envelope, he dropped, suddenly tight-lipped, into
the chair by the table under the light.

It wasn’t from Red Vallon. It was a message like the
one Red Vallon had showed him the night before, a message
in the Crime Trust’s cipher. He turned instinctively in
his chair, glancing toward the secret door at the rear of
the room, as though he half expected to see it open, and
see that slim little figure in black enter, as though he half
expected to hear her cool, softly modulated voice that veiled,
even as did the clear ripple in her laugh, menace and contempt.
And then he laughed aloud in a short, hard way.
A fool! Was he? Well, she had come in through that door
before, hadn’t she, when something was in the wind?

His eyes reverted to the sheet of paper. He knew what
it was! The headquarters of the Crime Trust had been
broken up, and some of the leaders had even taken to cover
since the night Karlin had been arrested by the police; but
all the cogs in that Machiavellian machinery had not
stopped, and plans formulated and set in motion in the past
were still to be carried to their ultimate conclusions as they
matured day by day. There was not the slightest doubt
but that this was one of their devil’s schemes. Red Vallon—or
was it the owner of those great, dark, steady eyes?—had
said enough to make him understand that, when temporarily
scattered, temporarily wary of the police, some
unhallowed “managing director” carried on their work, and
communicated with the different members of the gang by
means of these cipher messages.

And now as he stared at the missive in his hand, angry
flush rose slowly to his cheeks, and he half made as though
to tear the paper into shreds. God knew, he had enough
to do to keep his own life in his own body without this;
there was scarcely a moment of the day or night when he
was not battling with all the wits he possessed to save himself
from discovery—from the police as Billy Kane, from
the underworld as the spurious Rat—and his brain was already
sick and tormented beyond endurance with the struggle.
Why, then, should he decipher this? If he did, he
could not sit idly by and, in the possession of the details of
some purposed crime, permit that crime to be enacted!
It was the moral obligation flung in his face again, just
as it had been on the night he had trapped Karlin, just as it
had been last night when he had snatched Vetter’s diamonds
from Red Vallon’s maw, and not through any threat of *hers*
held over his head, as she so thoroughly believed! She
wasn’t here now—was she?

He laid the paper down upon the table, and smoothed it
out. Tear it up! His short laugh was a jeer flung at
himself. Certainly, he could tear it up, and he would know
nothing about it, except that he had shirked and turned his
back like a coward upon the responsibility that was already
his! He *could* read the cipher, if he wanted to; he had seen
her work one out the night before.

“I thought I’d settled this sort of thing with myself before!”
he muttered grimly, and taking a pencil from his
pocket he began to work out the cipher.

It took some time, perhaps twenty minutes; and then
he was studying a second sheet of paper upon which he
had written the decoded message:

   The Cadger and Gannet will report to you at nine o’clock.
   The Ninth Street house will be empty. Dayler and servants
   out this evening. Secure sealed manila envelope in wall
   safe, left of mantel, in library. Combination: Two right,
   eighteen; one left, eight; one right, twenty-eight. Police
   on trail to-morrow.

The Cadger’s “see youse later,” then, was to be taken literally,
and not, as he had supposed, as simply a common
and slang expression of adieu! Billy Kane looked at his
watch. It was not quite eight o’clock. There was an hour,
then, before the Cadger and this Gannet, another of the
Cadger’s ilk, would report here ready to follow his leadership
in a burglarious raid. Billy Kane stood up; and, in a
sort of mechanical and reassuring inventory, his hands felt
over the outside of his pockets, over the skeleton keys they
contained, the steel jimmy, the flashlight, the automatic, and
the soft, slight bulge made by the neatly folded mask—and,
too, over another bulge that was made by a certain
chamois pocketbook. This latter brought a frown. He had
not found a way yet to return Vetter’s diamonds. It
wasn’t so easy a thing to do when, if the Rat’s hand showed
in the matter, it was certain destruction for the Rat, alias
Bundy Morgan, and, for the moment, alias Billy Kane! But
Vetter and Vetter’s diamonds were extraneous things just
now, weren’t they?

He extinguished the light, crossed to the door, unlocked
it, stepped out, locked the door behind him, made his way
up the steps, and started briskly off along the street. He
did not know what the contents of that “manila envelope”
were, nor who Dayler was, nor the Crime Trust’s motive—he
was *supposed* to know all that—he knew only that there
was some devil’s scheme on foot that would be worthy of
the Crime Trust in its scope and proportions. And the
Crime Trust did not interest itself in *little* things!

XVII—THE MAN WITH THE CRUTCH
============================

Billy Kane smiled with grim irony, as he walked
rapidly down the block. She was not here to-night
with her cool, contemptuous voice bidding him to do
this thing. It was evident, therefore, that she was not quite
as infallible as she apparently believed herself to be! For
once, she was not acquainted beforehand with the Crime
Trust’s movements, it seemed! Perhaps it was because, for
once, the Rat might not have had anything to do with
originating the plan that was afoot to-night, for she had certainly
always appeared to be thoroughly informed where the
Rat was concerned!

He shrugged his shoulders suddenly, dismissing her from
his thoughts. He would better concentrate his mind on the
work in hand! The secret lay in the manila envelope. That
the envelope contained something of great value, or was of
great value to someone, was obvious; to Dayler, probably,
since it was in Dayler’s carefully guarded possession. He
shrugged his shoulders again. He could tell better about
that in the course of another hour—when the envelope was
in his pocket instead of Dayler’s safe! To balk this organized
gang of super-criminals was sufficient for the moment!
Once more his shoulders lifted. He perhaps was not even
entitled to any great credit to-night in fulfilling his “moral
obligations!” For once, there appeared to be neither any
great danger, nor any great difficulty. The house was
empty; it was not very far away; he had an hour in which
to work undisturbed; and at the expiration of that time he
should be back in his room, and ready to set out with the
Cadger and Gannet to rob an *empty* safe. If he with the
two men then entered the house, and, for their pains, found
the manila envelope already gone, certainly there could be
no suspicion to rest upon him!

Billy Kane had reached the Bowery now. He went in
through the side entrance of a corner saloon. Here, a
minute’s search in the telephone directory supplied him with
the number of Dayler’s house on Ninth Street. After that,
he made his way over to Washington Square, crossed the
Square, gained the lower end of Fifth Avenue, practically
deserted now at this hour, and, a moment later, turning into
Ninth Street, headed down the block in the direction of
Sixth Avenue.

It was one of the old aristocratic neighborhoods of New
York, but changed now a great deal with the changing years.
What had once been classed as mansions had in many cases
been metamorphosed into lodging and boarding houses;
but the “mansions” were still here, big, substantial, commodious
stone dwellings. Nor had the boarding houses
entirely ousted a certain unobtrusive type of wealth and
means from their midst, and it argued not at all that this
Dayler, for instance, because he had his residence here, was
not well to do, even exceedingly well to do.

The street was quiet. Billy Kane located the house he
sought. He passed by it, noting that it had a basement
entrance, a flight of stone steps to the front door, that it
was entirely in darkness, and, returning, he mounted the
steps quietly and without any attempt at concealment, found
the outer vestibule door unlocked, opened it—after making
pretense of ringing the doorbell for the benefit of anyone
on the street who might have paid him any notice—stepped
inside, and closed the door behind him. The inner door
was locked. His skeleton keys came into play. Still far
from an adept in their use, he was several minutes at this
work. Then he stepped forward into the hall of the house
itself.

His flashlight stabbed a lane of light through the darkness.
The stairs leading to the upper floors of the house
were ahead of him and on his right; on his left, opening off
the hall, which seemed to run almost the depth of the house,
were several doors, all of which were closed. The house
was empty, the cipher message had assured him of that,
but nevertheless he moved now with extreme caution to the
first door on his left. He knew nothing of the plan of the
house, but it was at least logical to assume that the library
was on this floor, and the library was the objective of his
search.

He opened the door slightly, quietly, then drew sharply
back, and stood tense and motionless, listening. There was
a dull, faint glow of light in there, not as though the room
itself were illuminated, but as though the light came from,
perhaps, another room beyond. But there was no sound.
A minute passed, and still he stood there, alert, his ears
strained to catch the slightest noise. And then, reassured,
he pushed the door wider open, and stepped over the threshold.
That a light might have been left burning, either intentionally
or inadvertently, presented in itself nothing of
the unusual, or——

He was drawing his hand across his eyes like a man
dazed from a blow. The light had gone in the winking of
an eye. It was pitch black. He was still involuntarily
staring, through darkness now, toward the front end of
the room. The light had not come from that direction,
it had come through a portièred archway in quite the opposite
direction, but for the moment his mind was chaotic,
out of control. The room was a drawing-room, a large,
stately sort of a drawing-room, and there had been a huge
pier glass, gilt-framed, between the heavily curtained front
windows. What he had seen could not have been a fantasy,
nor due to disordered imagination. His eyes, the
instant he had entered the room, had gone straight to that
glass because it reflected the light from the other room.
The surface of the glass had been blank as his eyes had
first fallen upon it, and then, like a flash, enduring for but
the minutest fraction of a second, the reflection of a figure,
a man’s figure, a man’s figure *with a crutch*, had swept
across it—and the light in the other room had gone out.

And now Billy Kane acted quickly. The time that he had
stood there, inert, mentally stunned, had been but a matter
of seconds exaggerated into seemingly interminable,
measureless hours. Swiftly, silently, he reached the archway,
and, sheltering himself behind the folds of the portières,
but in a position to command the other room with his
automatic, which he had whipped from his pocket, he stood
still and listened. There was only the quick, fierce pounding
in his own eardrums, in tempo with the mad race of blood
through his veins. The Man with the Crutch!

How or why the man came to be here, or what the other
had to do with what was afoot to-night, scarcely entered
his mind. It did not matter! Nothing mattered—save to
get the Man with the Crutch. Everything else paled into
insignificance. It was the *same* man that had murdered
Peters; there would not be *two* men with crutches who
prowled stealthily at night in other people’s houses! But
that it was Peters’ murderer was significant now only because
it identified the man as one who held the secret of
David Ellsworth’s murder; the man who, if he, Billy Kane,
could but get to grips with him, would tell what he knew
to the last word, or one or the other of them would never
leave this house alive. It was the man who could end this
hideous masquerade that he, Billy Kane, was forced to assume;
the man who could clear his name of the foul blot
that had cost him friends, the companionship of honest men,
and that was like at any instant to cost him his life.

There was no sound.

And then Billy Kane’s voice rang suddenly, imperatively
through the silence:

“Hands up!”

His flashlight bored through the darkness, circling the
room in front of him. The room—it was the library beyond
doubt—was empty. His jaws locked. He had taken a
chance. It had failed. But now his glance fell upon the
door, diagonally across the library from him, that, from its
position, obviously opened on the hall. He could have
sworn that the doors opening on the hall were all closed
when he had entered the house. This one was ajar now!

He crossed the library with a bound, swung the door
wide, and peered out into the hall. He could see nothing;
but now, from somewhere below, he caught a sound as of a
boot heel thudding on a bare floor—or, perhaps, the tap of
a crutch!

Along at the rear of the hall his flashlight focused
on the head of a basement stairway. He ran for this now;
and then, with more caution, wary of offering himself as a
target for a shot that would put an end to any hope of getting
within reach of the other, his flashlight out, he began
to pick his way downstairs. Halfway down, he caught
another sound. From the front of the house, softly and
cautiously though it was done, there came the unmistakable
opening and closing of the basement door.

Billy Kane took the remaining stairs in a leap, and, his
flashlight pointing the way, dashed along the hallway below.
He reached the door, and pulled at it. Then, with
an angry, muttered exclamation, he stood there for an instant
hesitant. The man had managed to lock the door
behind him! Mechanically his hand went toward his pocket
for his skeleton keys, but stopped halfway as, turning suddenly,
he raced back upstairs. It would take too long to
try out key after key. There was a better way. There
was the front door. He had left that unlocked when he
came in. He gained this now, jerked it open, lunged through
the little vestibule, snatched at the knob of the outer door—and
wrenched at it viciously like a madman in mingled rage
and chagrin. It was locked! It had not been locked even
when he had come in!

Calmer in an instant, he took his keys from his pocket
and worked with feverish haste at the lock. It would possibly
take less time to run into the drawing-room, get a window
open, and jump to the ground, but he did not dare do
that. He had to come back here with the Cadger and
Gannet in a little while, and he dared not risk anything that
would imperil his rôle in the eyes of the underworld. Even
a number of people coming and going from the house, if
they acted naturally, entering by the door as though they
had a right to enter, would never attract the slightest notice
from either neighbors or passers-by. That was what doors
were for! But a man leaping out through one of the front
windows would invite certain attention, suspicion, and
instant investigation.

Another key! Would he never get one that would fit!
This wasn’t the door he had opened before. A minute, perhaps
two, perhaps even three, must have gone by! God,
how clumsy his fingers were! The man must have had
amazing agility for a cripple, and the craft and cunning
of a devil to come up here instantly on leaving the basement
and lock this door! Would he never get the—yes, he had
it now! He swung the door open, and from the top step his
glance swept the street in both directions. And then there
came a sort of bitter philosophical acceptance of a situation
that he had already more than half expected. The Man
with the Crutch had had too much time. There was no sign
of him now.

But there was still a chance! Billy Kane closed the door
behind him, went quietly down the steps to the pavement—there
was still the inviolability of the house to be preserved—walked
along without undue haste until far enough away
to preclude the chance of any connection being established
between himself and the house he had just left, and then
broke into a run. There was still a chance. But it was a
slim one. He knew that. The man must have gone toward
either Sixth Avenue or Fifth Avenue. It was more likely
Sixth Avenue; there would be more people there, more traffic,
more opportunity to “lose himself.” It was the logical
thing to do. Lower Fifth Avenue at night was almost as
deserted as a tomb; the man could have been seen there
blocks away.

Perhaps fifteen minutes passed. At the expiration of that
period Billy Kane returned to the Dayler residence, and for
the second time that night coolly and quite casually mounted
the steps, and again entered the house. His search had been
futile. He had circuited the blocks in the neighborhood, and
hunted up and down the adjacent section of Sixth Avenue;
and the more he had hunted the more he had realized the
futility of what he was doing, though, at that, he had even,
as a last hope, returned by Fifth Avenue. And now he was
back in the house again, and quite conscious that this, too,
was likely now to prove as barren of results as his search
had been. The man had got away, and with the man in all
likelihood had gone, too, the manila envelope from the wall
safe in the library! What else had the other been in the
library for?

Billy Kane shrugged his shoulders, as, using his flashlight
again, he stepped from the hall into the drawing-room, and
from there through the archway into the library. There
was the one possibility that he had come upon the Man
with the Crutch and interrupted the other in his work *before*
the envelope had been secured. That was the one possibility
that remained, and that was the one possibility that
had prompted him to come back.

He stood for a moment now beside the table that occupied
the center of the room, his flashlight creeping in a slow,
inquisitive circle around the walls. And now the round
white ray, arrested, held on the mantel opposite the archway.
On either side of the mantel, shoulder high, and projecting
out a little from the wall, were what appeared to be
bric-a-brac, or, perhaps, liqueur cupboards, with leaded
glass doors. “Wall safe, left of mantel,” the message had
said. He smiled a little grimly in appreciation and understanding,
as he moved over and halted before the left-hand
cupboard. It was a rather neat ambush for a wall safe,
this idea of Dayler’s—whoever Dayler might be!

The leaded glass door opened readily. The ray of the
flashlight flooded the interior. Billy Kane’s smile was gone.
He was quite sure now that he was too late. The cupboard
was used for liqueurs, but the liqueurs in turn were evidently
used for the purpose of veiling the little nickel dial of
a safe that protruded from the wall at the rear of the
cupboard, for the bottles were all pushed now to one side,
and the dial, with a sort of diabolical mockery, it seemed,
winked back reflected rays from the glare of the flashlight.
It was blatantly apparent now that this had been the object
of the other’s visit to the house, and it was almost as equally
apparent that the man had got what he had come for. And
yet——

“Two right, eighteen; one left”—almost perfunctorily,
muttering the combination, Billy Kane had reached in and
was twirling the knob of the dial—“eight; one right, twenty-eight.”

The little steel door swung noiselessly open. Billy Kane
stared into the miniature safe, bewildered. And then he
laughed a little. A minute before and he would not have
given a penny for his chances! The other had got only so
far as to move the bottles to one side. He had beaten the
Man with the Crutch by the very narrow margin of time it
would have taken to manipulate the combination! Perhaps,
though, the other hadn’t known the combination, and was
just about to set to work to force the safe! Well, it didn’t
matter! The manila envelope lay there, sealed, intact.

He took the envelope from the safe, closed the door,
and locked it—and whirled suddenly around from his position
in front of the mantel. His flashlight, jerked upward,
played full upon the archway. A cool, disdainful laugh
rippled low through the room—a woman’s laugh. Billy
Kane did not move. The chill that had clutched at his
heart, the fear of discovery, was gone almost as quickly
as it had come. He had nothing to dread on that score
from—the Woman in Black! And it was not the first time
she had come upon him unexpectedly! And it was she
who stood there now; and she still stood full in the glare
of his flashlight, a bewitching, entrancing, mysterious little
figure, whose great dark eyes were fixed on him, half in a
deliberate, speculative way, and half in a sort of contemptuous
mockery.

It was she who broke the silence.

“I wonder if it’s true, Bundy?” she said softly.

He felt the blood surge hot into his cheeks. He knew a
sudden bitter rebellion at the contempt in those steady eyes,
the same bitter rebellion he had known last night in her
presence, a rebellion against the fate that caused him,
through reason of being the counterpart of some incarnate
fiend, to stand in her eyes as that actual fiend himself, as the
one who in some way had done her, or hers, irreparable
wrong, as the embodiment of all that was loathsome and
hideous to her. He was the Rat to her, as to everybody
else. The envelope crackled in his fingers, as he clenched
his hand. Would he always have to play the Rat—to her!
What would that perfect oval face, beautiful even now in its
fearless contempt, look like in softer mood?

“Is what true?” he demanded gruffly.

She came toward him across the room.

“That you are really playing the game,” she said slowly.
“It’s not much credit to you, of course, since you are doing
it through fear, but still——” She shrugged her shoulders
daintily, as she stood beside him. “Do you know, Bundy,
that lately you seem to have changed somehow. I do not
know just how, and I cannot account for it. It puzzles
me.”

“Forget it!” growled Billy Kane, alias the Rat. “And I
don’t know what game you’re talking about, either!”

“Oh, yes, you do!” she answered. “I told you that I
would hold you responsible for any crime committed by
your accomplices that it lay within your power to circumvent.
That was the chance I gave you, and you seem to be
taking it. I thought I would test you out to-night when
you might imagine that I was ignorant of what was going
on, and that you might, therefore, count on escaping the
consequences as far as I was concerned. You were to come
here with the Cadger and Gannet at nine o’clock to rob
that safe. You are here alone long before that hour, and
you have robbed the safe. I presume, at least I am going
to give you credit for it, that it is because you are playing
the game I referred to, and are checkmating your partners,
and preventing the crime from being carried any further.”

There was silence for a moment.

“I think you had better put out that flashlight,” she said.

He must play the Rat. His soul jeered at him ironically.
He snapped off the light.

“How did you get wise to this?” he flung out.

“About to-night? Why, it was one of your own pet
schemes, wasn’t it, Bundy—all worked out quite a while
ago? That’s how I knew! Well, am I right about the reason
for you being here alone? And, if so, how did you
propose to square yourself with your cronies of the underworld?”

“By coming back here with the Cadger and Gannet, of
course,” he replied curtly, “and letting them fall for the
idea that someone had beaten us all to it.”

“Yes,” she said calmly. “Well, I quite approve, Bundy.
And I’ll take that envelope now, please! You won’t have
any further use for it, and I’ll attend to the rest of this
affair.”

He handed her the envelope. He asked nothing better
than that she should assume any further responsibility that
might be connected with its contents. As far as he was concerned
there were matters of far greater moment now.
There was the Man with the Crutch! And that was a matter
in which he had very cogent reasons for desiring to play
a lone hand. His lips tightened. It was fairly evident that
she had not been in the house the first time he had entered
but he wanted to be sure.

“When did you get in here?” he snapped. “Followed me,
I suppose!”

“About five minutes ago,” she said quietly. “And you left
the door unlocked—though I had a key. No, I didn’t follow
you! Why should I? I knew that you would be here at
nine o’clock anyway, and I simply came a little ahead of
time. I really hoped, you see, that you would do the same—and
for more reasons than the one I have just mentioned.”

“What do you mean?” he grunted.

“I haven’t seen you since last night, you know,” she said
deliberately. “What about the diamonds that were stolen
from Vetter?”

“I’ve got them,” he answered shortly.

“*Vetter* hasn’t!” There was a cold, unpleasant inflection
in her voice.

“Well, what do you expect!” He forced a raucous note
into his voice. He was not sure that it sounded genuine.
It was not easy to play the Rat with her! “Think it over!
It’s not so soft a job to get them back to him without leaving
a trail behind that might trip me up! See?”

She appeared to consider this for a moment.

“That is true,” she said at last. “Well, have you got
them here?”

“Yes.” He reached into his pocket and took out the
chamois pocketbook. He laughed brusquely, as he held it
out to her. “If you can handle that envelope, maybe you
can handle the sparklers, too!”

“I can—and I will,” she said simply, as she took the
pocketbook from him. “That’s only fair. I told you once
that I would put no difficulties in the way of your keeping
yourself solid—if you could!—with your fellow yeggs.
And that applies equally to to-night. You may bring the
Cadger back here. You will find the house empty.”

“Thanks!” he said grimly. “I’ll move along then; I’ve
got just about enough time left. And would you mind
*locking* the front door when you go out? I’d like the
Cadger to get all the run that’s coming to him for his
money.”

He stepped forward to pass her, but she laid a detaining
hand on his arm.

“Wait!” she said tersely. “I agreed to look after this
envelope, but even so you are not through yet to-night,
Bundy. I know where Mr. Dayler is this evening, and I
am going to bring him back here to his own house myself.
But I will give you time first to play out your little farce
with your two thugs, and send them about their business.
Say, ten o’clock. Mr. Dayler  and myself will be here at that
time—and so will you.”

“Will I?” inquired Billy Kane insolently. “Whats the
lay? A trap?”

“No—an experiment,” she said evenly. “I would like to
find out if there is really anything *human*, if there is a
shred of decency left in you. I want you to see your crime
for once from your victim’s standpoint. It may help you, if
you *are* human, to keep on ‘playing the game’; and that will
help you, if you can keep out of the clutches of the underworld,
to keep out of the electric chair at Sing Sing. You
quite understand, Bundy? At ten o’clock! And I should
not even mind if you are found here in this room—in the
dark—when Mr. Dayler and myself enter the house—at
ten o’clock. And now I think you had better hurry,
Bundy.”

There was a twisted smile on Billy Kane’s lips. He was
the Rat, and the Rat would be here, or anywhere else at ten
o’clock—if she said so. There was no comment to make.
The Rat had no choice.

“All right!” he said gruffly, and moved past her to the
door, and out to the hall; and a moment later, reaching
the street, he swung into a hurried stride, heading back
for the Rat’s den.

XVIII—MIRRORED YEARS
====================

It was quite dark here in Dayler’s library, yet he had
sat so long in this chair that his eyes seemed to have
accommodated themselves to the darkness, and it
seemed as though he could distinguish every object in the
room. Surely, interminably as the minutes dragged themselves
out, the quarter-hour that had stood between ten
o’clock and the time he had sent the Cadger and Gannet
away was up now! His flashlight winked through the
blackness, played on the dial of his watch, and the blackness
fell again. It still lacked five minutes of the hour.

Strange how his mind worked! There was no speculation
as to precisely why she had demanded his presence
here, there was only intolerant, angry impatience because
she had done so. If it had not been for her, he could have
been making vital use of every one of these minutes! There
was nothing else to have hindered him! It had been almost
childishly easy to pull the wool over Gannet’s and the
Cadger’s eyes. He had let the Cadger and Gannet take
all the initiative—apparently. The two men had forced the
basement door, and then, going upstairs, had opened the
front door for him, which he, strolling down the street a
few minutes later, had entered as casually as he had already
done before on two occasions that night. After that, the
three of them, clustered around the mantel, the Cadger
manipulating the dial of the safe while Gannet held the
flashlight, had made the discovery in *common* that the safe
had been already looted. He had joined in the dismay,
chagrin and fury of his companions; he had joined in the
frantic search of desks and drawers, which he had inaugurated,
and which he had permitted to endure for a full half
hour. At the expiration of that time he had coded a terse
cipher report, and had handed it to the Cadger and Gannet
for delivery. They were to leave the house, himself last, a
few minutes apart in order to avoid arousing any attention;
and the Cadger and Gannet, obediently and unsuspiciously,
had gone. And he had remained!

It had been very simple. And there remained no trace
of the search that had been made. His eyes now, so
strangely accustomed to the darkness, reassured him on that
score. He had warned the men not to leave any traces
behind them!

He stirred uneasily in his chair. All this had been essential,
necessary, vital, in order to preserve his rôle of the
Rat from suspicion, and himself from subsequent and
quick disaster at the hands of the underworld; but the
minutes that were slipping away from him now, as he sat
here impotent, were priceless. Red Vallon and the Pippin
at any moment might run the Man with the Crutch to earth,
and his hands were tied. He had no concern with the
effect that the loss of the envelope might have had on this
Dayler; he was utterly indifferent to either the contents of
that envelope, or Dayler’s connection with it. It seemed to
plumb the very depths of irony that she appeared to labor
under the impression she might somehow, in this way,
arouse his better nature and touch some softer human chord
within him! He was concerned more with the connection
between that envelope and the Man with the Crutch; and
very much more with the contents of that handbag the Man
with the Crutch had carried away from Peters’ flat the night
before; and still more again with the Man with the Crutch
himself! The man had tricked him here tonight, slipped
through his fingers this time, but——

The front door was being opened. Billy Kane stood up,
shrugging his shoulders. He was in a truculent mood now,
impatient to be gone, prompted even now to go, restrained
only by the cooler counsel of common sense. She had the
whip-hand over him. A word from her, and he would be
in exactly the same case as if he had failed in the play he
had just made with the Cadger and Gannet. Voices reached
him; hers, quiet and controlled; a man’s, gruff, irritated,
sharply antagonistic.

And then the door from the hall opened, and the lights
in the library went on. Billy Kane’s eyes, passing swiftly
over the trim little figure in black across the room, met and
held those of a man who, startled now, stepped hastily back,
only to discover that his companion had quietly and swiftly
closed the door behind them.

The man’s lips were suddenly compressed and hard,
though the color had ebbed a little from his face.

“Please sit down over there at the table, Mr. Dayler,”
she requested softly.

“No!” exclaimed the man angrily. “I’ll do nothing of
the kind! What’s the meaning of this? You inveigled me
back here by hinting at some kind of story, and you run me,
in my own house, into the presence of a thug!”

She shook her head.

“It is true that I asked this—gentleman”—she hesitated
over the choice of the word, while her eyes in a sort of
mocking humor inventoried Billy Kane’s none too reputable
appearance and attire—“to come here; but it is
equally true that I have ‘some kind of a story’ that I think
will interest you. Bundy, you might try and *persuade* Mr.
Dayler to sit down!”

A grim smile came to Billy Kane’s lips. He was a pawn
too, like this Dayler; a pawn to be moved about at will by
this outrageously courageous, imperturbable, and, yes, in
spite of his own irritation, adorable little personage. He
turned his attention now to Dayler. The other could have
been no more than forty-five, yet his hair was not merely
prematurely gray, it was white, as a very old man’s is white;
his face, clean shaven, was kindly, though drawn now in
tense lines about the lips and forehead.

“Sit down!” Billy Kane ordered curtly. He was fingering
his automatic, playing up to the cue she had given him.

Dayler hesitated; and then abruptly stepped forward and
flung himself into a chair at the table, his back to the mantel.

“Well?” he challenged. “You got me out of my club on
the pretext of having something to say about a man named
Keats whom I once knew; but from the look of things it
appears to be much more likely that, with my own house
affording you protection, I am to be coolly robbed of my
watch, money, and such other valuables as you may be able
to lay your hands on!”

The slim little figure had slipped gracefully into a chair,
facing Dayler on the opposite side of the table. She
smiled curiously.

“But, at least, I will keep my promise first, and tell you
about this Keats,” she said. “Buck Keats, wasn’t it, Mr.
Dayler? And, as your servants may be back in another
half hour or so, we won’t waste any time in getting to the
story. It goes back about twenty years. At that time you
were in the Yukon, and pretty well away from civilization,
and you had been prospecting all summer with your partner,
a man quite a little older than you were, a man named
Laynton, Joe Laynton—Square Joe, they called him in that
country, and you ought to know why. He was a big man—in
his body and in his soul—a God’s nobleman, wasn’t he,
Mr. Dayler?”

Dayler was leaning forward, staring at her in a strange,
puzzled way.

“How do you know all this?” he demanded sharply.

She shook her head again.

“I may not be quite accurate in the little details,” she
went on. “You will overlook that. You and Laynton delayed
your return to Dawson too long that fall. You were
caught in bad weather. Your provisions ran low. Laynton
met with a nasty accident with an axe. In reaching up
above his head to cut some branches for fuel, the axe in
some way glanced off and inflicted a very serious and a very
ugly wound in his shoulder and chest. Things went from
bad to worse. For days Laynton could do nothing but lie
in his blood-soaked bunk. Provisions ran still lower. The
winter was settling down hard. You had already delayed
too long, and now Laynton couldn’t go. And yet you woke
up one morning to find his bunk empty.”

She paused. Billy Kane’s eyes, as he stood beside the
table, passed from one to the other. Her small gloved hand,
resting on the arm of her chair, had closed tightly; and into
Dayler’s face, grown haggard now, had come the look of a
dumb beast in hurt.

“On a sheet of paper on the table”—her voice was lower
now—“Laynton had left a message for you, the kind a
brave man would leave, explaining it all, and bidding you
take the one chance you had and go without him. And
piled on the table beside the sheet of paper was his money,
quite a few hundred dollars. You went to the door of the
shack, and you followed the tracks in the snow. And you
found him, and you found his revolver beside him. You
were already weak and half delirious yourself for lack
of food, and I think this crazed you and unhinged your
mind. You buried him in the snow, and picked up the revolver
and put it in your pocket. You took the paper and
the money and what food there was, and you ran, like the
madman you then were, away from the shack. I do not
know how long you wandered, nor how you existed, nor the
number of miles you put between yourself and the man who
had given his life for you; but eventually you were found
by a trapper, and the trapper’s name was Keats, Buck Keats,
a man with a very unsavory record. You spent some time
with Keats. You recovered your physical health, but your
mind remained affected. What had taken place was temporarily
a blank to you. Keats robbed you of Laynton’s
money and most of your own, and he stole that paper which
later on was to mean so much to you. He preferred, if anything
were ever known, that you, and not he, should be
credited with having stolen Laynton’s money, and he further
helped out that suggestion by getting you, after some
months, out of the country, by having you, in a word, disappear.
I imagine you were like a child in his hands. I
am sure you do not even know how you got there, but the
spring found you, quite normal in all respects save a broken
memory, working at anything you could get to do in Mexico,
and living there under the name of Dayler. Your
proper name is Forbes, John Forbes, isn’t it?”

Dayler’s head was forward on the table, and buried in his
hands. And Billy Kane, meeting her glance, read through
a sudden mist in the brown eyes, a bitter condemnation of
himself that he did not quite fully understand. He was
not the Rat, was he? He was only playing the Rat in a
fight for his life, and to win back a name of his own! How
should he understand!

“I am taking too long,” she said hurriedly. “Your
awakening came then. You read in a paper of the discovery
of a brutal and revolting crime in the Yukon—the murder
of Joe Laynton. The snow had melted, and a trooper of
the Royal Northwest Mounted Police had found the body.
If ever there was a *prima facie* case of murder it was there:
The axe wound, presupposing a quarrel, the blood-soaked
bunk, the final wound from a revolver shot, the absence
of any weapon left in the possession of the dead man, the
fact that he had apparently been stripped of his money,
and, most damning of all, that *you* had disappeared. It all
came back to you in a flash then; and, like the last straw,
adding to this array of evidence already against you, you
realized that you were now living under an *assumed* name.
The letter, written and signed by Laynton, that would have
saved you, was gone. You naturally did not know that it
had been stolen from you; you believed that you had lost it.
It would take a very brave man, and a man that was very
sure of himself indeed, to judge you for what you did then.
Without that paper, you, an innocent man, were already as
good as hanged if you gave yourself up. You continued to
live on as Dayler. Twenty years went by. You prospered.
You lived in all quarters of the globe. No breath of suspicion
ever associated John Dayler with John Forbes. But
you knew, because you knew the record of the Royal Northwest
Mounted, that the Men Who Never Sleep had not
forgotten the case, nor given over the search—and that
they never would. But at last, with the long lapse of years,
you felt yourself secure; and finally, a few years ago, you
came here and settled in New York.”

Dayler’s head came up. He passed his hand across his
eyes.

“How do you know all these things?” he asked again.

“Does it matter?” she answered. “They are true, aren’t
they?”

“Yes, they are true.” His voice was scarcely audible.

“It was Keats who found you, not the Royal Northwest
Mounted,” she continued. “Keats had long ago left the
Yukon, and had settled in Chicago—a drunkard. He was
an old man now, and down and out, living from hand to
mouth. I do not know how he found you; I only know
that after all these years he decided to make restitution,
though counting no doubt on you giving him some money in
return for the letter. However, be that as it may, two days
ago a man brought you a sealed envelope, which he said a
man named Keats, who had just died in Chicago, had confessed,
as he was dying, to have stolen from you, and that
Keats, as a last request, had asked that it be given back to
you. You opened the envelope, and found that it contained
Laynton’s letter. With this in your possession at
last you were absolutely secure, even in the very improbable
event of anything ever being done by the police. Why
then, after twenty years, should you voluntarily open the
case and disrupt the associations you had formed, and your
life as you had molded it in all that time? In any event, you
would consider long and carefully before taking so vital
and momentous a step. I do not know what your final
decision was, or even if you have come to one yet; but,
pending such a decision, you—” She motioned suddenly
across the table. “But first, will you please open the table
drawer in front of you, Mr. Dayler.”

He obeyed her, a sort of slow wonder in his movements.
The drawer, open, disclosed, among other supplies of stationery,
a pile of long, manila envelopes.

She motioned again—this time to the envelopes.

“You sealed the letter up again, in one of those envelopes
and put it away. And that brings us to to-night. I would
like to have you show that letter to”—she indicated Billy
Kane with a curt nod of her head—“this man here.”

For an instant Dayler did not move, then he stiffened
back in his chair, his eyes narrowed.

“I begin to see!” His jaws snapped hard together. “So
that’s what you are after! You propose to steal that paper
from me, and then blackmail me with it afterwards. It is
the letter that you want!”

“And perhaps you will get it for us?” she suggested
softly.

There was a grim sort of finality in Dayler’s short, unpleasant
laugh.

“*No!*” he said.

“Well then”—she still spoke softly—“suppose I were to
tell you that the Men Who Never Sleep have been advised
that Dayler and John Forbes are one, and that they are travelling
down from the Canadian West now, and that to-morrow
you will be arrested—*and that the letter is already
gone.*”

“Gone!” It came in a startled cry. Dayler half rose
from his chair, but dropped back again quite coolly, a sarcastic
smile suddenly on his lips. “Clever!” he said ironically.
“Quite a pretty little ruse to get me to indicate the
whereabouts of that paper! Perhaps you will try something
else now!”

“Bundy”—she turned calmly to Billy Kane—“open the
door of that little cupboard on the left of the mantel.”

Billy Kane stepped across the room in a sort of mechanical
obedience, and opened the leaded glass door—just as
Dayler, his self-assurance shaken now, jumped from his
chair, and rushed to the mantel.

“Perhaps”—her voice came calmly again from the table—“Mr.
Dayler prefers to look for himself, after all, Bundy!”

The man seemed to be fighting desperately for a grip upon
himself, and again his jaws snapped hard together.

“No!” he cried. “It’s another trick to get the combination
of that safe, to get me to open it! Do you think I’m a
fool to let that paper go now, even at the cost of my life,
after you have so kindly warned me that I am to be arrested
to-morrow? You would have done better not to have talked
quite so much!”

“Open the safe, Bundy!” she instructed evenly. “Watch
him, Mr. Dayler, and satisfy yourself.”

The dial whirled deftly, swiftly, under Billy Kane’s fingers.
The steel door swung open.

“*Gone!* My God, it is gone!” Dayler’s cry now was
broken, almost inarticulate. His head half buried in the
cupboard, he was staring into the empty safe. And then he
reeled back to the table, and stood there clawing at its edge,
gray to the lips, looking from one to the other.

“I have not quite finished my story,” she said quietly.
“It is quite true that Keats is dead; but he did not die two
or three days ago, he has been dead well over a month.
Nor did he die from natural causes. He was murdered.
There is a gigantic Crime Ring in this country, whose
headquarters are here in New York, that is as implacable
and heinous as it is far-spread and powerful. Keats, far
under the influence of liquor in a low dive one night and in
maudlin self-admiration at the idea of making restitution
to you, became drunkenly confidential, and his ‘confidant,’ as
it happened, was an old broken-down yegg of about his own
age, too old for active work at his sordid trade, a pensioner,
a hanger-on, as it were, of this Crime Ring, who made himself
as valuable as he could in any way that he could. He
reported the story. Keats was promptly murdered—not so
much for the sake of the paper, for that could easily have
been taken from him without resorting to murder, but that
there should be no Keats, with his change of heart, ready
to take the witness stand in your behalf, and therefore
render the paper of no value to them at all. The Crime
Ring did not, however, act with the same haste as far as
you were concerned. That is not their way! They watched
you, they became thoroughly conversant, intimately acquainted
with you, and your house, and your mode of living.
It was necessary that they should do so before the next
move could be decided upon. It was essential that you
should know that the document was still in existence, and it
was equally essential that you should know Keats was dead
and would therefore never be able to help you with his testimony.
The actual delivery of the document into your hands
was the really clever and finished play to make, for it not
only accomplished those ends naturally, simply, and without
possibility of alarming you, but your temporary possession
of the letter would also psychologically enhance its value in
your eyes and make the shock of its subsequent loss all the
greater—and you all the more *generous*! But unless they
could be sure of recovering it—if for instance you had a
safe-deposit vault where you would likely place it—that
plan would not do at all, and some other must be devised.
They satisfied themselves on that score, however; and the
discovery of that wall safe, and, incidentally, its combination,
made it as certain as anything is humanly certain that
they would know where to find the letter again when they
wanted it. And, finally, there was the police, the men of
the Royal Northwest Mounted, to be put upon your trail.
It was only when you stood facing arrest for murder, and
only when that paper was all that stood between you and
the hangman’s noose, that it was worth—well, perhaps you
will say what it is worth? That is the situation to-night,
Mr. Dayler.”

The man was rocking on his feet, still clawing at the edge
of the table for support. He seemed to have lost all self-control.

“Blackmail!” he said, through dry, twitching lips.

“And without any come-back!” She shrugged her shoulders.
“You are rated at a quarter of a million. What will
you give for that paper?”

Dayler did not answer at once. He reached out behind
him, felt for the arm of his chair, and sat down heavily.
He spoke at last, brushing his hand nervously across his
forehead.

“I—I’ll give—ten thousand dollars,” he said hoarsely.

“You do not place a very complimentary value on your
life,” she said evenly.

“Twenty.” His hand still nervously brushed at his
forehead. “Twenty-five.”

Her laugh rippled through the room. It was low and
coolly disdainful, but it seemed to Billy Kane, standing by
the mantel, tight-lipped, watching the scene, that it held,
too, a queer, underlying, tremulous note.

Dayler wet his lips.

“Thirty-five.”

“That paper is the only thing that will save you,” she
explained monotonously. “Is money any good to you—unless
you live?”

It was Dayler who laughed now, but it was hysterically.
His hands would not remain still. He had let his head
alone now, and, instead, kept laying his hands on the table
in front of him, by turns opening and clenching them, and
they left damp prints on the top of the table.

“Fifty—I—I’ll make it fifty thousand dollars,” he whispered.

She shook her head.

“My God!” It was a helpless cry. Dayler stretched out
his arms imploringly. “You don’t understand! It’s not
easy for me to get even that amount. I’m not worth what
you think I am. I—I’ve gone the limit.”

Her voice was still monotonous.

“Are you *sure*?” she asked.

“Give me—give me time, and—and I might make it a
little more.” There was no doubt of the agonized sincerity
in the man’s voice. “Perhaps—sixty.”

“No!” she said. She was on her feet now, her voice
breaking a little. “I want more than that—what it will perhaps
be harder for you to give than sixty thousand dollars.
I want your forgiveness for what I have just made you
suffer—for this scene here. I had reasons, reasons that I
believed justified me.” She glanced at Billy Kane. “I do
not think you would understand, and I am afraid you
would not see the justification in them even if I tried
to explain, and so”—she had drawn the manila envelope from the
bodice of her dress, and was holding it out to him—“I can
only ask you to forgive me.”

He took the envelope wonderingly, rising slowly to his
feet. He was like a man dazed. Stupefaction, incredulity,
a mighty relief, mingled their expressions in his face. He
turned the envelope over and over; and then, opening it,
extracted a folded piece of paper from within. And then
for the second time his laugh rang through the room, but
now it was a laugh like the laugh of a man that was insane,
high-pitched, sustained.

“Go on!” he cried wildly. “Go on with your hellish
tricks! What’s next?”

Billy Kane had involuntarily stepped closer to the table.
He drew in his breath sharply now, in an amazed, startled
way. Dayler was holding a *blank* piece of paper in his
hands!

And she, too, was leaning tensely forward. He glanced
at her. She turned her head toward him; and out of a
face that was as white as death, her dark eyes burned full
of fury and bitter condemnation, as they fixed upon him.

“I see it now!” Her lips were quivering with passion.
She steadied her voice with an obvious effort. “I gave you
credit for too much! I caught you at your work just a
second too late. I thought you were taking an envelope out
of the safe, whereas you were attempting to put one *in*!
The one you took out was already in your pocket. You
were checkmating your miserable accomplices unquestionably—but
it was for your own ends! You were playing
the traitor to them and to me at the same time. You meant,
with your cold-blooded cunning, to use that paper against
Mr. Dayler for your own private gain. You lied to me!
It wasn’t an empty safe to which you meant to introduce
the Cadger and Gannet; there was a little more finesse, it
clouded the issue a little more to put a dummy envelope
there. And it was so easy! Just one of those envelopes
taken from the drawer there, and a piece of paper slipped
inside!” She paused an instant, surveying him with merciless
eyes. “I hardly suppose that you would be fool enough not
to have already put it in a safer place than your pocket,
but if you still have it there—*hand it over!*”

Billy Kane did not move. Somehow he was not paying
undivided attention to her. It was the Man with the
Crutch who seemed to be standing there in her place, grinning
at him—only he could not see the man’s face. And
then, with a mental jerk, he pulled himself together. He
could not tell her that he had almost caught someone else
in the act of stealing the paper, but that the “some one
else” had got away. It would sound ridiculous! She
would laugh in his face! He could not tell her that, like a
thunderbolt falling upon him, there had just come the realization
that the Man with the Crutch had stolen the paper
after all. He could not explain the Man with the Crutch,
Peters’ murder, a hundred other things, so that she would
believe him, without telling her that he was Billy Kane.
And he could not tell her that he was Billy Kane! The old,
hard, ironical, mirthless smile came to his lips. He was—the
Rat!

“Maybe you’d like to search me!” he snarled insolently.

She turned to Dayler. The man had sunk into his chair
again and was smiling now, but in a horribly apathetic sort
of way.

“Mr. Dayler,” she said quietly, “it does not matter in the
least if he has got rid of it for the moment. I promise you
that paper will be in your possession again by to-morrow
morning.” She swung on Billy Kane, and pointed to the
door. “I think you heard what I said, Bundy”—her voice
was ominously low now, strained with menace—“I will
give you until to-morrow morning to produce that paper.
The alternative is the electric chair.”

She was still pointing to the door.

He shrugged his shoulders. What was the use! The
net was closing tighter about him, tighter than ever before,
and the strands now were like some devil’s tentacles that
would not let go. He swung on his heel abruptly, and
without a word left the room.

XIX—A HOLE IN THE WALL
======================

Once in the street, Billy Kane started hurriedly in the
direction of the Bowery. He hastened on, his mind
in a state of chaotic turmoil. Presently he turned
into the cross street, a block away from the Rat’s den. He
had until morning. It was thoughtful of her to have given
him that much time! The Man with the Crutch had the
paper, of course. Red Vallon and the Pippin had had since
noon to find the man. If the man were not found by morning
the rôle of the Rat would be at an end. There was something
damnably ironical in that! He had wanted the rôle
of the Rat to end. And now he didn’t want it to end on account
of this Man with the Crutch, who was disastrously
likely to bring that end about! He needed the rôle now
more than ever in order to use it against this Man with the
Crutch, because the other held the knowledge that would
enable him, Billy Kane, to cast off the rôle forever; yet if
he didn’t find the man, and even before morning, the rôle,
and quite as certainly forever, would be cast off for him!

He swept his hand across his eyes. His brain seemed to
be working in some silly, sing-song cycle, and yet it was
quite logical. And then his shoulders squared. For the
night at least he was still the Rat, and the underworld was
at the Rat’s beck and call. If Red Vallon and the Pippin
could not find the Man with the Crutch, he would unleash
the underworld to help them pick up the scent. First,
however, he must get in touch with Red Vallon. But that
should not be difficult, for Red Vallon, whether he had had
any success or not, was certain to make a report before
the night was very much older, and—

Billy Kane halted suddenly, and turned around, as a low
voice hailed him. A man was hurrying along behind him.
He smiled grimly. A little luck, at least, seemed to be
breaking for him at the start. Here was Red Vallon now.
Billy Kane, in apparent indifference, started on again in the
direction of the den.

“Hello!” he said gruffly, as the gangster caught up with
him and fell into step alongside.

Red Vallon chuckled low.

“We got him!” he said. There was hoarse elation in the
gangster’s voice.

A fierce uplift swept in an almost overmastering surge
upon Billy Kane. His answer, however, was little more
than a grunt of approval.

“You have—eh?” he said.

“You bet your life!” exclaimed the gangster jubilantly.
“You know Marlot’s saloon? Well, the guy lives next door
in that old motheaten shack. Some place! The police have
been leery of it for a long while. There’s mostly a bunch
of slick-fingers hang out there. Get me? He’s got the back
room—used to be the kitchen, I guess. He’s a smooth one,
all right! He’s got a private entrance of his own when he
doesn’t want to go in or out by the front; the old back door
opens right into his room from the yard. Savvy?”

Billy Kane nodded his head shortly in affirmation. He
took a cigarette from his pocket, and lighted it nonchalantly.

“But, say”—the elation in the gangster’s voice was growing
still more pronounced—“that ain’t all! The Pippin
spotted his nibs through the window from the yard a few
minutes ago. Say, what do you think, Bundy! The cripple
hobbles across the room, and pulls the old washstand away
from the wall, and lifts up an innocent-looking piece of
the wall paper that you’d think was stuck down for fair.
The Pippin had only a rip in the window shade to see
through, and he couldn’t see very well, but he could see a
dinky little hole there in the wall, and a satchel inside, and
the cripple takes something out of his pocket and slips it into
the hole, and smooths the wall paper back again. The Pippin
beat it out of there then, and found me, and he’s just
wised me up.”

It was quite dark here on the street, but even so Billy
Kane kept his face turned slightly away from the gangster.
The blood was racing in one mad, ungovernable flood of
feverish excitement through his veins. It seemed somehow
as though a weight that had been unendurable, an
actual physical burden beyond his strength to bear, had
suddenly been lifted from his shoulders. The Man with
the Crutch! From the prior events of the evening, from
what Red Vallon had just said, there was no possibility
that the Pippin had stumbled upon *another* man with a
crutch. This was the one, without question, without room
for a single shadow of a doubt. And he as good as had the
man now! He flicked the ash from his cigarette with his
forefinger, and nodded curtly again.

“Figure it out for yourself,” said Red Vallon, a sort of
eager self-complacency in his voice. “Of course, the man
had nothing to do with that murder last night, but the
police know he was around there lugging a satchel, and you
add to that the crook dump where he lives, and a guy that
has a nifty little hiding place in the wall with a satchel in
it—and where does he get off? I ain’t throwing any bouquets
at myself, Bundy, but I told you I’d pull something
good this trip, and I guess you got to hand it to me for delivering
the goods. Pipe this, Bundy! The police think
the Pippin’s a stool-pigeon anyhow. Well, five minutes ago
I sent the Pippin to tip off the police, while I beat it up
here to put you wise. Get me? With all that stuff against
the guy, he ain’t got a hope. He goes up for that murder,
and that lets you out, Bundy.”

Billy Kane stood still. They had reached the cellarlike
entrance to the Rat’s den, but he made no move to descend
the short, cavernous stairway. A little way up the block
the street lamp seemed suddenly to be swirling around and
around in swift, lightning-like irregular flashes. The blood
that had rushed hotly, madly through his veins but an instant
before was cold and sluggish now, as though some icy
tourniquet were at work upon his heart, stilling its action.

“That lets you out, Bundy.” The words mocked and
jeered at him. Let him out! It was ruin, disaster, death—unless
in some way he could forestall this move of Red
Vallon. He fought desperately for control of himself.
That envelope, her threat, his own desire to get at the man,
were like issues fading into the background. He knew
that the man *was* the murderer of Peters, and if the police,
whether they caught the man or not, found what he believed
they would find in that satchel—some at least of those
rubies from the Ellsworth vault—then Red Vallon, this man
standing here, who with horrible callousness, but equally
with the genuine motive of protecting the Rat, was ironically
planning, while believing him innocent, to send the guilty
man to his death, would know absolutely beyond question
that the Rat had *not* killed Peters last night, that last
night’s alibi was a lie, and that he, Billy Kane, was the man
in the mask, at whose throat Red Vallon and his gang
asked nothing better than to hurl themselves like a pack
of starving wolves!

To get rid of Red Vallon! Any excuse—anything! To
get rid of the man—without an instant’s delay!

He shoved out his hand to the gangster.

“I won’t forget this, Red!” he said earnestly. “Take it
from me, I won’t forget it! But you beat it now, Red.
That Dayler game went wrong to-night—the Cadger’ll tell
you about it, if you see him—and I haven’t got a minute.
See—Red?”

“Sure! All right!” agreed the gangster heartily. “Well,
so long, Bundy!”

Billy Kane shook hands again—with a grip that was
hard and eloquent.

“So long, Red!” he said.

The gangster turned away. Billy Kane dove down the
stairs, opened the door of the den, locked it behind him,
darted across the room in the darkness, and in another minute,
crawling through the tunnel from the secret door,
gained the shed and the street at the rear. He ran breathlessly
now. What did it matter if any one saw him! Time
alone was all that counted! If he could not beat the police
in the race to that room he was as good as dead already!

His mind worked swiftly, incisively, as he ran. The
Pippin had had, say, ten minutes’ start, but it was only a
few blocks to that house next door to Marlot’s saloon, and
it would take a little while at least for the police to make
their preparations before acting on the Pippin’s information.
The chances lay with him, Billy Kane. The man
might, or might not, be there. It did not matter in so far as
the main issue was concerned. It was that handbag and its
contents that were the vital factor now—and, yes, if he got
that, the envelope too—they would both almost certainly
be in the same hiding place—inasmuch as that hiding place
was a crafty one. If the man *were* there, then it seemed
as though irony would have piled itself on irony to-night,
for he would automatically for the time being become the
*ally* of the man with whom he asked only a deadly reckoning!
He did not want the police to get the Man with the
Crutch. Whatever the story the man might tell to account
for his connection with Peters, it was certain that he would
not be fool enough to tell the truth about the murder of
David Ellsworth! And if the police had the Man with the
Crutch in custody, then he, Billy Kane, was irrevocably
barred from that reckoning which he meant to have.

He had been perhaps five minutes. He was trying the
door now of a wretched, two-story frame building, that
hugged, as its right-hand neighbor, a saloon that was almost
as disreputable in appearance as itself. The door was unlocked.
He stepped inside, and, feeling his way in the
darkness, but still moving rapidly, passed down a narrow
hall. By the sense of touch he was aware that there were
rooms on only one side, the left-hand side, and that there
were two of them. He brought up abruptly against a door
now that made the end of the passage; the door of the
rear room of the house obviously, and obviously, therefore,
the “home” of the Man with the Crutch. It was silent
everywhere in the house. He smiled a little grimly. He
knew the place well enough by reputation to account for
that silence. It was a crooks’ nest, a crooks’ lodging house,
and, being night, the tenants had gone to work!

He slipped his mask over his face, and rapped on the
door. There was no answer. He rapped again; and then
his skeleton keys came into play. The man had obviously
returned here from Dayler’s to get rid of that envelope,
though probably not at once, for it must have been then
that the Pippin had seen him; but now apparently he had
gone out again.

The door yielded upon the trial of the third key. Billy
Kane flung it open, stepped inside, and his flashlight played
through the blackness. As he had expected, the room was
empty. He locked the door again, and crossed quickly to
the rear door. This he found opened inward. He looked
out. This took a few seconds, but an accurate knowledge
of his surroundings was worth even more than that should
he be caught here. The door opened on practically a level
with the ground; and it had an old-fashioned latch, with
heavy iron handles, loop-shaped, below the thumb-pieces.
He closed the door, and bolted it, smiling appreciatively
as he noted that the bolt moved both readily and silently,
as though in carefully oiled grooves.

His flashlight played around the room again now. The
window shade was drawn. He located the washstand—and
frowned suddenly in perplexity. A crutch leaned
against the washstand. His face cleared the next instant.
Why shouldn’t the man have an extra one? Perhaps he
had to buy them in pairs, though he used only one at a
time.

Billy Kane stepped swiftly to the washstand, and, preparatory
to pulling it away from the wall, lifted up the
crutch—and the next instant was examining the latter critically.
It was extremely heavy. He whistled low under
his breath. It was not only a crutch, it was a murderous
weapon! The shaft of the thing, though painted a wood
color, was solid iron! He set it down and pulled out the
washstand; then, picking up the crutch again, he slashed
it along the line of the wall where the washstand had
been. A large piece of the wall paper came away, disclosing
a neatly constructed little hiding place, some two
feet long by a foot in depth. A queer, twisted smile was
on Billy Kane’s lips. In there lay only two articles—but
they were a manila envelope, and a small handbag.

He snatched up the envelope, and tore it open. A glance
at the faded writing was enough; it was Joe Laynton’s
letter of twenty years ago. He stuffed it into his pocket;
and, almost more eagerly than before, reached into the
aperture again, and took out the handbag. But now his
fingers seemed to have gone clumsy with excitement as he
fumbled with the catches. No, it was locked. Well, his
steel jimmy would soon settle that! He pried the bag open,
and stood staring at its contents. And the contents were not
rubies! And then he laughed a little, as he lifted out and
examined a package of banknotes. It did not matter, did it—the
rubies or the money! It linked the Man with the
Crutch with the Ellsworth murder just the same. This was
the money, and apparently intact, that had been in the Ellsworth
vault; the paper bands pinned around the packages,
and marked in red ink with the amount in each package,
had been pinned there and marked by himself!

It was strange, very strange! He restored the steel
jimmy to his pocket, and attempted to fasten the bag with
its end catches, but the frame had been bent in prying the
bag open, and the catches would not work easily. It was
very strange! How had this Man with the Crutch, so intimately
connected with Peters’ and David Ellsworth’s
murders, come also to be so intimately conversant with the
Crime Trust’s game with Dayler?

His mind kept striking off at tangents, as he struggled
with the bag. He could not carry a bag that would gape
open! Once he got it to the den, that hole in the flooring,
that he had thought so futile a reward for his search, would
not be so futile after all. The bag would fit very nicely,
and very securely, in there! Iron crutches weren’t usually
made in *pairs*. That was queer, too! Was it an iron
crutch that was the blunt instrument that had caused Peters’
death—and David Ellsworth’s? Why had the man used
that dummy envelope to-night, and—

His flashlight was out. Footsteps were creeping cautiously
along the hall outside. The police! The bag would
have to do as it was now; but at least one catch was partially
fastened. He tucked it under his arm, and for the
fraction of a second, while he thrust the flashlight back
into his pocket, he stood still; and then, a sudden, curious
smile on his lips, he reached out and picked up the crutch
again, and stole silently over to the rear door. The smile
was lost as his lips thinned into a straight line. Yes, they
were already here too! Well, the crutch might perhaps
still serve the same purpose!

His ear to the panel, a whisper reached him:

“Put your shoulder to it, Jerry, and push with me, when
I get the bar in the crack of the door.”

“All right,” another voice whispered. “The others will
have been around at the front long ago. Are you ready?”

The door creaked under a sudden pressure; and as suddenly
from the wall at the edge of the door, Billy Kane
reached out and released the bolt. The door swung violently
open, and two figures, their balance lost, sprawled and
staggered into the room. And in a flash Billy Kane, as he
leaped through the doorway, snatched at the door, slammed
it shut, jabbed the crutch, as a lock-bar, through the iron
loop of the door handle, its end extending well over the
frame of the doorway—and sprinted across the yard.

There was a yell, and a battering thud on the door behind
him, as he reached a fence at the end of the yard, swung
himself to the top and dropped to the lane beyond. And
then, as he ran, there came a crash of broken glass. They
had evidently forsaken the door for the window!

For a hundred yards Billy Kane ran at top speed along
the lane; and then, removing his mask, the bag concealed
under his coat, he emerged into the intersecting street, and
dropped into a casual and quiet stride.

He smiled queerly.

They would be looking for a cripple who, having sacrificed
his crutch to save his life, could at best but limp and
hobble painfully along!

XX—THE CAT’S-PAW
================

It was black with a blackness that seemed to possess
tangible substance, as though it wrapped itself around
and enveloped the body with a pall whose very texture
could be felt. It was unknown ground, and the foot
reached out uncertainly, wary of where next it might find
lodgment, and the hands stretched out, as a blind man’s
hands stretch out, feeling for hidden things through space.
It was dank and musty, and in the nostrils was an earthy,
cavernous smell; and there was a silence that seemed
guarded by the very bowels of the earth itself. And in the
silence and the darkness peril lurked—a peril that merged
courage into foolhardiness for one who would invite it,
and set the nerves on edge, and kept the muscles taut like
tight-strung bow strings, and stimulated the senses into
abnormal activity until the eyes peopled the darkness with
phantoms that were not there, and the ears created sounds
that did not exist.

Billy Kane’s face, under the mask, was drawn in hard,
strained lines; he raised his right hand, that gripped his
automatic, and drew the back of his hand across his forehead.
Foolhardiness! Yes, that was it! He was a fool to
come here, to take the risk! He knew Wong Yen’s by reputation
as one of the most infamous Chinese underground
dives in the Bad Lands; he remembered it concretely from
that incident of a few nights ago when Laverto had had
young Clancy drugged here. Was that only a few nights
ago? He shook his head. Since those few nights ago he no
longer measured the passing of time by normal standards;
he had lived all his life since those few nights ago!

He moved forward through the blackness, cautiously,
silently. Where was the next wall? Or was there any
wall at all? His hands, reaching out as far as they could
stretch, touched nothing. This was below the ordinary
cellar level; it was a sub-cellar, a chain of sub-cellars.
How many men had entered here, yes, and women too—and
disappeared? A murder hole! And up above him
somewhere was New York—millions of people, taxicabs,
crowded sidewalks, theatres, and, yes, churches, places where
people worshipped. Incredible!

He had heard of places like this, and so had the public;
and the public smiled in self-sufficient tolerant amusement.
Well, why not, where even the police were ignorant!
Everybody admitted that the Chinese quarter was full of
ridiculously imitated catacombs perhaps; but what did it
matter if in a block of houses the inmates burrowed from
cellar to cellar like rats, and built mysterious doors and
passageways, and threw about everything the disguise of
wicked and shuddering things—when it was only disguise!
It was good for business. The gape-wagons and the slumming
conductors profited and so did the Celestials; and
the slummers, satiated with thrills, the women drawing their
skirts closely around their silk-clad ankles, the men surreptitiously
feeling in their pockets to assure themselves that
their watches and valuables were still in their possession, got
their money’s worth. Everybody was satisfied, and the
public smiled.

Billy Kane’s fingers tightened on the butt of his automatic.
Back somewhere behind him in the darkness a Chinaman
still guarded a door that neither slummer nor police had ever
entered; but the guard was a gagged and huddled thing on
the floor now, still senseless probably from the blow on the
head from this same pistol butt. There had been no other
way. The man was not far behind—just at the entrance
so skilfully disguised by an ordinary coal bin. Was there
still another guard in front of him? More than one? If
he only dared to use his flashlight for a second! A fool to
come here where, if caught, he would not have a chance of
escape, was he? Well, perhaps—only there was a man’s
life at stake.

Perhaps he was already too late! Red Vallon had said,
though, that there wasn’t any hurry about “bumping off”
the Wop, that they had him safe in here “with his bean
tapped to keep him quiet until they finished the rest of the
game.” It was less than an hour ago that Red Vallon had
said that, and it was only eight o’clock now, and the “rest
of the game,” to give it every chance of success, would not
be played out for still another hour yet, not before old Barloff
had closed up for the night. He wasn’t too late, he
couldn’t be too late—there was a man’s life at stake: only
an ex-convict’s, a man out from Sing Sing but a few hours
ago. Just a prison bird! But the Wop was innocent this
time and——

Was that a sound there from somewhere in front of him?
Billy Kane stood still. Nothing! No; a dozen sounds that
were not really sounds at all. His ears were full of uncanny
noises.

The back cellar entrance beneath a Chinese tea-shop, and
after that the rear of the coal bin! Billy Kane was laughing
to himself, but the laugh was void of mirth. There was a
grim, horrible sort of irony about it all. Believing him,
Billy Kane, to be the Rat, Red Vallon had *reported* the accomplishment
of the first stage in the execution of the plan
with gusto. After that, deft questioning had elicited from
the gangster the secret of this entrance to Wong Yen’s, and
then luck, and then the guard taken unawares. The guard
could hardly be blamed. The guard naturally enough, had
little reason to suspect the approach to that coal bin of any
one who had not the “open sesame” to what was beyond,
and he had been lurking there where the boards of the bin
ingeniously slid apart, and had shown not the slightest uneasiness
at his, Billy Kane’s, presence until it was too late.
Then there had been a steep, narrow passage downward,
and then—*this*. Beyond, near or far, he did not know
which, these sub-cellars hid the real thing that the so-called
underground Chinatown above counterfeited, hid debauchery
and vice, and cradled crime, and here the poppy
reigned, and the dregs of humanity skulked fearful of the
sunlight.

“They had flung the Wop into a corner and left him
until they got around to finishing the job,” Red Vallon had
explained callously. The Wop, therefore, must be somewhere
near at hand. But he, Billy Kane, could see nothing,
hear nothing, feel nothing.

His physical faculties strained and alert, subconsciously
Billy Kane’s mind was milling over that conversation with
the gangster of an hour ago, and upon him, in spite of his
own present peril, there came a cold and merciless fury. It
was more to-night than the ordinary moral obligation, more
than the mere responsibility to render abortive the crimes
that came to his knowledge through his tenure of this rôle
of the Rat, that was actuating him now; it was the callous,
damnable brutality of the scheme that, linked with its hellish
ingenuity, seemed to outrage every instinct of manhood
he possessed, and fired him with an overmastering desire,
not only to frustrate the crime itself, but to take toll in a
personal, physical way, if he could, from those who were
enacting it.

It was one of those plans, conceived by the Rat, that
waited patiently for its hour of maturity to arrive, and
then was executed and carried through to its fulfilment by
the minions of that Directorate of crime of which the Rat
appeared to be the most versatile and vicious member, but
without the Rat, necessarily, taking any further active part
in it. And he, Billy Kane, who fate had seen fit to mold
with features that were evidently a counterpart of that
master rogue’s, who was for the moment accepted and
obeyed as the Rat, and was supposed to be the originator of
the plan itself, could not very well ask Red Vallon, for
instance, for details! Therefore he did not know all the
details, but he knew enough!

He had wormed quite a little out of Red Vallon without
the gangster suspecting anything more than that he,
Billy Kane as the Rat, was taking particular pains to see that
the stage was properly set, and that the possibility of failure
was reduced to its absolute minimum. It was very simple.
It required simply a man’s life—the murder of the Wop.

He knew something of the Wop, for the Wop’s story
was common property. The Wop, in the old days, five
years ago, before he had gone “up the river” for a “job”
in the line which was his particular specialty, was known
both as a tough customer and as one of the cleverest “box-workers”
in the safe-cracking profession. The testimony of
one Ivan Barloff had been mainly responsible for the Wop’s
capture and conviction, and the Wop had travelled to Sing
Sing with a thirst for vengeance gnawing at his soul, and
with the threat quivering on his twisted lips that he would
get even with the other when he got out again. Nor had
the five years of prison hell seemed to assuage any of the
Wop’s desire to square accounts! He had repeated his
threat many times in prison, and he had been indifferent as
to who heard him. The feud was no secret to the police.
That was the gist of it.

As for Ivan Barloff, Billy Kane was somewhat more
precisely informed, both because the time he, Billy Kane,
had spent on the East Side in carrying out David Ellsworth’s
philanthropies could hardly have been passed without
at least a hearsay acquaintanceship with so well-known
a character in that quarter as Ivan Barloff, and because,
too, Red Vallon, in that last interview, had seemed to take
a malicious delight in exploiting his own vastly more intimate
knowledge of the little old Russian of many parts. On
his own account he knew, naturally, only what the public
knew and believed about the man: Barloff was a sort of
father to the flock, a very numerous flock, of Poles and
Russians of the uneducated and illiterate class. He was all
things to them. He was counselor and confidant, he was
money lender, he was entrusted with what money they had
as savings for investment, he wrote their letters, he collected
their rents, being a kind of owners’ sub-agent, and he lived
amongst them, alone, in a little old frame house that was
sandwiched in among the ramshackle tenements that housed
so many of his compatriots in that section. In appearance
he was a very dirty and unkempt old man, and ostensibly
he was as honest as he was dirty—and he was accepted as
such by public, police and compatriots alike.

Red Vallon, however, had thrown quite a different light
on the other’s character. The man possessed the craft and
cunning of a devil, and a devil’s inhumanity. He had fed
like a leech on the guileless trust of his ignorant clientele.
He had made money—a great deal of money. Thousands
were stored away in his rickety old safe, that was so rickety
it disarmed suspicion; and, preserving his secret, he patronized
no bank, but covered his constantly increasing fortune
with the guise of squalor and poverty, which he kept
on a level scarcely, if any, above that of those he filched.

The man was a miser of the most sordid and cold-blooded
sort. A nickel was not too mean a thing to scheme
for, if by any means he could lay his hands upon it. Also,
the man had other remunerative relationships, very carefully
selected relationships, with others than those with
whom he openly associated. To a select few of the underworld
he acted at times as “fence,” receiving such stolen
goods as he could readily dispose of among his compatriots,
who, innocent of any guilty knowledge, bought the articles
eagerly at a greatly reduced figure, imagining, if they stopped
to imagine at all, that the articles represented unredeemed
pledges on money loaned here and there by Barloff.

Billy Kane’s lips twisted in a thin smile there in the darkness.
It was a deal such as that, so he had gleaned from
Red Vallon, that had originated the feud between Ivan
Barloff and the Wop. The Wop had brought some of the
proceeds of one of his predatory safe-breaking raids to
Barloff, and a bargain was concluded between them; but
in some way that night Barloff became aware that the
police had followed the Wop to his, Barloff’s, house. Barloff
was taking no chances. He promptly cleared his own
skirts at the expense of five years in Sing Sing for the
Wop. He scurried to the nearest police station with the
stolen articles, and with unctuous righteousness explained
that he was suspicious as to how the Wop had come by
them, but had bought them to pull the wool over the Wop’s
eyes so as to enable him, Barloff, to communicate with
the police, and give the police a chance to make an investigation.
Barloff got away with it, and the Wop got his ride
“up the river.” It was perhaps not unnatural that the Wop
had sworn revenge, and had made no secret of it!

Billy Kane’s twisted smile deepened. It was all very
simple. It involved simply the taking of a man’s life—the
Wop’s—which was a very small matter in the eyes of
that Crime Trust which was running rampant now through
the underworld. Also, the Rat was a man of large vision.
He builded ahead and waited patiently. Barloff was known
by the Rat to have a great deal of money in ready cash.
It would not have been a very difficult matter perhaps to
have robbed the old Russian at any time, but there was
always the certainty of an investigation as an aftermath,
and investigations sometimes had a tendency to lead in
awkward directions. Much better, therefore, and much
safer, that the trend of the investigation, and its limits,
should be fixed in advance—by the Rat. And so they had
waited for the Wop to regain his freedom.

They had not waited five years, however, for the scheme
probably had not occurred to the Rat until perhaps a few
months ago. But now the Wop being free at last, the
Wop’s first act of freedom was to be made to appear that
of putting his oft-repeated threat into execution. Barloff
was to be lured out of his house on some specious pretext,
the house would then be entered, and a forged note in the
Wop’s scrawl, carefully prepared beforehand, jeering in its
tone and to the effect that the Wop would have got Barloff
as well as Barloff’s cash if the latter had not been fortunate
enough to have been out of the house at the time, would be
left pinned, say, to the wall. There would not be much
room for investigation! The Wop, being dead, would not
make any defense. The Wop would never be found;
and as the natural thing for the Wop to do was to disappear
after leaving his defiant message behind him, who
was to imagine that such disappearance was not of the
Wop’s own free will and design? The Wop was the cat’s-paw!

The blackness was absolute. Billy Kane was feeling out
again with both hands. He seemed to have lost in a measure
even his sense of direction. He was either in a very
much wider passage than that through which he had entered,
or else the excavation around him was actually itself one of
the sub-cellars. If he could but get the touch of a wall
again to guide him! Yes, here it was! It swerved sharply,
almost at right angles, to the left. He followed it, moving
slowly, scarcely more than a few inches at a time.

It was strange how his brain worked on ceaselessly, seemingly
oblivious to his immediate surroundings, seemingly
concerned with things extraneous to his present danger!
And yet that was not altogether true. One thing had a
bearing on another; and one thing led to another. It was
like the cogs of wheels fitting into each other as they turned
around and around. This tenure of the Rat’s rôle, that was
no less dangerous, was apposite. Where was the Rat?
While he, Billy Kane, fought to free himself from the
stigma of David Ellsworth’s murder, while he fought for
his own good name and his own life on that score, this rôle
of the Rat, while it afforded temporary sanctuary from the
police, forced him into perils that——

His lips compressed tightly. He had stumbled over something
soft and yielding. His outstretched hand, though it
saved him, slipped along the wall and came up against
another wall, again at right angles, but this time where,
obviously, the walls made a corner. He stooped down,
and felt over the obstruction that his foot had encountered.
It was a man’s body. It moved now, and writhed a little
at his touch. It was the Wop almost certainly, the Wop
“flung into a corner” out of the way like a sack of meal.
But the man was still alive. Thank God for that! He
had been afraid that the initiatory stage of the work might
have been only too well accomplished.

His hands felt upward along the bound body, and touched
the other’s face, and felt the cloth gag twisted and knotted
around the man’s mouth. His hands felt still a little higher
up—to the close-cropped prison hair. It was the Wop
beyond question. He took a knife from his pocket.

“Don’t make a sound!” he breathed, as he removed the
gag, and cut away the cords from around the other’s feet
and hands. “You’re the Wop, aren’t you?”

The man’s affirmation was almost inarticulate. Billy
Kane slipped his arm around the other’s shoulders and lifted
the man into a sitting posture. He had a flask of brandy
in his pocket, brought purposely for the Wop’s benefit, and
he held the flask now to the other’s lips. The stimulant
seemed to inject new life and strength into the man.

“Who—who are you?” the Wop asked weakly.

“Don’t talk!” Billy Kane cautioned. “The one thing to
do is to get out of here now. Do you think you can walk at
all?”

“Yes,” the man answered. “I—I’m not as bad as all
that.”

“Try, then,” said Billy Kane.

The progress was slow, pitifully slow. The Wop, despite
his own assertion, was both weak and cramped, and at first
he was almost a dead weight, as he clung with an arm flung
around Billy Kane’s shoulders; but gradually he appeared to
get back his strength. They stopped every two or three
yards both to rest and listen. Again Billy Kane held the
flask to the other’s lips. Again they went on.

“My Gawd, it’s—it’s black in here!” the Wop mumbled,
and shivered a little.

Billy Kane made no answer. He was taking care now
not to lose touch with the walls. The ground under foot
was beginning to rise steeply. He caught his foot and almost
fell over a huddled thing on the earth—the Chinese guard.
A certain murk seemed to be penetrating the blackness.
He stopped again, felt out in front of him, and listened intently
for a moment, and then he placed his lips to the
Wop’s ear.

“There’s an opening here into a coal bin,” he whispered.
“Get down on your hands and knees and crawl through.
Straight across from the coal bin there’s a short flight of
steps up to a door that opens on the alley. We’ll make a
break for it now. Keep close to me. And don’t make a
noise. There’s a cellar stairway to the room above, and
the room above isn’t likely to be empty! Understand?”

“Yes,” said the Wop.

“Come on, then,” said Billy Kane.

He crawled through the opening with the Wop at his
heels, and rose to his feet, then gripping at the Wop’s arm,
he stole across the cellar, gained the steps and, an instant
later, stepped out into a dark and narrow alleyway. He
did not pause here; he hurried the Wop down the alleyway,
and halted only when within a few yards of the first intersecting
street: just far enough back in the alleyway to keep
well beyond the radius of light from the adjoining thoroughfare.

Neither man spoke for a moment. After the silence of
that death trap behind them, the roar of an elevated train
from Chatham Square near by seemed to Billy Kane a din
infernal, and greater only by a little than the rattle of
wheels, the clatter of horses’ hoofs, and the multitudinous
noises of ordinary traffic. He could just make out the
Wop’s features. One side of the man’s face was streaked
with clotted blood stains; but apart from that the Wop
now showed little outward evidence of the attack that had
been made upon him. He stood there now, quite steady on
his feet, his eyes studying Billy Kane’s mask in a puzzled
way.

“Say,” said the Wop, a sudden huskiness in his voice. “I
owe you something. What’s your name?”

Billy Kane shook his head.

“Never mind about that,” he said quietly. “There’s
something else that’s of vastly greater importance so far
as you are concerned. Do you know why they got after you
to-night, or who it was that got you in that trap?”

“No,” said the Wop.

“I’ll tell you, then,” said Billy Kane. “It was because
you threatened to get even with Ivan Barloff.”

“Barloff!” The Wop’s fists clenched, and he stepped
closer to Billy Kane. “So it was Barloff, was it? He must
have had the fear of God in him, then, to make him spend
any money—even to hire thugs! Barloff, eh? Well, I’m
going to see Barloff pretty soon!”

“No, you’re not!” said Billy Kane crisply. “That’s
exactly why I am telling you this. It isn’t Barloff. It’s a
crowd that knew of your threat, and *they’re* getting after
Barloff, and framing you up for the job. They’re planting
a little evidence against you in Barloff’s place in exchange
for Barloff’s cash, and with you finished off via the murder
route, they expect the police to throw up their hands after
a while and admit you’ve made a clean get-away—with the
swag.”

The Wop’s face was close to Billy Kane’s, and the Wop’s
face was suddenly pinched and white. He touched his lips
with his tongue. And then, as suddenly, the blood flushed
back, and he thrust out his under jaw truculently.

“They would, eh—the dirty swabs!” he snarled. “Who
are they? I’ll make ’em crawl for this!”

Billy Kane smiled grimly.

“No, I guess not!” he said softly. “You’re very much
better out of it. But I promise you they’ll not get away
with it if you’ll do what you are told now.”

The Wop knuckled his forehead in a perplexed way.

“What do you want me to do?” There was a lingering
sullen note in the Wop’s voice.

“Just this,” said Billy Kane quietly. “I want you to get
out from under. You’re not looking for another five years
in Sing Sing, are you?”

The Wop flinched. He drew his knuckles again across
his eyes.

“No,” he said hoarsely.

Billy Kane nodded.

“Quite so!” he said calmly. “Well, then, it is simply
a question of establishing an alibi for you that will be
absolutely hole-proof from now until, say, midnight. Where
can you go?”

“I know Gus Moray, that runs the Silver King saloon,”
said the Wop. “He’d swear to it, all right.”

“Yes; whether you were there or not!” said Billy Kane
dryly. “That’s not good enough! If anything breaks wrong
to-night you’ve got to have something better than an alibi
in a dive like that to stack up against what will look like
open-and-shut evidence against you. You’ve got to get on a
higher plane than that.”

The Wop shook his head.

“I ain’t been a very regular church attendant,” he said,
with a sickly grin, “and——” He stopped short, and suddenly
leaned toward Billy Kane. “Say, would a minister
do?”

“It would be an improvement,” admitted Billy Kane, with
a smile.

“Well, I got it, then!” announced the Wop. His hesitancy
had vanished. He seemed eager, almost anxious now. The
iron of five years of prison was evidently far too poignant
a memory to risk it being turned into reality again. “I
got it! There’s a guy named Mister Claflin that ran one
of them mission joints down around where I uster hang
out before I went up. He’s all right! He’s the only soul
on God’s earth came near me when I was doing my spaces.
Twice he came up to Sing Sing to see me. He didn’t
hold no prayer meeting with me neither, but he’s got a grip
in his hand that makes a fellow feel he ain’t all dirt. He’s
white, he is!”

“Do you know where he lives?” inquired Billy Kane
crisply.

“No,” said the Wop, and was suddenly downcast. “And
he ain’t at the mission any more, ’cause he told me he’d got
a regular layout uptown somewhere.”

“No matter!” said Billy Kane cheerfully. “Any drug
store has a directory. You can find the address there. Got
any money?”

The Wop felt through his pockets, and the red flared
into his face again.

“Frisked!” he flung out savagely.

Billy Kane handed the other a banknote.

“Spend this on the first taxi you can grab,” he said.
“You’ve got to get there as soon as you can, and you’ve
got to keep under cover getting there. If Mr. Claflin is not
at home, wait in his house for him. Don’t let them sidetrack
you. And make it a point of establishing the hour you
get there, either with the minister himself, or whoever happens
to be at home. And stay there until midnight anyhow.
Understand?”

“Yes,” said the Wop.

“Well, then,” said Billy Kane, “beat it!”

The Wop hesitated.

“Say, ain’t I going to know who you are?” he blurted
out. “Say, I ain’t anything but a crook, just a damned
crook with a prison record, but—but I’d like to pay what I
owe. Ain’t you going to give me the chance?”

“You’ve got it now.” Billy Kane’s hand went to the
other’s shoulder. “It’s a rotten road to Sing Sing. You’re
out of it now—stay out of it.” He gave the Wop a friendly
push toward the street. “We’ve no more time to lose. Beat
it!” he said, and without giving the Wop time to reply, he
turned abruptly, and ran back along the alleyway.

XXI—WITHOUT MERCY
=================

Billy Kane went on to the intersecting street at
the other end of the alleyway, removed his mask,
and stepped out on the sidewalk. He looked at his
watch under a street lamp, and smiled whimsically in surprise.
It was still only half-past eight. All told, he could
not have been in Wong Yen’s more than fifteen minutes,
hardly that, in fact, and it seemed as though he had been
there half the night!

Well, it was Barloff’s now! Barloff’s was a little farther
uptown, a little deeper over in the East Side. Billy Kane’s
smile, from whimsical, became tinged a little with weariness,
became a little wan, as he walked along. He was the
victim of a plot himself, that was aimed at his life, that
sought to throw the guilt of a crime upon his shoulders, just
as the Wop was. And circumstances not only permitted,
but seemed to force him constantly into these byways to
save others, while he himself stood condemned in the eyes of
the public as a murderer and a thief; and there was bitter
irony in the thought that he could not clear his own name,
that he seemed powerless to help himself, while the mantle
of one of the underworld’s archcriminals, which temporarily
afforded him sanctuary from the police, supplied him
with almost unlimited information and the means of helping
others!

His brows knitted suddenly into a puzzled frown. Was
that altogether true?

There seemed to be a most strange coincidence in these
excursions, forced or voluntary, of his into the byways of
criminal things, a coincidence that always seemed in some
way to link up his own plight with these other criminal
schemes in which he became involved. There was the night
that Peters had been murdered, for instance, which had led
him to the knowledge that the Man With The Crutch was at
least a co-murderer of David Ellsworth. And then the
attempt at blackmail of two nights ago had again disclosed
the hand of the Man With The Crutch, and, more significant
still, had enabled him, Billy Kane, to recover the cash
stolen from the library vault on the night of the Ellsworth
murder. Who was this Man With The Crutch—this man
with a crutch whose shaft was stained to resemble grained
wood and so disguise the murderous iron of which it
actually consisted, and which, he was sure now, was the
weapon that had brought both David Ellsworth and Peters
to their deaths?

Billy Kane shook his head. It was a curious chain of
coincidence, but it could be only coincidence. And there
was a limit to that. To-night, for instance, it would put a
pretty severe strain upon the imagination to conceive of
any connection between the Wop and the Man With The
Crutch! And yet——

He shrugged his shoulders. He would have said the same
thing two nights ago, wouldn’t he? It was very strange! It
was all strange! He seemed to be existing in a sphere of
unreality. There was the Man With The Crutch, whom
neither police nor underworld could find since that raid on
the man’s room; there was the constant, ominous swirl and
eddy of hidden and unseen things on every hand; there
was the Rat—and there was the Woman in Black!

His face softened suddenly. He had not seen *her* since
yesterday morning when she had entered the Rat’s den
through the secret door, and he had returned to her Dayler’s
letter. She had not been in a pleasant mood at what
she believed had been his trickery; and, failing to have restored
that letter to her, she would have turned him, whom
she, like every one else, believed to be the Rat, incontinently
over to the police. What was the hold she had upon the
Rat? Where was she to-night? How was it that her hand
had not already showed in this attempt upon the Wop,
since she seemed to have always in her possession the details
of the Rat’s schemes?

He shrugged his shoulders again. What was the use!
To-night, at least, she could harbor no delusion that he was
acting under any spur of hers! No, that wasn’t it—that
wasn’t what was troubling him. What troubled him was
that she should think him what he was, or, rather, all
that he was not! Strange that her opinion of him, even
when his back was against the wall and his life was literally
in jeopardy at every turn, should make any difference!
Strange that the loathing and contempt in those brown eyes,
that were fearless and deep and steady, should haunt him,
and add to his own abhorrence of the rôle he played because
he must let her think him the Rat! Well, what did
it matter? What was she to him? What was she becoming
to him? He laughed a little uncertainly. There was no
need to answer that question, was there—even if he could?
What did anything matter unless he could clear his own
name, which was now mired deeper than the Rat’s!

He turned a corner, walked on the length of a block, and
on the next corner, drawing back into a doorway out of the
radius of the street lamp, paused a moment to get his bearings.
He smiled a little grimly. If the affair ever came to
her knowledge, would she give the Rat credit this time for
a spontaneous change of heart in saving the Wop’s life, and
saving Ivan Barloff’s cash? He scowled suddenly. The
latter proposition did not altogether please him. Barloff
was not far removed in guilt from those who proposed to
victimize Barloff! There would be a certain ironical justice
in robbing from Barloff the cash that Barloff had all
too patiently, a great portion of it at least, robbed from
others! But Red Vallon and his pack were not to get it,
were they? It was the lesser evil to warn Barloff, that was
all. In the main, therefore, the night’s work was over,
since the Wop was safe, for five minutes’ conversation with
Barloff would end the whole affair now, so far as he, Billy
Kane, was concerned.

He glanced down the street. Just a little ahead, on the
opposite side, huddled in between two six-story tenements,
was Barloff’s squat, dingy, little house. There was a faint
glow of light, as though it came from somewhere far in the
interior, showing through the single front window on the
ground floor. Billy Kane considered this thoughtfully for a
few seconds. Barloff was at home evidently, but the probability
was that one, at least, of Red Vallon’s men was
on watch in front of the house. In fact, it wasn’t probability;
it was a certainty. Barloff, according to Red Vallon,
was to receive a fake telephone message that would
lure him out of the house, and someone undoubtedly would
be waiting to report the old Russian’s exit. It therefore, to
say the least of it, would be—Billy Kane’s smile was
mirthless—unwise for the Rat to walk up to Barloff’s front
door under the existing conditions!

He might have telephoned. He shook his head, as he
crossed the road, and, keeping in the shadows, stepped
into the cross street. He preferred to interview Barloff
via Barloff’s back yard. He was still obsessed with the
desire to take personal toll from all concerned in the miserable
night’s work, but he realized that impulse and sane action
did not always go hand in glove. He could not afford
to play fast and loose with this rôle of the Rat, or take any
unnecessary risks, but he could satisfy himself to the extent,
at least, of a personal interview with Barloff, who was perhaps
after all the most despicable of the lot, and put into
the puny, shrivelled soul of the man a fear that would make
for some degree of future righteousness!

A lane, as he had expected, ran in the rear of the tenements
and Barloff’s house. Billy Kane slipped into this,
located Barloff’s house, low-lying against the sky line between
the taller buildings, swung himself over the fence,
dropped noiselessly to the ground, and for a moment stood
there motionless.

The yard was very small, and, but a few feet in front
of him, a light from the open and uncurtained window of
Barloff’s rear room streamed out across the intervening
space. Voices reached him, but he could not distinguish
the words; neither, from where he stood, could he see anyone
in the room, though the window was quite low, little
more than breast high from the ground.

And then a form inside the room passed across the window
space, a woman’s form; and again a voice reached
him, a woman’s voice, and Billy Kane drew in his breath
sharply. He still could not distinguish the words, but he
had recognized the voice.

Once again he had jumped too hastily to conclusions
in so far as she was concerned—it was the Woman in Black.
There was no question as to why she was there; it was
obvious that she had simply forestalled him in warning the
old Russian; but—a perplexed frown furrowed Billy Kane’s
forehead—her hand would have showed a little late in the
game to have saved the Wop!

He stole forward, keeping in the shadows of the side
fence, reached the rear wall of the house, edged across to
the side of the window where he could both see and hear,
and crouched there. His eyes swept the interior in a swift,
comprehensive survey. It was a sordid, ill-furnished, bare-floored
room, and very dirty. A seedy old morris chair in
the center of the room supplied the only suggestion of comfort
or luxury, and that an incongruous one, that the place
possessed. Apart from that, there was a huge and aged
safe, a relic of the days when such things were locked with
keys, which was backed up against one wall; and near an
open door, which apparently led into the front room, there
was a battered desk with an equally battered swivel chair—and
that was all, unless the telephone that stood upon the
desk might be included in the furnishings. There was, however,
another door, also open, which faced the safe, and
which apparently gave on a passageway that in turn opened
on the back yard. Billy Kane glanced around him. Yes,
there was a rear door here, just a little to his right.

His eyes reverted to the interior of the room. *She* was
still pacing up and down its length from the desk to the window
and back again. Perhaps it was the effect of the
green-shaded incandescent bulb that dangled over the desk,
but, as she turned facing the window, he saw that her face,
drawn in sharp, pinched lines, was very white, and that in
the dark brown eyes, all softness gone from them now,
there was a hard and bitter light. And at the desk, the
old Russian, a gray-bearded and threadbare figure in dirty
and grease-spotted clothes, huddled deep down in his chair,
and wrung his hands together, and with little, black, shifty
eyes, that peered over the rims of steel-bowed spectacles,
followed her about in a fascinated sort of way, and the
while he kept circling his lips with his tongue.

“The Wop! The Wop!” he shrilled out suddenly, and
seemed to cower lower in his chair. “Yes, yes, I am afraid!
My God, I am afraid! He is strong. He would have no
pity on an old man. He has sworn it. I know! I have
been afraid of this day. Why did they let him out? They
know, too! And I was only honest—everybody knows that.
He was a thief. What else could an honest man do except
what I did? He—he will kill me, and——”

“The Wop is dead.” Her voice was low, bitter, hard,
and yet, too, it seemed to hold impatience and irritation directed
against the Russian. “I have told you that. It is not
the Wop you have to fear now. The Wop is dead.”

“But you are not sure, not positive, not absolutely positive
of it!” Barloff was wringing his hands the harder; and
his tones, rather than being assertive, seemed to be pleading
for a denial.

“I am positive enough of it,” she answered evenly, “to
see that the one who is responsible pays for it to-night!
It is my fault”—her voice caught a little, but hardened instantly—“I
trusted where I was a fool to trust, and I have
paid for it with another’s life. But that has nothing to do
with you. You know now that the telephone message you
received a little while ago was simply to lure you out of the
house at half past nine in order that they might have a clear
field in which, without contradiction, to make it appear that
the robbery they are planning was the Wop’s work. It is
scarcely nine o’clock yet. You have plenty of time in which
to act. You can appeal to the police, or——”

Billy Kane was no longer paying any attention to her
words. Tense, strained, he stood there. He seemed to be
trying to lash his brain into virility, into activity. He
seemed to be groping out in an ineffectual mental way for
some means to avert a disaster that he realized was closing
down upon him. She believed the Wop was dead. She
naturally held the Rat responsible—and he was the Rat, so
far as she was concerned. She had warned him, without
mincing words, that if any crime in which the Rat was involved
was carried through to its fulfilment she would hold
him responsible and hand him over to the police. She had
reason to believe that he had already tried to double cross
her once; she now believed that to-night he had tried to do
it again. She would leave here, and go straight to the police.
The police, then, would not only be looking for Billy Kane,
they would be looking for the Rat—and they would get
Billy Kane! And that would be the end of it all!

The end of it—when he already knew who the murderer
of David Ellsworth was; when, apart from the collection of
rubies, he had already recovered the proceeds of the Ellsworth
vault robbery; when, if he could only cling for a few
days more to this rôle he played, he might hope to clear
his own name, to stand foursquare with the world again,
and to bring to justice those who had taken old David Ellsworth’s
life. Somehow, in some way, he must prevent her
from carrying out what was now her obvious intention of
unmasking the Rat. But he dared not show himself in front
of the house to intercept her when she went out—he dared
not show himself as the Rat out there. To bring the underworld
down upon him was only to invite a swifter destruction
from another source.

He gnawed in perplexity at his lips, staring into the room.
She kept pacing up and down. Barloff had risen from his
seat, and in a curious, cringing way, standing now by the
rickety old safe, was fondling it and patting it with his
hands.

“Yes, yes!” Barloff was crooning. “I thank you—I thank
you! I do not know who you are, but I thank you! I have
not much, very little, very, very little, but I am an old
man, and what would become of me if I lost my little?
The police, yes, the police——”

The old Russian, his back now to the window, was still
talking, more to himself than to her. She came close to the
window this time and Billy Kane suddenly showed himself.
She was very clever, very self-centered, very sure of
herself. If she was startled, she gave no sign of it. She
came still closer until she leaned for a moment against the
sill.

“Out here—the lane—when you leave!” he whispered
quickly.

She nodded her head, but her lips had tightened in a forbidding
little smile as she turned away again,

Billy Kane drew back from the window. There was a
sense of relief upon him; but also a vague, disquieting, and
very much stronger sense of something else that he could
not quite define; only that between them there always
seemed to stand that barrier of a forbidding smile, and that
cool, contemptuous light in the brown eyes that very often
changed from contempt to loathing and abhorrence. He
shrugged his shoulders suddenly. He was a fool—that was
all!

Her voice drifted out to him, dying away as he neared
the fence:

“I am going now, Mr. Barloff, and I should advise you
not to waste any time in taking whatever precautions you
intend to take. You had better communicate at once with
the police, and——”

Billy Kane swung himself over the fence, and stood there
waiting in the lane. A minute, two, three passed, and then
he caught the sound of a light step, and she stood before him
in the darkness.

“Well?” she said curtly. “I am here, Bundy. What do
you want?”

He was the Rat, alias Bundy Morgan, in her eyes, and it
was the Rat who spoke.

“I heard you in there,” he said gruffly. “You’re going
to beat it for the police, and wise them up about me. Well,
you want to can that stunt, because I’ve got a little explanation
to make. See?”

“You do not need to make any explanation,” she answered
evenly. “My stupidity is at an end! That enigmatic
little memo of yours was a better safeguard in itself
than the hiding place in which you had secreted it, for I
did not understand it until I saw a few lines in the paper
this evening giving a short résumé of the Wop’s somewhat
unedifying career, and stating that he had been released
from prison. I was too late to save the Wop himself, but
was not too late to prevent you from climbing in through
that window, and carrying out the rest of your abominable
scheme.”

“I went there to warn Barloff myself,” said Billy Kane.

She laughed icily.

“Do you expect me to believe that, after you have murdered
a man so that you could put the onus of another crime
upon him! This is the end to-night! I was mad to trust
you at all. I was madder still to give you another chance,
when I caught you playing a double game both with your
own criminal associates and with me when you stole that
letter from Dayler two nights ago!” She came a little
closer to him. Both hands were tightly clenched. Her lips
quivered a little; her voice choked. “I did not know
what it was like to feel guilty of murder, to feel that one
had taken another’s life. I know now. My folly in giving
you a moment’s freedom has made me as guilty as you.
But the end has come. Do you understand? You might
put me out of the road, too, here in this lane, but that would
not change the result any. You know that. You know in
that case that the police would be after you anyway—that
I have taken care of that. On the other hand, you may run
for it now, and you may make it a question of hours, or a
question of days, but as soon as the police lay hands on
you your career is finished.”

There was a strange stirring within Billy Kane’s soul.
She was very close to him, so close that he could see the
pinched, haggard look in her face, and see the lips quiver
again, and see the clenched hands rise to her eyes as though
to shut out the abhorrent sight of him from her, and to
shut out perhaps, too, the pictured sight of a man murdered,
and for whose life she not illogically held herself
accountable.

His hands gripped hard—hard as the mental grip in
which he held himself. A sudden yearning, an almost uncontrollable
impulse was upon him to reach out and sweep
this lithe, fearless little figure that had become so mysteriously
a part of his life, a greater part than he had ever
realized before, into his arms. She would struggle like a
wild cat, and fight with every ounce of strength, yes, and
hatred, that was in her, but he could hold her because he
was the stronger, and tell her that he was not the Rat,
and—— He swallowed hard. And then what? Tell her
that he was Billy Kane? A wan smile came to his lips.
She would perhaps prefer the Rat! The Rat, publicly at
least, was known as the less infamous of the two! He
laughed a little harshly.

“Forget it!” he said roughly. “I’ve played straight with
you, and before you go spilling any beans to the police
you’d better get onto yourself. You don’t know what you’re
talking about!”

“I know that the Wop was murdered to-night in Wong
Yen’s by you, or your orders,” she said passionately. “I
know that the Wop is dead—that is enough!”

“Nix!” said Billy Kane, alias Bundy Morgan, alias the
Rat. “The Wop isn’t dead, and he isn’t in Wong Yen’s
either. I pulled him out of there.”

She stared at him, coming still closer in the darkness
until he could feel her breath upon his face. It was a long
minute before she spoke.

“I do not believe you!” she said in a dead voice.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“I did not expect you to!” The Rat’s tones were insolent
now. “But you can prove it, can’t you? The Wop’s
safe. He’s at a minister’s house. The minister’s name is
Claflin. I don’t know the address, but you can easily find
it. It wouldn’t do me any good to lie to you, would it?
You can’t drag me to the police by force, and whether you
squealed to them in the next ten minutes, or half an hour
later after finding out I was lying, I’d be just as bad off,
wouldn’t I?”

She drew back—but her eyes were still fixed steadily
upon him.

“Yes,” she said.

“Well?” demanded Billy Kane.

“I can find this minister’s house in that half hour, I
think,” she said in a low voice. “And the Wop—if he is
there.” Her voice hardened. “You are quite right, Bundy,
it will have done you no good to have lied. I promise you
that! If I do not find the Wop, the police will find—*you*!”

She was gone.

XXII—THE FIGHT
==============

Billy Kane stood in the lane for a moment, staring
after her through the darkness and his lips puckered
in a sort of impotent little smile. She would find the
Wop, of course, and thereafter the old relationship between
them would be reëstablished, and——.

He whirled suddenly, and in an instant was astride the
top of the fence, his face set and hard, as there came, low
but unmistakably from the interior of Barloff’s house, the
sound of blows and the rending of wood, as though a door
were being violently forced. A glance showed him that
the window had been closed and the shade drawn down.
Barloff had evidently got that far in safeguarding himself,
only Red Vallon’s Apachés had struck, perhaps suspicious
of *her* visit, without waiting for the old Russian to go out!
What else could those blows mean but an attack on Barloff?
Certainly, Barloff must still be in there, for Barloff, warned,
wasn’t going out; he was going to appeal, by telephone
presumably, to the police.

Billy Kane’s mind was racing, as he whipped his mask
from his pocket, adjusted it over his face, dropped to the
ground, and ran across the yard. The night’s work obviously
now, was far from over yet! He had still to play,
after all, that other rôle of his in the underworld—the man
in the mask! Red Vallon had said that the Pigeon, French
Marr and the Cadger were to carry out the robbery inside
the house. That made three to one! His one chance then
was to take them by surprise.

He was working now with Whitie Jack’s skeleton keys at
the rear door. The Cadger was an expert safeworker, just
as the Wop was, and that was part of the game to make it
appear to be the Wop’s work. The Wop was safe now, of
course, but—he bit at his lips, cursing his clumsiness with
the keys—old Barloff certainly wasn’t! They had intended
to get Barloff out of the house, but if, without waiting for
that, they struck with Barloff there, they would not stand
on any more ceremony with the old man than they had with
the Wop, since the Wop was to stand for it anyway. It was
strange, ominously strange, that there was no outcry from
Barloff, that even the sound of blows and splintering wood
had ceased!

The door gave under his hand. He pushed it open cautiously,
a bare half inch at a time. In front of him was a
small room, obviously the kitchen, that connected with the
rest of the house only by the side door of Barloff’s rear
room from which the light now filtered in across the kitchen
floor. He stole silently forward in the direction of the
lighted doorway and halted, as, a little back from the edge
of the door jamb, he stared in amazement into the room
beyond.

The door near Barloff’s desk that led into the front
room hung shattered on its hinges, its panels broken and
splintered, but the only occupant of the room was Barloff
himself. The man was standing there, a hatchet in his hand,
surveying the wreckage, and mumbling inaudibly to himself.

And then suddenly there came a twisted smile of comprehension
to Billy Kane’s lips. Old Barloff laid the hatchet
down on the desk, and, rubbing his hands together in a sort
of fiendish exaltation, a malicious grin on his cunning and
crafty face, ran over to the safe and knelt before it. His
mumble became quite audible now:

“The Wop! The Wop! Dead—eh? And all these little
rentals, these nice little rentals, just in! And. if they are
stolen—eh? I am a poor man—eh? I could not replace
them. And so they would be mine—mine. She’s sure he is
dead. She said so—that they murdered him. But she did
not see it with her own eyes. If she comes back and tells
the police that, I will say that the Wop must have escaped
the trap they set for him, for with my own eyes I saw him,
and since he is dead he will not be able to deny that. Yes,
yes, Barloff, your old brain is still your best friend! And
the others—ha, ha! They have planted it on the Wop—ha,
ha! It would be a pity to disappoint them—and lose the
rentals. Yes, yes, Barloff, that is so, is it not? Certainly,
the Wop has robbed you, and tried to get revenge on you,
too, because you were honest enough to go to the police five
years ago!”

The man had the safe open now, and was snatching books
and papers from the interior, and throwing them in a litter
upon the floor. And now he had an old tin cash box in his
hands. He laid this on the floor and opened it, and in a
sort of hideous rapacity seemed to gloat over it. He dipped
in his hands and lifted out banknotes, and let them filter
through his fingers, and rubbed his hands together, and
buried them again in the money; while behind the steel-bowed
spectacles his little black eyes glittered with feverish
exaltation again, and his whole body seemed to quiver in
unholy, greedy worship.

Billy Kane’s jaw locked hard. The man’s whole life
was a damnable hypocrisy—a rogue’s alias. Thousands the
man had somewhere, and, by comparison, the paltry hundreds
in the cash box, if hundreds even there were, seemed
to hold up as to a mirror the man’s soul, stripped bare, until
it stood out in all its naked, shrivelled miserliness, its godless
grovelling to the only god it knew!

“The rentals—all the rentals!” mumbled Barloff again.
“I am a poor man—how can I pay them over to-morrow
when they have been stolen from me to-night, and I have
nothing left? Yes, yes, Barloff, you are getting old, but
you are not yet a fool!”

The man was suddenly all haste. He snatched up the
cash box, and ran to the piece of furniture which had struck
Billy Kane as so incongruous an adjunct to the furnishings
of the room—the old morris chair. He turned this over on
its back, there was a faint click of a hidden spring, and the
bottom underneath the seat gaped outward on what were
evidently ingeniously concealed hinges. Billy Kane’s eyes,
behind his mask, narrowed in grim humor, as he caught a
glimpse of piles of neatly stacked banknotes in the hollow
bottom of the chair, that was a sort of spacious, boxlike
compartment—and then the old miser had thrust in the cash
box, closed the seat again, and righted the chair. Old
Barloff, after all, did not place all his faith in a presumptive
burglar’s chivalry for the obvious helplessness of the rickety
old safe!

Barloff was rubbing his hands together unctuously once
more, as he hurried back now to the desk. The desk was
close to the already splintered door that led to the front
of the house, and Barloff, catching up the hatchet in one
hand, pulled the portable telephone instrument toward
him with the other, and snatched the receiver from its hook.

“The police—quick—quick!” he called into the transmitter,
his voice pitched in a well-simulated scream of
terror, and brought the hatchet down with a crash on the
splintered panels.

Billy Kane made no movement save that his lips twitched
a little. The low, cunning trickery of the man produced a
sort of nauseating disgust, and, too, a sort of merciless
anger; but, given enough rope now, Barloff was in a fair
way to hang himself, and it would afford him, Billy Kane,
a very genuine pleasure to adjust, as he now proposed to do,
the noose that would accomplish that hanging!

Barloff was still raining his hatchet blows on the door;
and then suddenly, evidently having got his connection, he
was screaming again, between blows, into the mouthpiece of
the telephone:

“Is that the police?——Yes, yes!——Quick——This is
Ivan Barloff——Barloff, Barloff, Barloff——yes,
Barloff——Quick——Help!——For God’s sake, help!——It is the
Wop!——Do you hear?——The Wop!”

Barloff slammed the receiver back on the hook, and flung
the hatchet down on the floor. It was quiet in the room
now except that the old man was talking again to himself,
in a sort of triumphant glee:

“Ha, ha—got to escape from the Wop now—got to
escape——yes, yes, Barloff, you have done well, very well—but
you must hurry now—yes, hurry.”

Billy Kane drew silently back into the darkness at the
far side of the kitchen. There was still a little more rope
left to give Barloff for Barloff’s undoing! He, Billy Kane,
had no intention of interfering with the hypocritical old
scoundrel’s self-styled escape, nor of preventing Barloff
now from rushing, for instance, to the police to amplify his
tale; but Barloff, to “escape” and carry out his ruse successfully,
could not rush out through the door supposed to be
barred by the Wop and so reach the street that way! Barloff
then, if Barloff were logical, had a choice of the kitchen
and back door, or the window.

The light in Barloff’s room went out. Billy Kane smiled
in satisfaction. With the kitchen in complete darkness now
there was no chance of his being seen if Barloff came that
way, and—no, it was the window! The sash creaked as
the window was opened. There was a low thud as the
man dropped to the ground, and then the sound of the
other’s footsteps running across the yard toward the fence.

Billy Kane laughed a little, grimly under his breath, as
he stepped instantly forward and entered the room old
Barloff had just vacated. It was his turn now at the telephone!
A hint to the police as to where the money was,
and, with the Wop’s alibi thoroughly established, Barloff
would be condemned by his own story. It would require
only a moment to telephone, and then he would make
his own get-away; also, it would be ten minutes at least
before the police from the nearest station could answer
Barloff’s call, but if, in the meanwhile, the Cadger and his
pack arrived, they would not only get nothing, but would run
a very excellent chance of being trapped by the police,
and——.

Billy Kane with his hand groping out through the darkness
for the telephone, stood suddenly tense and still; and
then, as suddenly, actuated partly by some intuitive sense
of danger, and partly because some indefinable sound of
movement caught his ear, he swerved, throwing his body
sharply to one side. There was a swish like the ugly sweep
of some weapon cutting through the air from a ferocious,
full-arm swing, a queer numbness from a glancing blow on
the side of his head, a crash upon the desk, a metallic
clatter on the floor—and then he lunged forward, and his
hands, pawing out, touched and closed on a man’s form in
front of him.

Billy Kane’s head was dizzy and swirling. He was conscious
that arms which were like bands of steel were
around him, and that his own arms, to keep from being
torn apart and his hold on the other loosened, were straining
until they hurt in their sockets. It seemed as though in
the pitch blackness they were reeling around the room in
the crazy, jerky, unbalanced dance of some mad orgy! A
voice was snarling in his ear, snarling vicious oaths, snarling
in a fury that seemed ungovernable, beyond all license, that
seemed to have taken possession of the other, body and
soul, and made the other’s strength demoniacal. That was
it! It could not be anything else. That was what made
the man so strong. The man was mad—a madman! He
tried to think, as he gasped and panted for his breath.
It wasn’t the Cadger, or French Marr, or the Pigeon, for
then there would have been three of them. Who was it?
His brain was sick and swimming, and refused its functions.
He could not think very well. He must fight—that was all—fight!

It seemed to Billy Kane as though hours were passing.
It seemed as though gradually, very gradually, his strength
was oozing away, and that his hands were slipping from
around the man’s back. He clenched his teeth together. He
remembered suddenly that murderous swish through the air.
It seemed to steady him, to bring to him, too, a sudden
fury in place of that unnerving giddiness. He wanted to
strike; to strike, as murderously as he had been struck, at
this thing whose hot, tainted breath was on his cheek, at
this thing that snarled like a beast as it struggled and
fought. He wanted to strike, only the giddiness from the
blow on his head was back again, and——.

The other had wrenched himself free. Billy Kane
flung his weight forward to retain his hold, and with the impact
both men reeled, tripped on the littered floor, lost their
balance, and, locked together, crashed to the ground.

They rolled over once, and then the other’s snarl became
a vicious laugh. The giddiness was coming in quick flashes
over Billy Kane now, and he felt his hands wrenched and
torn away from the other, and he felt the other’s body
upon him now like some crushing, insupportable weight.
He reached out in the darkness in a desperate, frantic
effort to close again, to protect himself from the short-arm
jabs that were raining into his face. His fingers touched
the man’s bare, collarless throat, slipped on the throat—and
suddenly held. There was a string, or a cord, or something
around the man’s neck. It was very curious! But
his fingers had hooked in between the cord and the flesh,
and he clung there tenaciously. If he could only twist it,
and twist it hard enough, he could choke the other! He
wasn’t strong enough to do anything else—just twist at
the cord—and choke the other—and——

There was a sound that seemed to come from the front of
the house, like the opening of a door, and then voices—unmistakably
voices. But the other had heard it too. The
man was struggling now to get away, not to strike any
more blows, just to wrench and tear himself loose from
that cord that Billy Kane had twined around his hands
and fingers. And then the cord gave with a sudden snap, the
man sprang to his feet, and, without a sound, like a shadowy
form just visible in the darkness, flung himself out through
the window.

The cord was still twined around Billy Kane’s fingers as
he lay, half-dazed, his head swimming weakly, flat on his
back on the floor. He shook it free from his hand and
raised himself up into a sitting posture, as he smiled in a
queer, bitter way. There was a light in the front room now,
and he was too exhausted to reach the window as his late
antagonist had done, unless he stumbled and lurched there,
and then he would be heard in the front room.

It was the end of the Rat, alias Bundy Morgan—and it
was the end of Billy Kane. It was probably the Cadger and
his crowd out there, but, at least, they would not take him
alive. His hand dove into his pocket for his automatic
and encountered the brandy flask that had already stood the
Wop in such good stead. He snatched it from his pocket,
and, his mask already awry on his face, carried the flask
to his lips, and drank eagerly.

The stimulant whipped through his veins in a fiery tide.
It cleared his brain. No, it wasn’t the Cadger out there—the
Cadger and his crowd would be scared off for good now—there
were two men—he could see them coming through
the doorway—and he heard old Barloff’s voice.

He drank again greedily, shifting the flask to his left
hand, while his right dove once more into his pocket, and
this time secured his automatic. He drew his mask back
over his face. The light over the desk went on, and, sitting
there on the floor, Billy Kane blinked in the sudden glare at
old Barloff and a police officer.

“Don’t move, please, either of you, except to put your
hands up!” said Billy Kane in a low voice.

There was a startled exclamation from the officer, as
his hands went up above his head; while a gray, blank look
spread over the old miser’s face, as he, too, obeyed with
equal celerity.

It was very curious! Billy Kane frowned in a puzzled
way. It was very curious—not so much that he should
be sitting there on the littered floor, with the side of his
head trickling a warm flow of blood down under the neck
of his shirt, and holding a brandy flask in one hand, and
holding up two men at the point of his automatic with the
other; it wasn’t so much that, it was an object on the floor
near the desk that looked like a round piece of grained
wood, about an inch in diameter and three feet in length.

He thrust the flask into his pocket, and, over his mask,
rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. It wasn’t a
vagary of his sick brain, was it? Well, he would know in a
minute as soon as he lifted it and felt its weight. No, that
wasn’t necessary, he remembered that *metallic* clatter upon
the floor. He knew what the thing was. It was the iron
shaft of the crutch that he had seen two nights ago—a
detachable shaft probably—the weapon that he was satisfied
had already murdered David Ellsworth, and murdered
Peters.

His mind was clear now and working in lightning flashes.
His assailant had been the one man in the world upon whose
throat he had prayed to get his fingers—the Man with the
Crutch! Well, his fingers had been there, only he had been,
at a disadvantage, weak and dizzy from the blow from
that thing there, and—yes, this was curious too! He was
watching the two men, his automatic covered them unswervingly;
but out of the corner of his eye he could not help
but see that red patch on the floor beside him, that looked
like an ordinary flannel chest protector, and to which the
cord that he had torn from his antagonist’s neck was still
attached. He reached for it and thrust it into his pocket,
as he rose slowly, and a little unsteadily, to his feet.

He eyed the two men now for a long calculating second.
Yes, his brain was quite clear now—exhilaratingly clear.
And the mental exhilaration seemed to bring in its train
a new physical strength as well. In a flash he saw the way
out now, and with it, too, the means of slipping Barloff’s
self-knotted noose around the miserly old Russian’s throat.
But he must work quickly. There was not an instant to
spare. This officer could not have come in answer to Barloff’s
telephone call, for he realized that, long as it had
seemed, his fight here in the room could not have lasted in
reality more than two or three minutes, and it had begun
almost on the instant that Barloff had run from the house.
There would not, therefore, have been time for the telephone
call to have been answered, for the nearest police
station was too far away, and besides, in that event, there
would have been more than one officer. Barloff had probably
encountered the policeman out on the street, and, carrying
out his devilishly inspired plan, had poured his story
into the officer’s ears, and rushed the other back to the
house. But in that case, the men from the station would
be on their way here now, and the leeway left him, Billy
Kane, in which to act must, even now, be narrowed to the
very perilous margin of but another four or five minutes—perhaps
less!

“Move to the wall, face it, and keep your hands up!”
ordered Billy Kane curtly.

The officer, with a chagrined scowl and a shrug of his
shoulders, obeyed. Barloff, white and trembling, and thoroughly
frightened, needed no urging.

“You’ve got the drop on me,” snarled the officer. “But
don’t worry, my bucko, I know who you are! That mask
ain’t doing you any good! There’s a free ride and board
coming to you again!”

Billy Kane’s automatic was pressed into the small of the
officer’s back. With his free hand he deftly relieved the
other of a pair of handcuffs and a revolver.

“That’s all right!” said Billy Kane coolly. “Now, Barloff,
stick your right hand out behind you!” He slipped one
of the steel cuffs over the Russian’s wrist. “Now you,
officer! No, your *right* hand! I know it’s customary in
making an arrest to leave your right hand free, but in the
circumstances I am forced to inconvenience you a little in
your movements.” He snapped the other cuff shut. “Thank
you! You may both turn around now!” He stepped back,
hurled the officer’s revolver out through the window, and
picked up the weapon whose blow, luckily for him, he had
partially evaded. He had in no way been mistaken. It was
the iron shaft of the crutch, and it was ingeniously fashioned
with a spring catch that obviously fitted into a socket
in the now missing armpiece of the crutch. It served him
now as a support. He leaned upon it, using it as a cane,
as he swayed a little on his feet. “I can only spare a
moment,” he said engagingly to the officer; “but possibly I
can make that moment well worth your while. We’ll talk
quickly, if you please. I imagine that you were on your
beat out there on the street when Barloff here found you.
Am I right?”

“Where else would I be?” said the officer gruffly.

“That’s what I wanted to make sure of,” returned Billy
Kane pleasantly. “And that’s why I want to get through
here in a hurry—before your reinforcements arrive. What
story did this man tell you?”

“Say,” said the officer shortly, “you’ve got your nerve
with you! But you can’t get away with it! I tell you, I
know you! You might as well take that mask off. You’re
the Wop.”

“You’re jumping at conclusions,” said Billy Kane calmly,
“because Barloff here has told you the Wop had broken in
and robbed him. Well, ask Barloff, then!” He turned on
Barloff. “I’m not the Wop, am I, Barloff?”

The old man shook his head.

“No, you’re not.” Barloff swallowed hard; he was evidently
floundering in a perplexed mental maze. “But my
money’s gone, and the Wop was here. I saw him. I saw
him. Maybe you’re a pal of his.”

“I am for to-night,” said Billy Kane quietly. “When
did you see the Wop? What did you tell this officer
here?”

“Oh, you are, are you!” Barloff seemed suddenly relieved.
He shook his free fist at Billy Kane. “So you’re
a pal of the Wop’s, are you! Well, I don’t know where
you came from, but I saw the Wop just as plainly as I see
you now.” He edged around and addressed the officer
eagerly. “I was sitting at the desk there, officer, just as I
told you, and that door was open, and there was a light in
that front room. The Wop must have got the front door
open without my hearing him. I saw him stealing across
that room out there. I rushed to the door, and shut it, and
called for help. He began to smash it in and I grabbed up
the telephone and called the police, and then ran for the
window, and got out by the lane to the street where I found
you. He would have killed me. He swore he would when
he went to prison.” His voice changed suddenly into a
whining wail. “He’s got my money! Look at the floor—look
at the safe! He’s got my money, and run with it
when he heard us coming.” He began to claw frantically
at the officer’s sleeve. “The Wop’s got it! Look, officer,
this pal of his has been hurt! Look at the side of his
head—that’s why he didn’t get away too—that’s why we
found him here on the floor!”

“You talk as though you’d been frisked of a million!”
Billy Kane was tauntingly sarcastic now. “How much did
you have, anyway?”

“How much! How much!” howled Barloff. “Enough to
ruin me! All this month’s rentals that I had just collected.
Three hundred and eighty-seven dollars!”

“Three hundred and eighty-seven dollars!” Billy Kane
mimicked the other admirably. “You don’t mean to say
you’d keep three hundred and eighty-seven dollars in that
crazy old safe that’s falling to pieces, do you?”

“Where else would I keep it?” Barloff was shaking his
fist again. “Yes, I kept it there! And that’s where it was
to-night—and it’s gone now—gone!”

“Is that all you had?” Billy Kane’s sneer was irritatingly
contemptuous.

“All!” shrieked Barloff. “All—yes, it is all! But it is
enough! I am a poor man, and the money was not mine,
and I cannot replace it, and——”

He choked suddenly, and shrank back, dragging the officer
with him a step. Billy Kane had moved abruptly to
the morris chair, and had toppled it over on the floor.

“You pitiful liar! You haven’t seen the Wop in five
years!” rasped Billy Kane, and the iron shaft in his hand
crashed through the false bottom of the chair. A package
of banknotes tumbled out on the floor, another, and yet
another. A second blow dislodged the cash box, and a further
rain of banknotes. “You thought the Wop was dead,
and that you could make him stand for this, did you!”
rasped Billy Kane again. “You yellow cur—so that you
could steal those few miserable rentals yourself!”

“My God!” gasped the officer. Barloff was a grovelling
thing at his side. He jerked the other toward him, and
stared into the white, working features.

Billy Kane backed to the window, and there was an abrupt
change in his voice as he addressed the officer.

“I’m going now,” he said softly. “I am not quite sure of
the technical charge against your prisoner, but I imagine it
is just plain theft—of three hundred and eighty-seven dollars.
And it might be interesting, too, to know where so
poor a man got that small fortune there on the floor!
Perhaps Barloff will tell you! As for the Wop, he has
never been near this place, and you will find him at the
Reverend Mr. Claflin’s house, where he has been all evening.
I think that’s all, officer, except”—Billy Kane had
straddled the window sill—“except that I apologize to you
for anything in the shape of lèse majesty of which I may
have been guilty, but as I have certain personal reasons
that justify me in not desiring to appear publicly in the matter,
I am sure you will admit I had no other——”

Billy Kane did not finish his sentence. He dropped hurriedly
to the ground, and ran, or, rather, half ran, half
stumbled his way to the fence and lane. Someone was at
the front door again—obviously the police detail from the
station.

He made his way along the lane, and from that lane into
another. He was still weak and progress was slow, and
for half an hour he kept under cover. When he finally
emerged into the open he was blocks away from Barloff’s
house, and very much closer to a certain temporary sanctuary
in the heart of the underworld!

Ten minutes later, behind locked doors, he was sitting
at the dilapidated table under the single incandescent light,
in the Rat’s den. Before him lay a small red flannel sack,
that might have passed for an ordinary chest protector,
and which he had cut open with his knife. He raised his
hand, and passed it across his eyes. The Wop and Barloff
were extraneous considerations now. There was something
far more vital to think about, but his brain was refusing
its functions again. He was very tired—very tired and
weak. There was the Man with the Crutch, the man who,
he knew now, had killed Peters and David Ellsworth, the
man who had looted David Ellsworth’s vault of its money
and its priceless rubies, the man for whose guilt he, Billy
Kane, was held accountable, the man with whom he had
fought to-night. In a numbed way, because his mind was in
a sort of torpor, Billy Kane was dimly conscious that there
was no more any mere coincidence in this repeated appearance
of the Man with the Crutch. He knew now that Jackson,
the footman, had only been an underling. It was curious,
singular, sinister. Who was the man? What did it
mean? The man wasn’t even lame, was he? He remembered
the extraordinary agility the other had showed two
nights ago—and why was the shaft of the crutch detachable?—and
the man hadn’t fought like a crippled man to-night—and
there had been no sign of the upper portion of the
crutch, either!

Billy Kane’s head sank forward a little on his shoulders.
He raised himself with a jerk, and stared at the red flannel
sack in front of him. A score of magnificent rubies scintillated
in fiery flashes under the light.

“They’re not all here,” mumbled Billy Kane, with a
twisted smile. “They’re not all here—not yet.”

XXIII—THE RENDEZVOUS
====================

It was night again in the underworld.

Billy Kane slipped suddenly into the dark shadows of
a doorway. Fifty yards ahead of him, up the poorly
lighted, narrow and miserable street, three men had paused
on the sidewalk, and were engaged in what was apparently
an animated discussion. Billy Kane’s eyes narrowed in a
puzzled, perturbed, and yet grim way, as he watched them.
He had followed them for an hour now—from a saloon,
where he had found them, to a disreputable pool room, and
from there again to a saloon, and now here.

He did not understand. It was one of those strange portals,
so extraneous to the aim of clearing his name of the
murder of David Ellsworth, and yet, too, so essentially a
corollary of the Rat’s rôle that he played here in the underworld,
at which he was knocking again. His lips curled in
a queer smile. How long would it be before the end? And
what would that end be? In his possession now, save for
a portion of the rubies, perhaps half of them, was everything
that the murderers of David Ellsworth had stolen
from the old philanthropist’s vault on that night which
seemed now to belong to some past age and incarnation. He
knew now that the Man with the Crutch was the actual murderer—but
there he faced a blank wall. He had even
fought with the man in the blackness of old Barloff’s room
last night, not knowing until too late who his assailant was,
and the man had got away.

His hand at his side clenched. It could not endure very
long—this impossible situation in which he found himself
with that strange, unknown woman, who, believing him to
be the Rat, held the threat of Sing Sing over his head. And
there was the Rat himself whose name and personality and
home, such as it was, he had usurped during the latter’s
absence, an absence that might terminate at any moment.
And there were the police who dragged the city and the
country from end to end for Billy Kane. From anyone of
these three sources, swift as a lightning stroke, without an
instant’s warning, the end might come with that goal of life
still unreached, and, greater than life, his honor, still unreclaimed.
And it seemed to-night somehow that his chances
were bitterly small, that somehow the odds seemed to be
growing and accumulating against him. He was on another
errand now, because he could not help himself. He was
allowing precious moments that should have been devoted
to the one chance he had, that of searching ceaselessly, pitilessly,
remorselessly, for the Man with the Crutch, to be
directed into other channels—because he could not help
himself.

He stepped out from the shelter of the doorway, and
started forward again along the street. The three men had
turned from the sidewalk, and had disappeared inside a
dingy, black and tumble-down tenement. Billy Kane’s lips
tightened a little. It was a hard neighborhood, nestling
just off the Bowery—as hard almost as the three characters
themselves who had just vanished from sight. There were
a few pedestrians here on the side street, a few figures
that skulked along in the semi-darkness, rather than walked,
but not many; and for the most part, though it was still
early, not more than nine o’clock, the buildings that flanked
the street were dark and unlighted.

Billy Kane jerked his slouch hat farther down over his
eyes as he walked along. He did not understand. Two
hours ago he had been sitting in the Rat’s den with Whitie
Jack—who had ventured out of hiding again, safe now
since the interest of the police in Peters’, the butler’s, murder
had become definitely centered in the Man with the
Crutch—and someone had knocked at the door. Whitie
Jack had answered the knock, and had brought back the
message that Bundy Morgan was wanted at the telephone
in a little shop across the street. He, Billy Kane, in his rôle
of the Rat, alias the said Bundy Morgan, had perforce answered,
and, as he had picked up the receiver, he had instantly
recognized the voice of the woman whom he knew
by no other name than the one he himself had given her—the
Woman in Black. He was subconsciously rehearsing
the rather one-sided conversation now, as he moved along.

“Is that you, Bundy?” she had asked. “And do you know
who is speaking?”

“Yes,” he had answered.

“Listen, then!” Her voice had been quiet, deliberate, and
yet pregnant with a curiously sharp, imperative command.
“Find Clarkie Munn and Gypsy Joe at once, and shadow
them to-night. Do not let them out of your sight. And see
that you do not fail! Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he had replied mechanically; “but——”

That was all. She had hung up the receiver at the other
end of the line.

He had heard of Clarkie Munn and Gypsy Joe in the days
when he had frequented the Bad Lands on old David Ellsworth’s
philanthropic missions, for the very simple reason
that they were notorious and outstanding criminal characters
even in the heart and center of the worst crime and vice
in the city. They were both lags, both men with prison
records, and marked by the police. Also they were versatile.
They had in turn been apaches, gangsters, box-workers,
poke-getters and second-story sneaks; and they
were credited with measuring human life purely as a commercial
commodity—worth merely what they could get
for it.

He had heard of Clarkie Munn and Gypsy Joe—who
hadn’t?—but as to their lair, or where they were to be
found, he had not had the slightest inkling. Whitie Jack,
however, had solved that problem for him. He had sent
Whitie Jack out to run them down, and Whitie had returned
within an hour with the report that they were in a certain
far from reputable saloon, and that they had been joined
by the Cherub. He, Billy Kane, had never heard of the
Cherub, but an adroit leading question or two had set Whitie
Jack’s glib tongue in motion. The Cherub had proved a
topic that had aroused an unbounded enthusiasm in Whitie
Jack.

“Dey ain’t got nothin’ on de Cherub—none of ’em has,”
Whitie Jack had asserted, switching his cigarette butt from
one corner of his mouth to the other in order to permit
of an admiring grin. “He’s de angel kid—he is! Youse’d
think he spent his life handin’ around hymn books an’
leadin’ de singin’ down at de mission joints—only he don’t!
If he got enough for it he’d pull a gun an’ blow yer bean
off, an’ youse wouldn’t believe it was him even while he
was doin’ it, he’d look dat innocent. Believe me, Bundy!
He’s got ’em all skinned, an’ he ain’t got no limit except de
sky. Mabbe some day de police’ll get wise, but dey ain’t
fallen to de sweet little face of him wid his baby eyes yet.
But, aw, say, wot’s de use! Youse know him as well as I
do. Youse’d think dey’d just lifted him out of a dinky
little cradle an’ soused him all over wid Florida water—dat’s
de Cherub. But de guy dat knows him ducks his nut—dat’s
all.”

Billy Kane shook his head in a sort of savage perplexity.
He had dismissed Whitie Jack then, picked up Clarkie
Munn, Gypsy Joe and the Cherub, and had followed them
here. He had come abreast of the tenement in which they
had disappeared now, and he looked quickly around him.
There was no one on the street close enough to pay any
particular attention to his movements; and there was no
doorbell to ring, for in that locality the formality of entering
a tenement, where humans hived instead of lived, and
where at all hours the occupants came and went as a matter
of course, consisted in pushing the door open without
further ceremony. His hand slipped into the side pocket of
his coat, and his fingers closed in a reassuring touch upon
his automatic. For what particular reason he was to watch
Gypsy Joe and Clarkie Munn he was as much as ever in
the dark; but one thing was clear—there was only one way
to keep in touch with his quarry.

He stepped from the sidewalk, and, with well-simulated
unconcern, pushed the tenement door open, entered, closed
the door softly behind him, and stood still, listening intently.
The place was gloomy and dark, and heavy with a musty,
unsavory odor of garlic and rank, stale tobacco; but ahead
of him, along what seemed like a narrow passage flanking
the stairs, a faint glow of light struggled out into the blackness,
as though from a partially opened door, and from this
direction a murmur of men’s voices reached him.

He moved stealthily forward for a few steps; and then
halted abruptly, and pressed back against the wall. Yes,
here were the men he sought. In so far as locating them in
the tenement was concerned, he was in luck. The hallway
had widened out beyond the staircase, and from where he
now stood, through a half-opened door, a door that was in
poverty-stricken and disreputable repair, whose panels,
smashed and broken probably in some fracas of former
days, were patched with strips of cardboard that in turn,
hanging by a tack or two, gaped blatantly, he could make
out Clarkie Munn’s dark, scowling, unshaven features, as
the man sat sprawled out on a chair in the centre of the
room; also, Clarkie Munn was swearing viciously:

“Well, where’s Shaky Liz—eh? Where’s Shaky Liz?
Who’s right now about comin’ back here? Her tongue’s
been hangin’ out fer a drink now fer two weeks, an’ she’s
bust loose. Dat’s wot she’s done—yes, an’ probably queered
de whole lay too! I told youse so! I told youse youse’d
have to show me about Shaky Liz before I’d go de limit.
See! I ain’t fer any juice chair up de river—not yet!
Savvy?”

“Aw, shut up!” The words were clipped off; the voice
was almost a boyish treble. “Can yer croakin’, Clarkie,
youse give me a pain! Youse came back here because I said
so—dat’s why! I had to steer clear of Shaky Liz while
she put de stunt across, an’ we got to know now if de girl
fell fer it all right.”

“Yes,” growled Clarkie Munn, “an’ Shaky Liz has gone
an’ got drunk, an’ spilled de beans! I know her!”

“If she has,” purred the other, and there was something
of finality made the more horrible by the boyish tones, “she
gets hers—instead of de other, dat’s all. An’ anyway, youse
have no kick comin’! Youse an’ Gypsy here, an’ me, an’
Shaky Liz has all got a century apiece to start wid. We
can’t lose, can we?”

“Sure, we can!” complained Clarkie Munn. “We can
lose de other two hundred dat’s comin’ when de job’s done,
can’t we?”

Another voice spoke in a curiously meditative, raucous
way:

“I never thought I’d be workin’ fer him. He handed me
one once dat I ain’t fergot. But dere ain’t no one dares
to touch him now—he’s too big. Youse’d get smeared off
de map. He’s got de coin, but he’s no good anyway else,
except dat he’s sharper’n hell. D’ye remember de roll he
coughs up when he peels us dem century notes dat night?
Say, I guess he packs dat along wid him all de time. Say,
I wish we had him wid de girl to-night—I guess we’d
get our two hundred apiece, all right, all right.”

Clarkie Munn sat suddenly bolt upright in his chair,
staring across the room, obviously at the last speaker.

“I’d be wid youse, Gypsy!” he said eagerly. “Him an’
me don’t belong to de same lodge neither. We’re all right,
we are, fer dirty work, dat’s where we stand; but where do
we ever get a look-in when dere’s anything juicy goin’!
But youse’d have to know he had de roll on him. Youse
wouldn’t get anywhere unless youse did. I’d be wid youse,
Gypsy. I wish something like dat’d break loose.” He
swung around in his chair. “Eh, Cherub?”

“Youse give me a pain!” murmured the boyish voice.

“When youse gets a chance to get dat guy, youse’ll get a
chance to hang yer hat in a bathroom suite in de swellest
joint in town, an’ use a limousine fer a gape wagon, an’
wear white spats an’ yellow gloves in summer time. Can de
wish stuff!”

Billy Kane, hugging close against the wall, moved silently
farther on toward the rear of the hall until he was beyond
the radius of light from the doorway of the room. The
street door had opened, and a footstep, hesitant, scuffling,
was out there somewhere behind him. The step came
nearer, and now he could make out a woman’s form, that,
either in reality or as an illusion due to the uncertain light,
seemed to sway a little unsteadily as she walked. Opposite
the door she stood still, and now in the fuller light Billy
Kane could see her quite distinctly. Obviously, it was the
woman they had referred to as Shaky Liz—an old, unkempt,
hag-like creature, who blinked sore, red-rimmed eyes in
apparent astonishment and consequent indecision at the partially
open door and the light from within. And then she
stepped forward into the room, and the next moment the
door closed with a slam behind her, and with the slam her
voice rose in a curious, gurgling cry that seemed to mingle
terror and an unbridled fury.

In an instant, Billy Kane had retraced his steps, and was
crouching against the closed door. He could see now even
better than before. The gaping strip of cardboard that
did duty for the smashed panel, dislodged still farther by
the violent slam of the door, afforded him an almost unrestricted
view of the interior. Clarkie Munn had not moved
from his chair, and a little away from him, legs swinging
from a dilapidated, rickety table, Gypsy Joe, black-visaged
and swarthy, sucked indifferently at a cigarette; but over in
the far corner of the room by the bed, the woman, her hat
knocked to the floor, her tangled gray hair draggling about
her eyes, was engaged in a violent struggle with a small
boyish figure, who had her by the throat and was shaking
her head savagely back and forth. Billy Kane drew in his
breath. He remembered Whitie Jack’s description of the
Cherub in action—and it was literally true. The blue eyes
were bland and round and seemed to smile, the young face
was the face of a guileless youth in repose, and yet the boy—he
couldn’t be much more than a boy—was in a passion
worthy of an incarnate fiend.

“Youse have been out hittin’ de can, have youse?” snarled
the Cherub. “I’ll teach youse! Do youse think I’ve spent
two weeks hangin’ around dis dirty hole of yers, an’ standin’
fer youse being me sick, disabled grandmother wid me supposed
to be doin’ me best to keep bread in yer mouth, an’
playin’ poor, an’ having to listen to her tryin’ to get me
jobs, an’ handin’ me de soft, goody-goody talk—d’ye think
I’m standin’ fer dat just to have youse go out an’ kick de
stuffin’ outer de whole lay! I’ll teach youse!”

“It’s a lie!” screamed Shaky Liz. She shook herself suddenly
free, and with crooked fingers clawed like a wild
cat at the Cherub’s face. “I didn’t crab no game! It’s a
lie! I got it all fixed before I went out. I guess I got a
right to a drink now, ain’t I?”

The Cherub warded off her attack with a vicious sweep
of his fist.

“Yes!” he snarled again. “An’ suppose she’d seen youse!
Or suppose she’d come back here by any chance an’ found
de poor bedridden grandma gone out fer a drink—eh! Blast
youse, couldn’t youse wait a few hours more? De whole
outfit ’ud be glad if youse had drunk yerself to death den!”

Shaky Liz dashed the hair out of her eyes, and swept
her hands in a half angry, half expostulating gesture toward
the others.

“I didn’t queer no game!” she insisted truculently. “I
guess I know wot I’m doin’; an’ youse ain’t comin’ in here
to pull no rough-house business neither!”

“Aw, let her alone, an’ give her a chance to tell her
story,” drawled Gypsy Joe from the table. “We ain’t got
all night to stay here.”

“Sure!” said the Cherub softly, and smiled beneficently,
as he sat down on the edge of the bed and calmly lighted
a cigarette. “Go on, Liz, spill it!”

The old hag stared at him for a moment in silence, as she
dug again at her dishevelled locks.

“Youse dirty little runt!” She found her voice at last,
and in spite of her scowl there was a grudging note of
admiration in her tones. “Youse are pretty slick, ain’t
youse?”

“Sure!” admitted the Cherub imperturbably. “If I
wasn’t, youse wouldn’t have a hundred dollars in yer kick
now, an’ two hundred more comin’ to-morrow—if youse
ain’t queered it fer yerself. Go on, give us de dope!”

Shaky Liz preened herself. She adjusted the threadbare
bodice of her dress that seemed to bulge and sag uncomfortably,
picked up her hat, and smirked at her audience.

“It’s all right!” She wagged her head secretively. “Youse
don’t any of youse need to worry. When de Cherub pipes
me off this afternoon dat de stunt is to be pulled to-night, I
sends fer her as soon as he gets out of de way, an’ she
comes on de run. She don’t suspect nothing, ’cause wid
two weeks’ acquaintance she——”

“Can dat!” interrupted the Cherub politely. “We all
knows dat fer two weeks youse an’ me has been gettin’
acquainted wid her, an’ feedin’ on her jellies, an’ dat I’m de
errin’ child dat’s taken a shine to her an’ dat mabbe can be
influenced fer good—if she tried hard enough. Wot did she
say when she comes here dis evening?”

“Wot did she say?” repeated Shaky Liz, with a sudden
and malicious grin. “Why, she falls fer it, of course! Wot
d’ye expect? Me, I was lyin’ dere on de bed when she
blows in. She asks me how I was, an’ I says I ain’t no
worse dan usual, but dat it’s me young grandson dat’s
troublin’ me, an’ how I ain’t got no one to tell it to except
her, an’ how I dunno as I durst tell even her. An’ den
she says I oughter know well enough dat I can trust her,
an’ dat she won’t say nothin’, an’ den I gives her de spiel.
I says I ain’t slept all de last night thinkin’ about it. I tells
her it wouldn’t do no good me talkin’ to youse, ’cause I
ain’t got any influence wid youse an’ she has, an’ besides dat
I was afraid of Gypsy an’ Clarkie if dey got wise to me.
An’ I tells her wot a good boy youse are, too, Cherub, an’
how though mabbe youse might be better it ain’t all yer
fault ’cause youse’re easily led by bad company, but dat
youse have stood by yer old grandmother. Savvy?”

“De one bright spot in me life,” said the Cherub sweetly,
“is dat me own grandmother is dead, an’ don’t know de
raw deal I’m handin’ her. She looked just like youse, too—not!”

Shaky Liz scowled.

“Youse close yer face!” she flung out. “I tells her dat
me grandson has got pulled in by two of de toughest crooks
in New York.” Shaky Liz’s scowl became a grin. “Dat’s
youse, Clarkie, an’ youse, Gypsy. I tells her who youse
are, an’ dat last night youse three was here, an’ dat youse
all thought I was asleep, but dat I heard youse whisperin’
together, an’ dat Clarkie an’ Gypsy was persuadin’ me little
boy to pull a trick down to Kegler’s dock on de East River,
’cause dey didn’t dare do it demselves on account of de
police bein’ leery about dem ever since dey comes down
from Sing Sing de last time. I tells her how I hears youse
two crooks explainin’ dat Kegler’s got a bunch of coin in
his safe to pay off some sand barges dat he had expected
yesterday, but dat had got held up down de Sound, an’ dat
instead of takin’ de money back to de bank he was lettin’
it rust in his box, knowin’ dat de barges’d be along de day
after to-morrow, an’ dat youse had de combination of de
safe, an’ de key to de front door, an’ dat dere wouldn’t be
nobody around dere, an’ dat, anyway, nobody’d suspect me
little lad, an’ dat he was to go down dere alone at ten
o’clock to-night an’ make de haul, an’ den meet Clarkie an’
Gypsy uptown somewhere fer de split.”

Gypsy Joe, on the table, circled his lips approvingly
with the tip of his tongue.

“Dat’s de stuff, Shaky!” he commended. “Don’t youse
mind dese guys, dey ain’t neither of dem got anything on
youse. I’m fer youse, old gal!”

Shaky Liz grinned complacently.

“Me, I was cryin’ good an’ hard by dis time,” she said,
and grinned again, “an’ she had a face dat white youse’d
think she was goin’ to pull de faint act. I says I ain’t
slept all de last night tryin’ to think wot to do, an’ dat’s
why I sent fer her. An’ she asks me if I’m sure de boy was
goin’ to do it. An’ I says I am. An’ she asks me where he
is, an’ I says I don’t know, an’ dat I don’t know where
to find him; dat he went out just before I sent fer her, an’
dat he says he won’t be back till late to-night, an’ dat’s wot
makes me sure he’s goin’ to do it. Sure, I was cryin’ good
an’ hard den—savvy?

“An’ I says he’s a good boy, an’ if I tells de police dat’ll
finish him; an’ I says I’m sick an’ can’t walk, an’ can’t go
down dere myself, an’ dat she’s de only one I dares trust,
an’ besides dat she’s got a lot of influence wid de boy, an’
dat I knows she can persuade him not to fall fer it, an’ den
nobody’ll know anything about it. An’ she says: ‘Yes, of
course—I’ll do anything. But where is he? Where can I
find him?’ An’ I says dere ain’t only one place I knows, an’
dat’s down to Kegler’s, an’ dat he’ll be all alone dere, an’
dat if she gets dere before ten o’clock she’ll be in time to
try an’ stop him. An’ she bends over me, an’ pats me
hands, she does, an’ she says: ‘Don’t youse worry, Mrs.
Cox,’ she says. ‘I’ll go.’ An’ I says: ‘An’ youse won’t tell
nobody, nor take nobody down dere, so’s anybody’d know
about me little lad’s disgrace?’ An’ she says: ‘No, I’ll go
alone; an’ I’m sure I can promise youse it’ll be all right.’
An’ den she goes away. Dat’s all!” Shaky Liz was fumbling
with the bodice of her dress again, and suddenly pulled
out a black, square-faced bottle. “Dat’s all!” she announced
with a cackle. “An’ I guess I gotta right to dis if I wants
it—ain’t I?”

“Youse can bet yer life youse have!” agreed Gypsy Joe
with fervent heartiness—and reached for the bottle.

In a flash the Cherub was up from the bed, and between
them.

“Nix on dat, Gypsy!” he said sharply. “Shaky’s end is
all right, I guess; but *we* ain’t through yet. Nix on dat—get
me!” He stepped closer to both Clarkie Munn and
Gypsy Joe. “Now, den,” he said briskly, “since we’re satisfied
wid Shaky, we’ll get down to tacks—eh? Everybody
makes sure dey knows dere own play, an’ we don’t make no
renigs. I goes down dere, an’ youse two are trailin’ out of
sight behind, an’ she buttonholes me, an’ I gets her inside
widout youse if I can, but anyway we gets her inside widout
any noise, an’ de trap-door where dey shoots de sweepings
from de warehouse into de water under de dock does de
trick. If dere’s enough weight on her she’ll be dere forever.
An’ dere’s one thing more. Nix on de easy-fingered
stuff wid any safe business, or anything loose lying around
dat looks like meat! Savvy? To-morrow morning de place
looks like it did when dey left it to-night. De girl’s disappeared,
dat’s all—an’ dere’s nothing to show dat Kegler’s
dock had anything to do wid it. Get me? Dey’ll never
find her, an’ dat’s wot’s wanted, an’ why we’re gettin’ two
hundred apiece more.”

Gypsy Joe removed the cigarette from his mouth, watched
the blue spiral of smoke from its tip curl upward for a moment,
and pursed his lips in a ruminative pucker.

“I wonder wot de Rat had it in fer her fer as hard as
dat?” he said, with a shrug of his shoulders. “She must
have——”

The—*Rat!* She—the *girl* they were talking about! The
room seemed suddenly to swirl before Billy Kane’s eyes, the
figures inside to become but blurred, jerky objects—and
then it was black around him. Automatically he was stepping
backward with a catlike tread; automatically he was
feeling his way along the black hallway. And then the cool
evening air fanned his face, and he was in the street.

XXIV—AGAINST TIME
=================

Billy Kane put his hand to his forehead, and
brought it away wringing wet with great drops of
sweat. It had come like a blow without warning
upon him, staggering him for an instant with horror—and
then his brain had cleared as if by magic. It was cruelly
clear now.

The girl that they meant to murder was—the Woman in
Black. He had had no thought of that while they talked in
there, not until Gypsy Joe had mentioned the Rat. And
then it had seemed as though the pieces of a puzzle had
been suddenly fitted together as by some unseen hand, and
bare to his brain, naked, an ugly picture stood out in hideous
perspective. He knew too well that the Rat had an incentive
for getting rid of her. And he knew why. And it
was *she* who had telephoned him, Billy Kane, to watch
Gypsy Joe and Clarkie Munn to-night. Who else would
know of anything afoot concerning those two except the
“she” to whom Shaky Liz had told her damnable Judas
story?

And he saw now why, and understood her instructions to
him to watch Clarkie and Gypsy Joe. If she failed in her
efforts through moral persuasion to prevent the Cherub
from committing what she believed was to be a robbery, she
still, through him, Billy Kane, could look for the recovery
of the cash, and still keep the young hound, that she believed
in and was trying to save, out of the hands of the police,
and do it with a clear conscience since she would be in a
position to return the proceeds of the theft. And then, too,
perhaps, there had entered into her calculations the element
of self-protection. She expected the Cherub to go alone,
but if by any chance his pals went too, those pals were
Clarkie Munn and Gypsy Joe—and he, Billy Kane, in that
case, would be on their heels. And he understood, too, why
she had not been more explicit over the telephone. She
had not actually anticipated trouble, and she had respected
her promise to the old hag to keep the Cherub’s name out
of it.

He was running now, making across town in the direction
of the East River. He did not know where Kegler’s dock
or warehouse was, but Kegler was evidently a rather large
dealer in sand, and any directory in the first drug store he
passed would supply that information.

His mind worked on—curiously self-explanatory of his
own actions. It had seemed pure impulse at the time that
had prompted him to retreat so precipitately from the tenement;
but he realized now that it was his brain subconsciously,
but logically, at work. He, as the Rat, could not
call in the police to raid that room where the inmates would
denounce him as the author and instigator of the very crime
for which he demanded their arrest; and to have gone into
the room alone himself and have attempted to hold them
up at the point of his pistol, while it might have been spectacular
and dramatic, would have been little less than the
act of a fool. It was not so easy for one man to hold up
three others, to say nothing of a woman who was quite
as abandoned, and certainly as full of trickery, and cunning,
and resource as her male companions. There would have
been, then, only one other alternative—to have gone in
there coolly as the Rat, and call off the game that he was
supposed to have started. But he had already learned that
they had no love for the Rat, even though he was their
employer in the present instance, and that secretly they were
asking for nothing better than just such a favorable chance
as that would be to “get” him, and to get, too, the large
amount of cash that they credited him with having on his
person.

His lips were tight, as he ran. He was conscious that he
would not have hesitated to take the risk, to take any risk,
if there had been no other way of saving her. But there
was another way, a very much simpler, more common sense
and natural a way; the way he was taking now. He had
only to go to this Kegler’s dock where she would be waiting
for the Cherub, and warn her. That was all. He had ample
time if he hurried, since *they* had not started yet.

Time! Yes, he had time enough. Cool, deliberate reason
reassured on that point, but the thought brought him a little
panic-struck catch of breath. It might have been better,
perhaps, if he had gone to the Bowery, or perhaps over into
Lower Broadway, in the hope, say, of getting a taxi that
would have saved him many minutes. He shook his head,
and called himself a fool for allowing his mind to wander to
inconsequent things. There were not many taxis hunting
fares on the Bowery, and who ever heard of an empty
taxi on Lower Broadway at this hour of night! And, besides,
it was not half past nine yet, and she was not to be
there until ten. And yet—time! He flirted the moisture
from his forehead again, as, reaching a small drug store on a
corner, he turned, and entered, and asked for the directory.

He was out again in scarcely a minute. He had found
Kegler’s in the directory without difficulty, but not without
certain new misgivings. Kegler’s was much farther along
the East River than, somehow, and entirely without reason,
he had imagined it would be. He began to run again,
and again that twinge of panic seized him. True, he had a
start on the others; true, they had just as far to go as he
had, but with the distance that he knew now there was to
cover, and the limit that existed in the time in which to
cover it, it became more than probable they would have
arranged for some special means of conveyance, whereas he
had none.

Billy Kane dropped suddenly from a run into a slow,
even nonchalant walk. A short distance ahead of him, a
small, and apparently, an old and second-hand car was
coughing and chugging laboriously at the curb in front of
the lighted window of a little grocery store. A few steps
more, and he saw that the car was empty. Billy Kane’s lips
broadened in a hard smile. It might be reprehensible to
steal a car for a few hours; but, as between a car and a
human life that he knew depended on him alone, he experienced
no pangs of conscience. It was the way out!

He edged over to the curb as he approached the machine,
and, close to the car now, glanced around. In through the
store window he could see a man, back turned, evidently
the car’s owner, leaning over the counter, talking to the
proprietor of the store. Billy Kane, wary of attracting
premature notice from the pedestrians here and there along
the street, reached out calmly, opened the door without
haste, and with a deliberate air of proprietorship slipped into
the driver’s seat—but in the next instant he had thrown in
the gears, and the machine shot from the curb like a mad
animal stung to frenzy.

A yell went up behind him; there came to him the glimpse
of a man’s figure rushing wildly out through the store door
into the street; and then another yell, that was echoed from
different directions along the street. The car took the first
corner on little better than two wheels. The yells died away
behind. At the next intersecting street Billy Kane turned
again, and thereafter for a few blocks zigzagged his course,
until, satisfied that he had thrown any immediate pursuers
off his track, he headed again over toward the East River.

And now as he drove more quietly, confident that he
need no longer fear the element of time, his mind harked
back again to that scene in the old hag’s room, and there
came a puzzled frown furrowing his forehead, and a queer
strained look into his face. It was not so clear after all!
The picture in the large was there. The patient, cold-blooded
winning of her confidence in order to lure her without suspicion
or hesitation to her death was clear enough, as was
also the hideous betrayal of that confidence, a betrayal that
plumbed the depths of human infamy, and whose unscrupulous
ingenuity and vile cunning was so typical of the Rat;
but the details, examined more critically, seemed somehow
foggy and obscured, and seemed to hint at something he
did not quite understand. It was not that it was evidence
of the Rat’s return. That thought did not trouble him,
for certainly he, of all others, who had so unceremoniously
possessed himself of the Rat’s den and all the Rat’s belongings,
should be the first to know of it if the other had
put in an appearance again; and the fact that the plot had
reached its consummation to-night he did not consider to
have any bearing on that point either. Many of the Rat’s
plans, begun in the past, as he, Billy Kane, had only too
good reason to know, had reached their climax since the Rat
himself had been away. This was probably one of them.
Certainly it had been begun more than two weeks ago, as
both Shaky Liz and the Cherub had said, and that was
before he, Billy Kane, had assumed the Rat’s rôle, and,
therefore, quite logically it seemed, before the Rat had gone
away. It was not that—once started, the unholy quartet
to whom the Rat had entrusted his dirty work was quite
capable of carrying it through to its detestable conclusion—but
it seemed strange that, adventurous as the Rat was
and much as he undoubtedly desired to get the Woman in
Black out of his way, he would have dared to do this.
What she held over the Rat’s head, he, Billy Kane, did
not know; but he knew the Rat was well aware that, in
event of her disappearance, certain evidence would be forthcoming
against him within twenty-four hours. That had
been her protection, a protection with which she had appeared
to be thoroughly satisfied, and she had taken occasion
more than once to give that warning to him, Billy Kane, in
the belief that she was warning the Rat himself. There
seemed to be only one answer then to this move on the Rat’s
part. In some way, unknown to her, he must have come into
possession of that evidence, or in some way have rendered
abortive the means by which, in event of her disappearance,
it would be brought to light.

The car rattled and jangled along. It was a miserable
contraption, seedy, and badly down at the heels, but so that
its engine functioned he asked nothing better. He was near
the river front now, and in the region of warehouses and
buildings that, remote from the bridges and the regular
trend of traffic, showed no lights at night, and where the
streets were utterly deserted, and where occasionally he
caught glimpses of the river itself like a silver thread under
the moonlight. He ran still more slowly now, studying his
location with all possible care. Kegler’s dock, according to
the directory, was still farther on, of course, but he realized
that, well as he knew his New York, this was somewhat
out of the ordinary radius, and that it would be all too easy
to miss his way.

He shook his head a little in perplexity. There was another
thing—one of the little details. Shaky Liz, Gypsy
Joe, Clarkie Munn and the Cherub were not in the ranks
of the Crime Trust as Red Vallon, and the Cadger,
and Vannet, for instance, were, and where the Rat might
naturally be expected to work upon a basis of mutual trust.
It seemed strange that the Rat, in executing a plan like
this, would give, not one, but four outsiders a hold on
him, for if their tongues were ever loosened it meant the
death house in Sing Sing for the Rat to a certainty. Nor
did the fact that they themselves were accomplices wholly
justify this seeming lapse from cunning on the Rat’s part.
Accomplices before now had been known to turn State’s
evidence! It was queer! The Rat probably had a very
good reason—only it seemed a little queer!

Billy Kane shrugged his shoulders. Enough of that! He
was peering out of the car now with growing anxiety, and
with the realization forcing itself upon him that, if he had not
actually lost his way, he at best had a very confused knowledge
of his exact whereabouts. His lips tightened. It was
growing late, too; it must be getting perilously near ten
o’clock. He had had no doubt but that, from the address
in the directory, he could easily find the place, and he was
still sure it was farther on; but the quarter here was outrageously
dark, and a plethora of turnings, that seemed to
be nothing more than private trafficways for various wharfs
and warehouses, made an exceedingly nasty complication.
He nosed the machine along, his face growing more set and
anxious every moment. It was black here—black—nothing
but a cursed blackness. If there were only someone about—someone
from whom he could ask directions! But there
was nothing, no one, only the black, looming shapes of
buildings, and even these were becoming more scattered
now; and the only signs of life were the whistles and churnings
of passing craft on the river.

The minutes passed. A sense of helplessness, of impotency,
that brought a cold chill to his heart, was upon him
now. Down here on the river front he was hopelessly
lost. There was no light in the ramshackle car that he had
appropriated—it wasn’t equipped with anything that even
approached a modern device. He stopped the car, lighted
a match, and looked at his watch.

*Ten minutes of ten!*

Ten minutes! There were ten minutes left! He started
the car again mechanically. There were ten minutes between
her and a trap-door that opened into the silvery
streak of water out there, whose shimmering now had lost
its beauty and seemed like the hideous, insinuating, silky
movement of some ghastly reptile. Ten minutes stood between
her and that trap-door; and he, fool that he was, had
lost his way! And yet he could hardly blame himself; the
East River front at night was—but what did it matter
whether he blamed himself or not!

A low cry of bitter hurt came from his compressed lips.
It wasn’t only the Woman in Black! Her deadly peril now,
the almost certainty of her death, brought him, in an overwhelming
surge of anguish and fear the consciousness that
it was the woman he loved. He remembered the abhorrence
and contempt she held for him in those steadfast, fearless
brown eyes of hers, and he loved her for that abhorrence
and contempt. It seemed to typify her, as somehow she
seemed to typify a purity and a courage that was soul deep—for
that contempt and abhorrence was for the man whom
she believed to be the Rat, who in turn typified the dregs
and lees of all that was vile. But he, Billy Kane, was not
the Rat, and some day, as he was conscious now, he had
hoped to stand before her in his own person, and with his
own name cleared. His hands gripped on the steering
wheel until it seemed as though the taut-drawn skin would
burst over the knuckles. He remembered the poise of that
dainty head, the curve of the full, white, rounded throat, and
he saw her now in—— No! He would not let his brain
complete that thought. It would drive him mad. He was
already in a state bordering on frenzy, almost out of self-control.
Ten minutes! There could be very few of those
ten minutes left now!

A cry came from him again, but this time one of sudden
hope. To his right, from a large building at the head of
one of those trafficways that led to the river bank itself, he
caught sight of a lighted window. In an instant the machine
was tearing forward in that direction; and in a minute
more he had leaped out, and was pounding frantically with
his fists at the door of the building. This wasn’t Kegler’s,
he knew that; but here was some sign of life at last in the
deserted neighborhood.

A step sounded from within. It seemed to drag. It
seemed as though it were covering some interminable distance
inside there. And then the door opened, and an old,
decrepit man, who perhaps held down a sort of pensioned
night watchman’s job, a lantern in hand, stuck out his
head.

“I’ve lost my way,” said Billy Kane quickly. “Can you
tell me where Kegler’s place is?”

“You mean the sand docks?” inquired the other.

“Yes,” said Billy Kane.

The man stepped out from the doorway, and pointed
back along the river.

“That’s it over there,” he said. “The one beyond our
wharf down here.” He glanced at the car. “But you can’t
get through here with that car because this bit of road don’t
connect—see? You’ll have to go back a bit the way you
came.”

Billy Kane held his watch under the lantern’s light.
There were neither the five, nor the four, nor the three
minutes that he had dared hope might still remain. It was
already after ten o’clock!

“Can I get down from here on foot—it’s shorter this way,
isn’t it?” asked Billy Kane between closed teeth.

“Yes, sure, you can,” said the man. “But you won’t find
no one there. They was expecting some barges in, but they
haven’t come yet, and——”

Billy Kane had already swung away from the other, and
was making for the river.

“Thanks!” he called out over his shoulder, as he ran.
“I’ll leave the car here till I get back.”

He heard some reply from the other, but he could not
make out the words. Whatever they were, they were inconsequent
now. He, Billy Kane, unless by some miracle, was
too late to warn her—and too late perhaps even to save her.
He knew fear now as he had never known it before, but it
was not fear for himself. And he knew a passion that
seemed to find its roots in the very soul of him. If he was
too late—at least there would be a reckoning, come what
might! His lips twitched in a queer, distorted smile. It
was strange! This fear and this passion, though they were
supreme within him, seemed curiously under control, and
he was abnormally cool and calm now, and his brain, as
though lashed into virility by some powerful stimulant, was
working swiftly, incisively, leaping in flashes from premises
to conclusions.

It was certain that they were already there, but there
was still a chance that they had not yet had time to do her
any harm. And it must be his wits, not blundering force,
that would be its own undoing, that must turn that chance
to account. He must play the Rat now in exactly the same
way as, when back there in the tenement, the thought had
flashed across his mind that he might have played it in the
old hag’s room. The chances of success, it was true, were a
hundredfold slimmer now than they would have been then;
but now it was forced upon him as the only way, and then
it had seemed an unnecessary and uncalled-for risk to take.
It was the one way now. It might fail, but it would gain
him access inside that dark, looming building across the
open stretch of brick-and-sand-strewn yard where he was
running now; and once inside, if it were not already too
late, there must be some way out for her. And if it were
too late—well then, the Cherub, and Gypsy Joe, and Clarkie
Munn would not have to press the Rat for payment for their
work!

Again the distorted smile flickered on his lips. He had
his bearings now, both literally and mentally. He ran without
caution, making almost unnecessary noise, and reached
the door of the building; a building that, he could discern
now, made the shore end of a long dock, and which, according
to the old watchman’s directions, was obviously Kegler’s
place.

The building was in utter and complete darkness. He
dismissed the possibility that she was still anywhere without,
still waiting for the Cherub’s arrival, as too improbable
to warrant the waste of even a second, and making still
more noise at the door now, he tried it, found it unlocked,
pushed it open, stepped inside and closed it behind him. A
quick, startled exclamation, from a long way off, it seemed,
reached him, and then a sibilant whisper:

“Who’s dat?”

“Clarkie—Gypsy!” Billy Kane called softly. “Are you
there?”

“Gawd!” a voice ejaculated hoarsely.

A light went on somewhere over Billy Kane’s head. He
was in a short passage that was flanked on either side by
what were evidently the business offices of the concern, and
at the end of this passage now a door was suddenly swung
open. Gypsy Joe was standing in the doorway.

“De Rat!” he exclaimed in heavy amazement, and
mechanically fell back as Billy Kane advanced.

XXV—THE OLD WAREHOUSE
=====================

Billy Kane’s eyes were apparently blinking in the
abrupt transition from darkness to the glare of light;
but with the knowledge that it might literally mean
the difference between life and death to him—and her—no
single detail of his surroundings was escaping him. The
door ahead of him, a heavy, cumbersome affair, opened inwards
toward him, and was now swung full back against the
wall, but if the evidence of that iron loop on the door jamb
could be trusted, the door was equipped with a massive bolt.
Gypsy Joe was still to a large extent blocking the doorway,
but he could see that the huge, lighted space beyond was a
sort of storage warehouse, windowless, of course, or else
he would have seen a light from outside. And the switches,
the electric-light switches—the one for the bulb over his
head in this passage here, and the one for the light in that
room ahead of him! They were vital too! He could not see
any in the position where he might naturally expect to find
them—by the door where Gypsy Joe stood. He glanced
back over his shoulder. Yes, there was one there at the
side of the front door, a switch for the passage light undoubtedly;
but Gypsy Joe had certainly not used that one,
so there must be another then, as well, inside the storage
room.

He had been perhaps the matter of a bare few seconds in
traversing the length of the passage, and now as he stepped
across the threshold into the warehouse itself, the Cherub
and Clarkie Munn had joined Gypsy Joe, and were staring
at him with scowling, startled, uncertain faces—but Billy
Kane’s eyes were not on the three men. The blood seemed
to leap through his veins in a great surging tide, and upon
him was the sense of a mighty uplift. It was not too late!
It was not too late! His brain seemed to seize upon those
words and reiterate them in a sing-song way. A woman’s
form lay upon the floor, and she was bound and gagged;
but dark eyes met his, and in the eyes was a softer light
than he had ever seen there before when they had been
fixed on him. “For once,” they seemed to say, “you have
not failed. I told you to watch Gypsy Joe and Clarkie
Munn, and you are just in time.”

The Cherub laughed suddenly and a little noisily, as from
unstrung nerves.

“Say, youse gave us a jolt!” he said. “Wot’s de idea? I
suppose youse came along to make sure dat we earned yer
money, eh, an’ dat dere wouldn’t be no fluke about her bein’
bumped off fer keeps? Well, if youse had been about a
minute an’ a half later youse’d have missed de trap-door
scene, ’cause it’d have been all over.”

Billy Kane’s eyes had met the girl’s again. The soft
light in them had gone, and in its place had come a horror,
and sudden accusation, and a bitter misery; and her face,
already deathly white as she lay there, seemed now to tinge
with gray.

Billy Kane shook his head in response to the Cherub,
as he turned and faced the three men. They were edging a
little closer to him. He caught a surreptitious nudge that
passed between Gypsy Joe and Clarkie Munn. He moved
back a step—but it was a step that brought him nearer to
the girl. If he could hold them in a state of puzzled suspense
with its consequent indecision for a moment, that was
all he asked. And he was counting on a sort of frank
audaciousness for that.

“Well?” prompted the Cherub, a sudden, curious silkiness
in his tones. “Did I call de turn?”

“Maybe he’s come down to pay us off,” suggested Gypsy
Joe smoothly. “Dere’s nothin’ slow about de Rat.”

“I’ll tell you,” said Billy Kane quietly. He took his
knife from his pocket, and coolly opened it; then nonchalantly,
but with a swift, lithe movement, stooped and cut
the cords that bound the girl’s wrists. He pressed the knife
into her hand—she needed no further hint that she could
free her own ankles—and, as he straightened up again, his
eyes swept the wall by the door. Yes, they were there—two
electric-light switches. He faced the trio again.

“Well, wot do youse know about dat!” observed Clarkie
Munn, with an unpleasant grin.

“I’ll tell you, Clarkie,” Billy Kane lied calmly. “I’m leery
that somebody’s split, and I’m afraid the police know too
much. Understand? I’m not taking any chances, and the
game’s off—that’s all.”

The Cherub’s bland, blue eyes seemed to shade a darker
hue.

“Dat’s all right, den,” said the Cherub sweetly. “But wot
about us? Mabbe youse can call de game off if youse likes,
’cause it’s yer game, but where does we come in? ’Tain’t
our fault de job’s crimped—dat’s up to youse. Does we
get paid or not?”

“Dat’s de talk, Cherub!” applauded Clarkie Munn, an undisguised
snarl in his voice.

Billy Kane shrugged his shoulders.

“Who said you wouldn’t get paid?” he demanded roughly.
“We’ll attend to that when we get out of here. Do you
want to hang around and get pinched?”

“No,” said the Cherub, and smiled. “No, we don’t want
to get pinched—an’ we ain’t worryin’ none about it either,
not about gettin’ pinched down here. It’s a cinch youse
wouldn’t have risked comin’ here if de bulls had been followin’
a yard behind. We knows youse too well fer dat,
Bundy! Get me? An’ youse ain’t comin’ across when
youse gets out of here, youse are comin’ across right now!
An’ youse”—he whirled suddenly on the girl, who had risen
to her feet and was backing toward the door—“youse stand
where youse are! I ain’t sure we are through wid youse
yet, no matter wot Bundy says—see?” He jerked his head
at his two companions, though his eyes never for an instant
left Billy Kane’s face. “Wot about it, fellers? If she gets
out of here she knows too much, an’ we got to fade away
outer New York anyway, whether de bulls are on now or
not. An’ dat takes de coin—all de coin we can get. Well,
de Rat always carries a wad, but if we pinches it an’ lets de
Rat loose afterwards he’s got a bunch behind him dat’ll
nose us out where de bulls couldn’t, an’ we’ll get ours. Dat’s
de size of it. Do we play fer table stakes, or hedge de
bets?”

It was coming now, as Billy Kane had known inevitably
that it would come. There was no answer needed from
either Clarkie Munn or Gypsy Joe. It was written in the
ugly menace in their faces, and had been from the moment
they had recovered their startled surprise at his entry into
the place.

Billy Kane flung a quick glance around him. The girl
was a little behind him, close to those electric-light switches,
her way clear to the front door, save for the peril of that
lighted passage down which she must run. In front of him,
just out of arm’s reach, the Cherub’s bland eyes smiled into
his with a sort of hideous serenity; while over the Cherub’s
shoulders, one on each side, showed the vicious faces of the
other two—and, under cover of the Cherub’s body, Clarkie
Munn’s hand seemed to be stealing in the direction of his
hip pocket.

Billy Kane seemed suddenly to go to pieces and to lose his
nerve. His tongue circled his lips with nervous repetition.
He put out his hands in an imploring attitude, and stumbled
a step forward toward the Cherub, and caught a glint of
light on a revolver barrel in Clarkie Munn’s hand, as it came
stealing now from the latter’s pocket.

“Wait—wait a minute, Cherub!” Billy Kane whispered
thickly, and licked at his lips again, and stumbled forward
another step. “Wait!” he whispered—and then, swift as
the winking of an eye, Billy Kane flung his body forward
with all his weight upon the Cherub, hurling the Cherub
back upon Clarkie Munn, and whirling, whipped a lightning
left full into Gypsy Joe’s face on the other side. There
was a flash, the deafening roar of a report, as the Cherub
reeled into Clarkie Munn’s revolver; then a scream of agony,
and the Cherub, grasping at his leg with both hands, went
to the floor.

“The switches there—beside you!” Billy Kane shouted at
the girl. “Put out the lights—both switches! Quick! Run
for it!”

Gypsy Joe, recovering his balance, and with a bellow like
a maddened bull was charging forward; Clarkie Munn’s
hand had swung upward again—and then the place was in
darkness. A second late, Clarkie Munn’s revolver cut a
vicious flame-tongue through the black, but Billy Kane had
flattened himself out on the floor, and was wriggling rapidly
backward toward the door and the now dark passageway.

There was a moan, then a shrill scream in the Cherub’s
voice, and coincidentally a torrent of blasphemy from Gypsy
Joe, as the latter, quite obviously, in his rush and in the
blackness now, had stumbled none too gently into the
wounded man.

“Youse fool! Curse youse, youse fool!” shrieked the
Cherub. “Ain’t youse got a pocket torch? Ain’t either of
youse got a torch? Flash a torch on him, an’——”

Billy Kane was across the threshold now; and now, rising
to his knees, he groped out for the edge of the door, found
it, and, as he slammed it shut, it seemed to cut in two, as a
knife might cut it, the sudden, white, piercing ray of a
flashlight that leaped out from the interior of the warehouse.
And then in another second he had shot the bolt
home in its grooves, and, in the darkness, leaning heavily
for an instant against the door to recover himself, he stared
down the black passage for the girl, and could see
nothing.

There came an abortive rush against the door; snarls and
oaths came muffled from within. He moved a step forward
along the passage. They were a negligible quantity in
there now. The door would hold, and when they succeeded
in getting out and making their way along the side of the
dock perhaps, they would be more concerned in getting to
cover themselves than anything else; and besides they would
have a wounded man to hamper their movements. It was
she now, the Woman in Black, that concerned him.

“Where are you?” he called quickly. “Where are you?”

A draft of air touched his face. The front door at the
farther end of the passage was being opened.

“I am here, Bundy.”

It was her voice, but there was something of cold, merciless
forbidding in it. He halted instinctively. He did not
quite understand.

“Bundy, are you listening?” came the level tones again.
“This is the end, absolutely and finally the end to-night.
You have saved my life, but I owe you no thanks for that.
You saved it, after hiring thugs to take it, you thing of
loathing, because you dared do nothing else, since you say
you believe the police got wind enough of this thing tonight
to scare you off. Very well, Bundy—but there is
more, isn’t there, that the police do not know? Well,
they will know it, and certain secrets in that den of yours,
the moment I can reach them. I have warned you often
enough. I am through, Bundy, this is the end of the Rat
to-night, nothing shall stop that—but I am still a fool. I
am still giving you warning of what I mean to do now. I
am still giving you a chance to save yourself if you can;
the rather slim chance that the police will not be able to run
the man who was known as the Rat to earth! And I am
giving you that chance because—well because, even in spite
of yourself, I am still alive.”

“No!” he cried. “You do not understand. Wait!” He
was groping down the black passage, as he heard the front
door shut quickly, and heard a footstep running, receding,
outside. “Wait!” he cried again. “For God’s sake, wait!”

There was no answer. He knew there would be none.
He had heard her running away out there, hadn’t he? He
reached the door, and looked out—and hung there hesitant—and
called again—and there was no answer. He listened.
He could not hear her footsteps any more. There was no
sound from anywhere, not even from that warehouse door
behind him. They weren’t hammering on that any more.

And then Billy Kane laughed in a short, bitter, mirthless
way, and started, running at top speed, in the direction in
which he had left his purloined and dilapidated car. The
end! The end of the Rat! He laughed again in the same
bitter mirth, as he ran. It was the end of more than that!
It was the end of hope—of her—of that love that had come
to him upon the thresholds of these strange doors of the
night. It was the end of Billy Kane! And whether as
the Rat now, or as Billy Kane, the police would be equally
hard upon his trail. He stood in far worse case now than on
the night of David Ellsworth’s murder, for now the underworld,
that would be combed for the Rat, and where the
Rat was too well known to have it offer the slightest hope of
escaping detection, was closed to him as a refuge. He knew
what she meant to do—to tell her story to the police, to expose
all the criminal acts and affiliations of the bona fide Rat,
and to lead them to the Rat’s den, and expose the secrets
that she had so often hinted were hidden there.

He clenched his hands as he ran. The end! No! Not
yet! Not until they had him, and they had not got him
yet! He did not know which way to turn; but while he still
had his freedom there was still the hope of running down
the murderer of David Ellsworth—and there were the proceeds
of that robbery now, most of them, in the Rat’s den.
That was what seemed to stand out as immediately vital
now—to get those things—that money and those rubies.
He had staked everything on the hope that some day he
could hand over to justice both the proceeds of that crime
and the murderer as well—hand them over *together*, as a
complete vindication of his own name—and even now, in
this hour that seemed blackest of all, he still dared to cling
to that hope. He knew who the murderer was, and he had
already recovered a large share of what had been stolen.
He still hoped to find the murderer, and he still hoped to
find the remainder of those rubies, and so carry out his
original plan. His jaws locked. His mind was made up.
He would go! And, yes, he had far better than an even
chance of getting there in time. She would take longer to
reach the police and lead them to the den than it would
take him to reach it—thanks to the car that, grim irony!
he had stolen on her account. Afterward his position would
be desperate enough; but now, without an instant’s loss of
time, he had to gain the den and get away again before they
trapped him there.

He reached the car. The old night watchman had evidently
retired inside the building again, for there was no
sign of the man. He experienced a certain sense of relief
at this, as he cranked the obsolete machine; and then he
was in the driver’s seat again, and the car was roaring
along the road. He drove fast, with mad haste, with reckless
disregard for the ill-lighted road. There could be no
accident comparable in disaster to his failure to put the
miles behind him swiftly enough to insure him the few
minutes leeway he asked for in the den.

He bent over the wheel, tense, rigid, strained. The minutes
sped away. A glimmer of hope came to him for that
“afterward.” He could use the car again; get out of the
city again before the chase got too hot. He could certainly
hide in that way during the night, and that would give him
the night in which to think. He had not time to think now—only
that as he drew in toward the centre of the city he
must keep as much as possible to the unfrequented streets,
both because he must ignore such a thing as speed laws, and
because he was driving a stolen car.

XXVI—THE LAST PORTAL
====================

Billy Kane had no means of knowing how long
he had been, when he finally leaped from the car at
the corner of the lane on the street at the rear of the
den. He knew only that, beyond any question of doubt or
uncertainty, he had outdistanced her. With a quick glance
around him to make sure that he was not observed, he
slipped into the lane; and in an instant more, through the
shed, and the underground tunnel, and the secret door that
so craftily opened on the board joints of the rough panelling,
he had gained the interior of the den. He ran across
it, turned on the dangling incandescent over the rickety
table, and running to the street door made sure that it was
locked.

He turned then, pushed the bed aside, and pulled up
the plank in the flooring that he had loosened once in his
search for the secret hiding places of the room, and that
had since served him in that capacity as a private depository
of his own. From the aperture he lifted out the hand bag
containing the banknotes stolen from the Ellsworth vault,
and the red flannel sack containing the rubies, which he had
torn from around the neck of the Man with the Crutch
last night, replaced the plank, set the bed back in its original
position, and carried the hand bag and sack to the table. He
opened the bag, tossed in the red flannel sack—and stood for
an instant eyeing the bag with a frown of distrust. He
remembered that it did not close very well, that he had bent
the catches with his steel jimmy that night when he had
forced the bag open in the room of the Man with the
Crutch, and that it was now quite liable to gape apart without
warning—in which case, should the contents be seen by
anyone, and they could not help but be seen if such an
accident should occur in the presence of anyone within
eyeshot, it would be likely to prove, not only awkward, but
disastrous for the possessor of the bag. His frown cleared.
There was still room in the bag for, say, a shirt; and, than
a shirt there was nothing better to disguise the contents
underneath.

He walked over to the old bureau, that was flanked on
one side by the secret door to the den, and on the other by
the cretonne hanging that, stretched diagonally across the
corner of the room, served the Rat as a wardrobe. There
was the shirt that he had worn on the night when he had
first come here, the night he had been wounded by the police.
Whitie Jack had washed the blood stains out, and had
shoved it in the top bureau drawer.

He pulled the drawer open, bent over it, reached in for
the shirt, straightened up—and the shirt dropped from his
fingers. He did not move. Something cold, and round,
and hard was pressed none too gently against the nape of
his neck. His eyes had lifted to the mirror in front of him
mechanically, and he stood there staring into it now like
a man dazed and numbed. An arm was stretched out from
behind the cretonne curtains, and a hand held a revolver
against his head. It was like some uncanny moving picture
that he was watching. For now the cretonne hanging
moved; and now a figure moved out from behind the
hanging, and stood behind him, Billy Kane, and stared,
too, into the mirror, over his, Billy Kane’s, shoulder.
There were two faces in the glass now, two faces that in
form and features seemed identical—or else it was some
strange mirage that caused a double reflection of his own
face. And then one of the faces smiled malevolently, leeringly.
It wasn’t his own face that smiled. He wasn’t
smiling—though his lips moved.

“The Rat!” he said, below his breath.

He felt a hand slip into his pocket, and remove his automatic.
And then the other spoke:

“Remarkable resemblance, isn’t it—Billy Kane? And the
recognition appears to be mutual—Billy Kane! I’ve been
waiting here quite a while for you this evening.”

Billy Kane did not answer. The Rat! The Rat was
back! It was the moment, arrived at last, that had haunted
him from the moment he had taken upon himself the other’s
personality here in the underworld; but though he was more
at the other’s mercy with that revolver muzzle boring into
his neck, more helpless than he had thought to be when
this time should arrive, more powerless where, instead, he
had told himself a hundred times that at the worst it could
be but a fight man to man, he found himself far more
unmoved now than he had anticipated he would be. He
found himself curiously composed. There seemed even a
grim, sardonic humor stirring in his soul. What did it
matter now? To-night he had no further use for the Rat’s
mantle—she had seen to that by now. To-night the whole
house of cards had toppled anyway, and the ultimate worst
had happened, save only that the police had not yet got
their steel bracelets around his wrists. And yet there was a
significance in the cold menace of the other’s tone, and a
still deeper significance, that he did not like, in the other’s
ostentatious repetition of his, Billy Kane’s, name. It was
obvious that Billy Kane was no stranger to the Rat!

“Get back to that table, and sit down there!” ordered
the Rat curtly.

Billy Kane, because he had no choice, obeyed. It was
like some weird, extravagant hallucination of the brain.
He was looking up from his chair into what seemed to be
his own face—only as he studied it now, fascinated by it,
he saw what no mirror had ever shown him was a part of
his own identity. The face was a little older, a little more
drawn, and there was an expression in the eyes, a smoldering
something, a devil’s malignity that burned out through
the half-closed lids, leaving the pupils like fever spots
behind. And he remembered now that she had commented
upon the freshness of his face on that first night when
they had met.

“You fool!” sneered the Rat suddenly. “So you played
the Rat, did you? And did you think I didn’t know? Well,
you seem to have liked it—Billy Kane—and so I guess
you’d better finish out the act, and play it until the end.
You can manage that, can’t you—say, for another ten
minutes—until the Rat is dead!”

Billy Kane’s hands tightened on the table edge. It was
not only the words, it was the eyes, and the face that were
working now, that seemed to possess some deadly eloquence.

“What do you mean?” Billy Kane steadied his voice.

“It won’t take long to tell you,” said the Rat roughly.
“You’ve been here long enough to know that apart from
the old cobbler and his wife upstairs, who mind their own
business and are always deaf when they don’t want to hear,
this place is sound-proof to revolver shots. Well, the game
is up to-night. Your game—and my game! I’ve got one
or two little things to do here, and then I’m going; but I’m
going to leave the Rat behind—dead.”

Billy Kane’s fingers began to drum a light tattoo on the
table. It was strange that he could force his fingers to do
that with an air of such apparent unconcern. He was
laboring under no delusions. He was fully conscious that
there was no bluff in the other’s words, that he was actually
sitting there and facing death in the most literal sense of
the term. The Rat’s reputation was quite enough in itself
to make it certain that the man would not hesitate in putting
his threat into execution. And then, besides, there
were strange stirrings in his mind now that were not comforting
things. The Rat, cognizant of it all the time, had
deliberately let him, Billy Kane, play the role—and the
drama was to end with the Rat’s death. It seemed horribly
logical. It would let the Rat out of *her* clutches to-night,
for instance, and leave only a dead Rat as prey for the
police. He started involuntarily. Was that it? His fingers
stopped their movements. Suppose he warned the Rat
that the police were coming now? No! That would only
cause the Rat to hurry—and to shoot the sooner. Well
then, suppose the police found *two* Rats here? It would
not save Billy Kane, but it would end the career of one of
the most infamous scoundrels in the United States—and
it would pay his debt to her! If he could only stave the man
off a little, fence for time!

He could have laughed out wildly at the mocking irony
of it. He was praying now for the police to come! She
would lead them, or some of them, through that secret door,
wouldn’t she?—though they would guard both doors, take
no chances, even while they would hardly expect to find
anyone here. The Rat was standing with his back to the
secret door, and Billy Kane’s eyes swept past the other now
in a well-simulated vacant, wavering way—and fell again
upon the Rat.

The man was leaning a little farther over the table now,
his lips parted in a vicious smile. It was as though, innate
in the other, was an unholy joy to be derived from a
victim’s plight, a joy that he sought to augment by making
his victim writhe the more if he could.

“And so you played the Rat, did you?” The Rat was
sneering again. “Well, you found out a lot more than was
good for you, didn’t you? There was a woman, wasn’t
there? Maybe she didn’t introduce herself because she
thought you knew her well enough; but maybe you’re entitled
to know something about her, because she’s one of
the reasons why you’re going to snuff out in a few minutes.”
His voice rose suddenly in a furious burst of blasphemy.
“Blast her!” he snarled. “She went too far! She thought
she could make me dance every time she cracked her little
whip, did she? She’ll wish now, if there’s any wishing
where she’s gone, that she’d stayed up on the Avenue with
the rest of the swells where she belongs, and left her infernal,
nosey charities on the East Side alone. Margaret Blaine—the
banker’s daughter! Ha, ha! She had it in for me
because a girl she was interested in down here went and
jumped in the river. See? She swore she’d put me through
one way or another for that. And then she stumbled on a
pal of mine the night he croaked off, and found some papers
on him that put me to the bad for fair. And that wised her
up to a lot more. And then, curse her, she tumbled to the
game here, and—well, I guess you know the hand she
played.” He laughed raucously. “I guess you’d ought to!
But you needn’t worry about it any more! She’s gone out—Billy
Kane—understand? She went out—for keeps—at
ten o’clock to-night.”

Billy Kane’s eyes stole to the secret door again. He remembered
the fascination with which he had watched it
slowly open on the night he had lain there on the bed, and
Karlin, in the hands of the police now, had sat at the
bedside, and Red Vallon had been here at the table. And
it seemed now as though the door moved again as it had
moved that night. But he could not be sure. Perhaps it
was his imagination that was father to the wish—and he
dared not look steadily, or too long in that direction.

He brushed his hand across his eyes. He understood
well enough now why the Rat had been indifferent to what
Shaky Liz, or the Cherub, or any of them, might hold over
him—there would be no Rat, if he, Billy Kane, in the
Rat’s stead, were murdered. And the Rat believed, of
course, that she—her name was Margaret—Margaret Blaine—that
she was dead. But he, Billy Kane, was playing for
time, wasn’t he? And the Rat, in his hideous propensity
for a cat-and-mouse game, seemed quite willing to talk.

“You killed her!” Billy Kane’s ejaculation was one of
stunned incredulity. “But—but she threatened me, when
she thought I was you, by saying that if anything happened
to her the evidence against you would be produced just the
same.”

“Sure, she did!” leered the Rat. “In twenty-four hours
after her disappearance. And it’ll be twenty-four hours all
right before they have any proof of that. It wasn’t pulled
off where a howl would go up ten minutes after she snuffed
out! Sure, in twenty-four hours! Well, I’m in no hurry,
am I? In twenty-four *minutes* the Rat—that’s you—won’t
need to care what busts loose! It’ll save *me* a lot of trouble
if they find the Rat sprawled out on the floor with a bullet
through him, won’t it?”

The door! Had it moved inward a bare fraction of an
inch, as it had that other night? There would have been
time by now, just time, for her and the police to have got
here. Was that a widening crack along that panel there—or
only a shadow flung with taunting malice by the murky
light? No—it moved now! He was sure of it. It moved!

He forced himself to laugh in a short, nervous way.

“I don’t see how that lets you out,” he mumbled. “What’s
to become of you if the Rat’s found dead?”

The Rat was moving back from the table to the side
wall of the den.

“I’ll show you,” said the Rat, with an ugly grin. “And
don’t move—you understand? I’m a dead shot, and I’m not
risking anything by being a few feet farther away. You’d
only go out a little sooner, and miss something that’ll maybe
sweeten your last moments—see?” His revolver still covering
Billy Kane, he raised his left hand and pressed against
the wall. A small panel door swung outward. “There’s
nothing in there!” mocked the Rat. “That’s the secret she
was forever talking about having discovered, and that’s
the place she looted all right, and where she got the dope
about a lot of our plans, and kept me from wising up the
crowd about it in order to save my own skin. But there’s
a thing or two she didn’t know.” His hand crept farther
along the wall, and pressed suddenly against it again, and
now a full board-length of the panelling slid away. Something
metallic fell with a thud to the floor—and then Billy
Kane was on his feet, clinging with a fierce, unconscious
grip to the table.

He had forgotten the police and that secret door at the
far end of the room, forgotten the peril in which he stood,
forgotten that ugly black muzzle of a revolver in the other’s
hand. His mind and brain seemed to be reeling. Some
inhuman devil’s trick was being played upon him. That was
one of those iron crutch shafts, painted to resemble grained
wood, that the Rat was picking up—yes, and fitting it now
with deft, accustomed fingers to the armpiece! The Rat—the
Man with the Crutch—the murderer of David Ellsworth—the
man whose very rôle he had taken upon himself
and played!

“You!” he cried, and swayed at the table. And then passion
seized him. “You hound of hell!” he shouted hoarsely.
“The Man with the Crutch—it was you who killed David
Ellsworth!”

“Sit down!” The Rat’s lips were thinned, merciless;
the revolver edged forward. “Well, what about it! Why
don’t you say Peters, too? You stuck your nose pretty deep
into that!”

Billy Kane mechanically sank back in his chair.

“So you’ve got it, have you?” jeered the Rat. “Sure, the
Man with the Crutch was me! And you, you fool, through
your cursed interference with Red Vallon, put the police
on my trail for Peters’ murder. Well, I’m going to
let you be the Man with the Crutch too—as well as the
Rat. That’ll let me out on both counts!” He stood the
crutch up against the wall, and from the opening drew forth
some clothes and flung them down beside the crutch. “Get
the idea? This is the costume that goes with the crutch—sort
of reserve stock. Understand? It wasn’t always convenient
to come here as the Rat, or leave here as the Man
with the Crutch—or the other way around, if you like. I’ll
leave the stuff there where it’ll show up, and the police
can put two and two together the same as you have. And
that answers your question as to what is to become of me.
I am a gentleman of several parts, and I can spare *two*
of them. What’s left is none of your business, and anyway
I’m getting tired of this, and I’m pretty near ready to go.
But there’s one thing more—there were some rubies you
were looking for, weren’t there, besides the ones you’ve
been taking charge of and so kindly placed in that bag
there a few minutes ago without giving me the trouble of
making you hand them over?” Again his left hand, thrust
back of him, sought the interior of the opening, and came
out with a number of small plush trays piled one on top of
another, the topmost flashing and scintillating now with its
score of fiery, blood-red stones. “You were looking for
these, weren’t you?” prodded the Rat, with a chuckle.
“Well, you had ’em here with you all the time!”

Billy Kane was fighting desperately for self-control.
Could they hear outside there? The man was condemning
himself out of his own mouth! God, could they *hear* out
there—did they understand that this man had murdered
David Ellsworth, and that Billy Kane was clear! He met
the Rat’s eyes with deliberate defiance now. More!
Everything! The man must be led into telling everything—he
had not told enough yet to make it sure—and perhaps
they had not heard it all.

“And Peters,” he rasped out. “You killed Peters, too—Peters,
who helped you kill David Ellsworth! Weren’t you
satisfied with your share, that you had to steal his?”

The Rat had advanced to the table, and, setting down the
trays, always with his revolver covering Billy Kane, had
begun to pour the contents of one tray at a time into the
open hand bag. He stopped now, and stared at Billy Kane
in a sort of contemptuous surprise.

“So that’s the way you doped it out, is it?” he said, and
laughed raucously. “And you’re kind to Peters, aren’t you?
Peters, who wouldn’t harm a fly! I killed Peters because
his evidence at the inquest finished Billy Kane for fair,
and I didn’t want that evidence changed. It was *me* Peters
saw coming down the back stairs and entering the library
that night—only he thought it was you. Do you take me
for a fool? I knew you’d see the report in the papers, and
that, knowing there was something wrong about Peters’
story, you’d hunt Peters out and have a show-down, and
that between you there was a chance of you getting at
more of the truth than I wanted, and that Peters would
then retract his evidence. Get me?

“I wasn’t for letting you out. I’d been banking on you to
do a lot for me. The only guy that was in with me on that
deal was Jackson—and he’s dead—just as the Rat is going
to be. I spotted you long ago when you used to nose
around here for that old fool who pitched his money away.
I watched you quite a while before I was dead sure I
could pass for you—and then I warmed up to Jackson.
The rest was easy. We croaked old Ellsworth, and planted
you. That gave me the coin I wanted to do what I was
getting ready for—to pull out of this Rat’s game forever.
It was getting too fierce with that cursed woman on my
heels. So before I pulled the Ellsworth trick, I set things
going to get her too, and passed the word around that I
was going away for a while, so’s there’d be no chance of
her tumbling to anything—and I stood pat as the Man with
the Crutch. And then you acted like a Christmas tree
shaking itself in my lap. There were a lot of things coming
along with certain friends of mine, and with you playing
the Rat and getting away with it, and with you there to
stand for it if anything broke wrong, it looked like a cinch
to nose them out at the tape on the little deals I’d started
for them, and that would let me get away with the whole
wad myself. See?”

The Rat was pouring the rubies from the trays into the
hand bag again, his eyes glinting with a curious rapacious
craftiness; and then, coming to one of the trays whose corner
had been cut off, he laughed outright in a sort of self-complacent
mirth.

“Do you remember this?” he taunted. “The night I
croaked old Ellsworth I beat it for here on the quiet the
minute I left the house, and I put the trays and half of the
stones into that hiding place there, and then I changed my
clothes and wore my crutch over to where I lived when I
wasn’t at home here, and hid the rest of the stuff there.
You know that, all right! Blast you, you got it, and you
nearly queered me! The Rat was supposed to be away
then—see? Well, that night when I was limping around
with my crutch, I was told the Rat was back—and it didn’t
take me long to find out your game. It looked like a piece
of luck that was too good to be true! It suited me—I was
for it hard. The only thing I was afraid of was that you
might quit, so I left that ruby and the piece of tray for you
on the table. I thought I knew you. It would give you a
start, all right—but it would look as though this was where
you were going to get the clue you needed, and you’d stick
for fair.”

The Rat attempted to close the bag, and snarled at the
bent catches. He finally fastened one of them partially,
tossed the bag on the floor behind him, and, his face suddenly
working again, flung his revolver arm out toward
Billy Kane.

“If you’ve got anything to say before you go out—say
it!” He was biting off his words. “Don’t think that because
I’ve been talking a lot to you that I’m bluffing. I
wouldn’t have opened up if I’d been bluffing, would I? And,
besides, there’s another count on which you’re due to snuff
out. The game’s up all around. I stalled on ringing down
the curtain on the girl and on you as long as I thought
there was a chance of my getting something out of those
schemes that you kept butting in on. But you queered that,
too, away back on the night you put Karlin in bad, and the
police got him. Karlin’s begun to weaken and talk a little.
That’s the finish of the gang, and any more pickings for me.
Sooner or later Karlin’ll spill everything he knows, and he
knows a lot, to save himself; and then they’ll be looking for
the Rat on several other counts. So I passed the word to
put the game with the girl through for to-night—while I
took care of you.”

Billy Kane felt his face whiten. He knew that round,
black muzzle would spit its tongue-flame in a moment.
With the Rat’s hand around it, it seemed curiously like the
head of a snake that was coiled to strike. Had they heard
out there? Here was the bag that contained everything,
all that had been taken from David Ellsworth’s vault, and
here was the murderer, self-confessed. Had they heard?
Had she heard? Would they remember, would *she* remember
that Billy Kane’s name was cleared? And if they were
out there, why didn’t they come in? Were they going to
stand there and see him shot down—see another murder
committed? No! He understood. The slightest sound
from the direction of that secret door would be but the
signal for the Rat to fire. It was up to him—somehow—some
way—to give them a chance to act. It was up to him
in some way to beat the Rat to that first shot, that would
not be delayed many seconds now.

He eyed the Rat for a moment steadily; appraised again
the cold-blooded, callous implacability in the other’s face—and
then Billy Kane squared his shoulders, and his hands
on the table slid back a little until the thumbs extended over
the edge, and he laughed coolly.

“It’s the limit, is it, Bundy?” he said quietly. “Well,
then, I’ll take it standing up, you cur, if you don’t mind.”

The Rat nodded indifferently.

It seemed as though Billy Kane, for all his apparent
coolness and composure, was not equal to his self-appointed
task. He half rose to his feet, and sank back heavily in
his chair again, and his hands, as though to steady himself,
clutched with seemingly desperate energy farther over the
table’s edge—and then, in a flash, the table was in mid-air
between the two men, and, as it hurtled forward, Billy
Kane, crouched low, leaped for the other, as the Rat, with
an oath, sprang to one side to avoid the table.

A red flame blinded Billy Kane’s eyes, an acrid smell
filled his nostrils, and seemed to stifle him, and make his
head swim dizzily, and his left side seemed curiously numb
and dead, but his hands had reached their mark, and had
closed like steel vises around the Rat’s throat. And he hung
there, hung there because a fury and a seething passion
gave him superhuman strength—hung there as cries resounded
through the room, and there came the rush of
feet—hung there as he crashed downward to the floor dragging
the Rat with him—hung there as an utter blackness
came and settled upon him.

----

It was strange and very curious. He opened his eyes.
He was in bed, and someone was sitting there very quietly,
with head bent over and resting on the back of his outstretched
hand. He tried to remember. He should have
been on the floor in the den, shouldn’t he? And where was
the Rat? Had they got the Rat? His eyes opened a little
wider. That dark head there seemed strangely familiar.
His side hurt him brutally. He remembered that shot now.
A sort of grim humor came upon him. He was back where
he had started from on that first night in the underworld—in
bed with a pistol-shot wound. The Rat must have got
him after all. But the Rat—the Rat! He started up in bed
involuntarily.

There came a little cry. The dark head was raised. It
was the Woman in Black. No, that wasn’t her name. It
was Margaret—Margaret Blaine. He wanted to call her
that. He tried to speak. He was very weak.

“You mustn’t try to move,” she said softly. “You have
been very badly hurt, though, thank God, not dangerously
so. And it’s all right—I know you want to know that.
They’ve got the Rat—for the murder of David Ellsworth.
We heard it all last night, and did not dare to move while
he kept that revolver on you, and I was mad with fear.”

“Yes,” said Billy Kane weakly. “It’s morning now, isn’t
it?”

Cool fingers closed his lips.

“Yes, but don’t talk,” she said, with a sudden attempt at
severity—and, as suddenly, her eyes filled with tears. “Oh,
I did not know last night—I did not understand—and you
risked your life to save mine.”

Her life! He was not so weak but that he could understand
that. His hand groped out for hers. It seemed as
though he had always loved her—only those strange doors
of the night had stood between. But now—now there was
something in her eyes, behind that film of tears and those
wet lashes, that made him dare.

“Your life! Would you trust me with it again—for always?”
he whispered.

Again the cool fingers closed his lips.

“Billy, you are to be absolutely quiet,” she said. “Those
are the very strictest orders.”

But her head was nestling on the pillow against his cheek,
and there was a great gladness in his heart.

.. class:: center

   THE END

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|
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