fellow
on his face.

Next he went through the pockets of the unconscious man who was only
now beginning to stir slightly, as life returned after that stunning
blow.

It was beginning to come to Ronicky that there was a strange relation
between the men of this house. Here were three who apparently started
out to work at night, and yet they were certainly not at all the type
of night clerks or night-shift engineers or mechanics. He turned over
the hand of the man he had struck down. The palm was as soft as his
own.

No, certainly not a laborer. But they were all employed by "the old
man." Who was he? And was there some relation between all of these and
the man who sneered?

At least Ronicky determined to learn all that could be read in
the pockets of his victim. There was only one thing. That was a
stub-nosed, heavy automatic.

It was enough to make Ronicky Doone sigh with relief. At least he had
not struck some peaceful, law-abiding fellow. Any man might carry a
gun--Ronicky himself would have been uncomfortable without some sort
of weapon about him but there are guns and guns. This big, ugly
automatic seemed specially designed to kill swiftly and surely.

He was considering these deductions when a tap came on the door.
Ronicky groaned. Had they come already to find out what kept the
senseless victim so long?

"Morgan, oh, Harry Morgan!" called a girl's voice.

Ronicky Doone started. Perhaps--who could tell--this might be Caroline
Smith herself, come to tap at the door when he was on the very verge
of abandoning the adventure. Suppose it were someone else?

If he ventured out expecting to find Gregg's lady and found instead
quite another person--well, women screamed at the slightest
provocation, and, if a woman screamed in this house, it seemed
exceedingly likely that she would rouse a number of men carrying just
such short-nosed, ugly automatics as that which he had just taken from
the pocket of Harry Morgan.

In the meantime he must answer something. He could not pretend that
the room was empty, for the light must be showing around the door.

"Harry!" called the voice of the girl again. "Do you hear me? Come
out! The chief wants you!" And she rattled the door.

Fear that she might open it and, stepping in, see the senseless figure
on the floor, alarmed Ronicky. He came close to the door.

"Well?" he demanded, keeping his voice deep, like the voice of Harry
Morgan, as well as he could remember it.

"