ay of
locking it.

I had my murderer there, trapped, but the question was to keep him
there. Your little Chaddie didn't give up many precious moments to
reverie. I tiptoed into the bedroom and lifted the mattress, bedding and
all, off the bedstead. I tugged it out and put it silently down over the
trap-door. Then, without making a sound, I turned the table over on it.
But he could still lift that table, I knew, even with me sitting on top
of it. So I started to pile things on the overturned table, until it
looked like a moving-van ready for a May-Day migration. Then I sat on
top of that pile of household goods, reached for Dinky-Dunk's repeater,
and deliberately fired a shot up through the open door.

I sat there, studying my pile, feeling sure a revolver bullet couldn't
possibly come up through all that stuff. But before I had much time to
think about this my corporal of the R. N. W. M. P. (which means,
Matilda Anne, the Royal North-West Mounted Police) came through the door
on the run. He looked relieved when he saw me triumphantly astride that
overturned table loaded up with about all my household junk.

"I've got him for you," I calmly announced.

"You've got what?" he said, apparently thinking I'd gone mad.

"I've got your man for you," I repeated. "He's down there in my cellar."
And in one minute I'd explained just what had happened. There was no
parley, no deliberation, no hesitation.

"Hadn't you better go outside," he suggested as he started piling the
things off the trap-door.

"You're not going down there?" I demanded.

"Why not?" he asked.

"But he's got a revolver," I cried out, "and he's sure to shoot!"

"That's why I think it might be better for you to step outside for a
moment or two," was my soldier boy's casual answer.

I walked over and got Dinky-Dunk's repeater. Then I crossed to the far
side of the shack, with the rifle in my hands.

"I'm going to stay," I announced.

"All right," was the officer's unconcerned answer as he tossed the
mattress to one side and with one quick pull threw up the trap-door.

A shot rang out, from below, as the door swung back against the wall.
But it was not repeated, for the man in the red coat jumped bodily,
heels first, into that black hole. He didn't seem to count on the risk,
or on what might be ahead of him. He just jumped, spurs down, on that
other man with the revolver in his hand. I could hear little grunts, and
wheezes, and a thud or two against