ng regularly, though
just a little slower than in natural respiration.

"Break it down!" ordered Kline tersely.

There was a rush at it--and it gave. It surged inward, knocked against
the chair, upset the latter, something tinkled to the floor--and four
officers, with Kline at their head, jumped into the room.

Jimmie Dale never moved. A flashlight played around the room and focused
upon him--and then he was shaken roughly--only to fall inertly back on
the bed again.

"I guess this is all right, Mr. Kline," said one of the officers. "It's
Larry the Bat, and he's doped to the eyes. There's the stuff on the
floor we knocked off the chair."

"Light the gas!" directed Kline curtly; and, being obeyed, stooped to
the floor and picked up a hypodermic syringe and a small bottle. He held
the bottle to the light, and read the label: LIQUOR MORPHINAE. "Shake
him again!" he commanded.

None too gently, a policeman caught Jimmie Dale by the shoulder and
shook him vigorously--again Jimmie Dale, once the other let go his hold,
fell back limply on the bed, breathing in that same, slightly slowed
way.

"Larry the Bat, eh?" grunted Kline; then, to the officer who had
volunteered the information: "Who's Larry the Bat? What is he? And how
long have you known him?"

"I don't know who he is any more than what you can see there for
yourself," replied the officer. "He's a dope fiend, and I guess a pretty
tough case, though we've never had him up for anything. He's lived here
ever since I've been on the beat, and that's three years or--"

"All right!" interrupted Kline crisply. "He's no good to us! You say
there's an exit from this house into that saloon at the back?"

"Yes, sir but the fellow, whoever he is, couldn't get away from there.
Heeney's been over on guard from the start."

"Then he's still inside there," said Kline, clipping off his words.
"We'll search the saloon. Nice night's work this is! One out of the
whole gang--and that one with the compliments of the Gray Seal!"

The men went out and began to descend the stairs.

"One," said Jimmie Dale to himself, still motionless, still breathing in
that slow way so characteristic of the drug. "Two. Three. Four."

The minutes went by--a quarter of an hour--a half hour. Still Jimmie
Dale lay there--still motionless--still breathing with slow regularity.
His muscles began to cramp, to give him exquisite torture. Around
him all was silence--only distant sounds from the street