shapes began to assume form
in the darkness. By the door, Lannigan stirred uneasily, shifting his
position slightly.

Was it hours--was it only minutes? It seemed to ring through the
nerve-racking stillness like the shriek of a hurtling shell--and it was
only a whisper.

"Watch yourself, Lannigan," whispered Whitey Mack. "He's coming now
through the yard! Don't move till I start something. Let him get his
paws on the sparklers."

Silence again. And then a low rasping at the window, like the gnawing of
a rat; then, inch by inch, the sash was lifted. There was the sound as
of a body forcing its way over the sill cautiously, then a step upon the
floor inside, another, and still another. The figure of a man loomed up
suddenly against the glow of a flashlight as he threw the round, white
ray inquisitively here and there over the rear wall. And now he appeared
to be counting the boards. One, two, three--ten. His hand ran up and
down the tenth board. Again and again he repeated the operation, and
something like the snarl of a baited beast echoed through the room. He
half turned to snatch at something in his pocket, and the light for
a moment showed a black-bearded, lowering face, partially hidden by a
peaked cap that was pulled far down over his eyes.

There was the rip and tear of rending wood, as a steel jimmy, in lieu of
the spring the man evidently could not find, bit in between the boards,
a muttered oath of satisfaction, and a portion of the wall slid back,
disclosing what looked like a metal-lined cupboard. He reached in,
seized one of a dozen little boxes, and wrenched off the cover. A blue,
scintillating gleam seemed to leap out to meet the white ray of the
flashlight. The man chuckled hoarsely, and began to cram the rest of the
boxes into his pockets.

Jimmie Dale stirred. On hands and knees he was creeping now from beneath
the workbench. Something caught and tore behind him--the canvas curtain.
And at the sound, with a sharp cry, the man at the wall whirled, the
light went out, and he sprang toward the window. Jimmie Dale gained his
feet and leaped forward. A revolver shot cut a lane of fire through the
blackness; and, above the roar of the report, Whitey Mack's voice in a
fierce yell:

"It's all right, Lannigan! I got him! No--HELL!" There was a terrific
crash of breaking glass. "He's got away!"

"Not yet, he hasn't!" gritted Jimmie Dale between his teeth, and his
clubbed revolver swung crashing to the hea