peared inside after his escape from the roof, Johnnie gave a
deep sigh of relief. This gun-play got on his nerves, since Lindsay
was the target of it.

The bandy-legged range-rider was still trailing along with the party
ten minutes later when its scattered members drew together in tacit
admission that the hunted man had escaped.

"Did youse get a look at his mug, Mr. Durand?" asked one of the
officers. "It's likely we've got it down at headquarters in the
gall'ry."

Durand had already made up his mind on that point.

"We didn't see his face in the light, Pete. No, I wouldn't know him
again."

His plug-uglies took their cue from him. So did the officers. If
Durand did not want a pinch there would, of course, not be one.

The gang leader was in a vile temper. If this story reached the
newspapers all New York would be laughing at him. He could appeal to
the police, have Clay Lindsay arrested, and get him sent up for a term
on the charge of burglary. But he could not do it without the whole
tale coming out. One thing Jerry Durand could not stand was ridicule.
His vanity was one of his outstanding qualities, and he did not want it
widely known that the boob he had intended to trap had turned the
tables on him, manhandled him, jeered at him, and locked him in a room
with his three henchmen.

Johnnie Green chose this malapropos moment for reminding the officers
of the reason for the coming to the house.

"What about the young lady?" he asked solicitously.

Durand wheeled on him, looked him over with an insolent, malevolent
eye, and jerked a thumb in his direction. "Who is this guy?"

"He's the fellow tipped us off his pal was inside," answered one of the
patrolmen. He spoke in a whisper close to the ear of Jerry. "Likely
he knows more than he lets on. Shall I make a pinch?"

The eyes of the gang leader narrowed. "So he's a friend of this
second-story bird, is he?"

"Y'betcha!" chirped up Johnnie, "and I'm plumb tickled to take his dust
too. Now about this yere young lady--"

Jerry caught him hard on the side of the jaw with a short arm jolt.
The range-rider hit the pavement hard. Slowly he got to his feet
nursing his cheek.

"What yuh do that for, doggone it?" he demanded resentfully. "Me, I
wasn't lookin' for no trouble. Me, I--"

Durand leaped at him across the sidewalk. His strong fingers closed on
the throat of the bow-legged puncher. He shook him as a lion does his
kill. The rage