ar?--before you shall bring any of your
mates to the rescue. Oh, you've not got a weak old man to fight with
this time! Do you know me? It's the 'Cracksman,' the 'Cracksman' who
went over to the police. If you doubt it, now that we're in the
moonlight, look up and see my face. Oho! you recognize me, I see. Well,
you will die looking at me, you dog, if you deny me what I'm after. I'll
loosen my grip enough for you to whisper, and no more. Now what's the
password that Clodoche must give to Margot to-night at 'The Twisted
Arm'? Tell me what it is; if you want your life, tell me what it is?"

"I'll see you dead first!" came in a whisper from beneath the hideous
mask. Then, as Cleek's fingers clamped tight again, and the battle began
anew, one long, thin arm shot out from amongst the writhing tentacles,
one clutching hand gripped the leg of the table and, with a wrench and a
twist, brought it crashing to the floor with a sound that a deaf man
might have heard.

And in an instant there was pandemonium.

A door flew open, and, clashing heavily against the wall, sent an echo
reeling along the corridor; then came a clatter of rustling feet, a
voice cried out excitedly: "Come on! come on! He's had to kill the old
fool to get it!" and Cleek had just time to tear loose from the shape
with which he was battling, and dodge out of the way when the man Merode
lurched into the room, with half a dozen Apaches tumbling in at his
heels.

"Serpice!" he cried, rushing forward, as he saw the gasping red shape
upon the floor; "Serpice! Mon Dieu! what is it?"

"The Cracksman!" he gulped. "Cleek!--the Cracksman who went against us!
Catch him! stop him!"

"The Cracksman!" howled out Merode, twisting round in the darkness and
reaching blindly for the haft of his dirk. "Nom de Dieu! Where?"

And almost before the last word was uttered a fist like a sledge-hammer
shot out, caught him full in the face, and he went down with a whole
smithy of sparks flashing and hissing before his eyes.

"There!" answered Cleek, as he bowled him over. "Gentlemen of the
sewers, my compliments. You'll make no short cut to 'The Twisted Arm'
to-night!"

Then, like something shot from a catapult, he sprang to the door,
whisked through it, banged it behind him, turned the key, and went
racing down the corridor like a hare.

"It must be sheer luck now!" he panted, as he reached the angle and,
kicking aside the rug, pulled up the trap. "They'll have that door down