In the _salle de jeu_, Ali Baba, held fast by three men dressed as
waiters, suddenly tripped up two of them, turned, and leaped for the
doorway. The two men who had been tripped scrambled to their feet and
tore after him. When they reached the hallway the Eurasian was gone;
but all of a sudden there came the crash of a splintered door from the
landing above; and the dim corridor rang with the frightful screaming
of a woman.

"It's--that--that--Russian girl!" stammered Ilse Dumont; "--The girl I
locked in! Oh, my God!--my God! Karl Breslau is killing her!"

Neeland sprang into the hall and leaped up the stairs; but the three
men disguised as waiters had arrived before him.

And there, across the threshold of the bedroom, backed up flat against
the shattered door, Ali Baba was already fighting for his life; and
the frightened Russian girl crept out from the bedroom behind him and
ran to Neeland for protection.

Twice Neeland aimed at Ali Baba, but could not bring himself to fire
at the bleeding, rabid object which snarled and slavered and bit and
kicked, regardless of the blows raining on him. At last one of his
assailants broke the half demented creature's arm with a chair; and
the bloody, battered thing squeaked like a crippled rat and darted
away amid the storm of blows descending, limping and floundering up
the attic stairs, his broken arm flapping with every gasping bound.

After him staggered his sweating and exhausted assailants, reeling
past Neeland and Ilse Dumont and the terrified Russian girl who
crouched behind them. But, halfway up the stairs all three halted and
stood clinging to the banisters as though listening to something on
the floor above them.

Neeland heard it, too: from the roof came a ripping, splintering
sound, as though people on the slates were prying up the bolted
scuttle. The three men on the stairs hesitated a moment longer; then
turned to flee, too late; a hail of pistol shots swept the attic
stairs; all three men came pitching and tumbling down to the landing.

Two of them lay still; one rose immediately and limped on again down
the hallway, calling over the banisters to those below:

"The Germans on the leads 'ave busted into the garret! Breslau is up
'ere! Send along those American gunmen, or somebody what can shoot!"

He was a grey-haired Englishman, smooth shaven and grim; and, as he
stood there at the head of the further stairs, breathing heavily,
awaiting aid from below, h