They had swept a flashlight over the door panel—­Jimmie Dale, halfway up the ladder, smiled grimly.

The door opened—­there was a rush of feet.  The man with the shattered wrist yelled, cursing wildly: 

“Here he is—­on the ladder!  Let him have it!  Fill him full of holes!”

Jimmie Dale was in the light—­they were in the dark of the outer room.  He fired at the threshold, checking their rush—­as a hail of bullets chipped and tore at the ladder and spat wickedly against the wall.  He swung through to the roof, trying, as he did so, to kick the ladder loose behind him.  It was fastened!

The three gunmen jumped into the room—­from the roof Jimmie Dale got a glimpse of them below, as he flung himself clear of the opening.  Bullets whistled through the aperture—­a voice roared up as he gained his feet: 

“Come on!  After him!  The whole place is alive, but this lets us out.  We can frame up how we came to be here easy enough.  Never mind the old geezer there any more!  Get the Gray Seal—­the reward that’s out for him is worth twice the sparklers, and—­”

Jimmie Dale hurled the cover over the scuttle.  He could have stood them off from above and kept the ladder clear with his revolver, but the alarm seemed general now—­windows were opening, voices were calling to one another—­from the windows across the street he must stand out in sharp outline against the sky.  Yes—­he was seen now.

A woman’s voice, from a top-story window across the street, screamed out, high-pitched in excitement: 

“There he is!  There he is!  On the roof there!”

Jimmie Dale started on the run along the roof.  The houses, built wall to wall, flat-roofed, seemed to offer an open course ahead of him—­until a lane or an intersecting street should bar his way!  But they were not quite all on the same level, though—­the wall of the next house rose suddenly breast high in front of him.  He flung himself up, regained his feet—­and ducked instantly behind a chimney.

The crack of a revolver echoed through the night—­a bullet drummed through the air—­the Skeeter and his gang were on the roof now, dashing forward, firing as they ran.  Two shots from Jimmie Dale’s automatic, in quick succession cooled the ardour of their rush—­and they broke, black, flitting forms, for the shelter of chimneys, too.

And now the whole neighbourhood seemed awakened.  A dull-toned roar, as from some great gulf below, rolled up from the street, a medley of slamming windows, the rush of feet as people poured from the houses, cries, shouts, and yells—­and high over all the shrill call of the police-patrol whistle—­and the crack, crack, crack of the Skeeter’s revolver shots—­the Skeeter and his hellhounds for once self-appointed allies of the law!

Twice again Jimmie Dale fired—­then crouching, running low, he zigzagged his way across the next roof.  The bullets followed him—­once more his pursuers dashed forward.  And again Jimmie Dale, his face set like stone now, his breath coming in hard gasps, dodged behind a chimney, and with his gun checked their rush for the third time.