“Too bad,” muttered Jimmie Dale plaintively to himself.  “I could have made such an artistic job of it—­I swear I could have cut Carruthers’ profile in the hole in less than no time—­to open it like this is really taking the poor old thing at a disadvantage.”

He was on his knees now, one ear close to the dial, listening as the tumblers fell, while the delicate fingers spun the knob unerringly—­the other ear strained toward the rear of the premises.

Came a footstep—­a ray of light—­a stumble—­nearer—­the newcomer was inside the place now, and must have found out that the back door had been tampered with.  Nearer came the steps—­still nearer—­and then the safe door swung open under Jimmie Dale’s hand, and Jimmie Dale, that he might not be caught like a rat in a trap, darted from the office—­but he had delayed a little too long.

From around the cluttered piles of junk and miscellany swept the light—­full on Jimmie Dale.  Hesitation for the smallest fraction of a second would have been fatal, but hesitation was something that in all his life Jimmie Dale had never known.  Quick as a panther in its spring, he leaped full at the light and the man behind it.  The rough voice, in surprised exclamation at the sudden discovery of the quarry, died in a gasp.

There was a crash as the two men met—­and the other reeled back before the impact.  Onto him Jimmie Dale sprang, and his hands flew for the other’s throat.  It was an officer in uniform!  Jimmie Dale had felt the brass buttons as they locked.  In the darkness there was a queer smile on Jimmie Dale’s tight lips.  It was no doubt the officer whom he had passed on the other side of the street.

The other was a smaller man than Jimmie Dale, but powerful for his build—­and he fought now with all his strength.  This way and that the two men reeled, staggered, swayed, panting and gasping; and then—­they had lurched back close to the office door—­with a sudden swing, every muscle brought into play for a supreme effort, Jimmie Dale hurled the other from him, sending the man sprawling back to the floor of the office, and in the winking of an eye had slammed shut the door and turned the key.

There was a bull-like roar, the shrill cheep-cheep-cheep of the patrolman’s whistle, and a shattering crash as the officer flung his body against the partition—­then the bark of a revolver shot, the tinkle of breaking glass, as the man fired through the office window—­and past Jimmie Dale, speeding now for the front door, a bullet hummed viciously.

Out on the street dashed Jimmie Dale, whipping the mask from his face—­and glanced like a hawk around him.  For all the racket, the neighbourhood had not yet been aroused—­no one was in sight.  From just overhead came the rattle of a downtown elevated train.  In a hundred-yard sprint, Jimmie Dale raced it a half block to the station, tore up the steps—­and a moment later dropped nonchalantly into a seat and pulled an evening newspaper from his pocket.