Jimmie Dale’s eyes fastened on it—­and from that instant never left it.  A minute passed, two, three of them—­the four men were silently busy about the room—­Malone was carefully cleaning the plate.

“They will raid to-night.  Look out for Kline, he is the sharpest man in the United State secret service”—­the warning in her letter was running through Jimmie Dale’s mind.  Kline—­the real Kline—­was going to raid the place to-night.  When?  At what time?  It must be nearly eleven o’clock already, and—­

It came sudden, quick as the crack of doom—­a terrific crash against the bolted door—­but the door, undoubtedly to the surprise of those without, held fast, thanks to the bolt.  The four men, white-faced, seemed for an instant turned to statues.  Came another crash against the door—­and a sharp, imperative order to those within to open it and surrender.

“We’re pinched!  Beat it!” whispered Whitie Burns wildly—­and dashed for the trapdoor.

Like a rat for its hole, Marty Dean followed.  Malone, farther away, dropped the plate on the floor, and rushed, with Moulton beside him, after the others—­but he never reached the trapdoor.

Over the crashing blows, raining now in quick succession on the door of the room, over a startled commotion as lodgers, roomers, and tenants on the floor above awoke into frightened activity with shouts and cries, came the louder crash of a pile of packing boxes hurled to the floor.  And over them, vaulting those scattered in his way, Jimmie Dale sprang at Malone.  The man reeled back, with a cry.  Moulton dashed through the trapdoor and disappeared.  The short, ugly barrel of Jimmie Dale’s automatic was between Malone’s eyes.

“You make a move,” said Jimmie Dale, in a low sibilant way, “and I’ll drop you where you stand!  Put your hands behind your back—­palms together!”

Malone, dazed, cowed, obeyed.  A panel of the door split and rent down its length—­the hinges were sagging.  Jimmie Dale worked like lightning.  The cord with the slip noose from his pocket went around Malone’s wrists, jerked tight, and knotted; the placard, his lips grim, with no sign of humour, Jimmie Dale dangled around the man’s neck.

“An introduction for you to Mr. Kline out there—­that you seem so fond of!” gritted Jimmie Dale.  Then, working as he talked:  “I’ve got no time to tell you what I think of you, you pitiful hound”—­he snatched up the plate from the floor and put it in his pocket—­“Twenty years, I think you said, didn’t you?”—­his hand shot into Malone’s pocket-book, and extracted the five-dollar note—­“If you can open this with your toes maybe you can get a way”—­he wrenched the trapdoor over and slammed it shut—­“good-night, Malone”—­and he leaped for the window.

The door tottered inward from the top, ripping, tearing, smashing hinges, panels, and jamb.  Jimmie Dale got a blurred vision of brass buttons, blue coats, and helmets, and, in the forefront, of a stocky, gray-mustached, gray-haired man in plain clothes.