“Drop that revolver.  It’s all up now.  You go to the chair for these murders.”

Warren shot for the body he supposed to be above the little light.  As he did so Shirley sent a bullet into the arch criminal’s right wrist.  The weapon dropped from his hand to the table.  Shine Taylor, terror-stricken, staggered against his companion, groping for support.  Warren misunderstood it:  he thought his assistant was trying to hold him.  The swift interpretation gave new fuel to the flame of mistrust which had sprung up in his heart.  He knew not how many men were about him —­he merely realized that his crafty plans had been set at naught,—­there could be only this one explanation.  He struck at Taylor, who moaned in pain.

“You cur, you’ve squealed on me!” With his uninjured left hand he caught the other in his Oriental death grip, with all his consummate skill.  Astonished at the sudden move, Shirley rose to his feet.  But he hesitated too long.

With a faint gurgle, Shine Taylor, pickpocket, mechanical artist and criminal genius sank to the mouldy ground of the cellar —­lifeless!

Shirley snatched up the light, instinctively throwing its rays upon the face of the dead man.  It was horrible to see this ghastly ending of the miserable life, so suddenly conceived and grewsomely executed!  Here was Warren’s opportunity.  He caught up his weapon from the table with the left hand, and sent a shot at the intruder, leaping at the same time toward the rear entrance.  Monty swung the light about, but the other threw on an electric switch.  He stood by the iron portal a fiendish smirk on his distorted features.

“So, my luck is good after all:  I’ve got you where I most want you!” His weapon covered Shirley’s.  “I shoot as well with my left hand as with my right.  But, no, I won’t shoot you.  I’ll put you away without a trace left.  That is always the clever way.  I told you that the average criminal was too careless about little things.  Good-bye, Mr. Montague Shirley, I wish you a pleasant journey!”

His hand, bleeding from the bullet wound, was pushing the iron door, behind him as he faced Shirley.  Suddenly a frightful sound broke the stillness:  it was the final exhalation of air from the dead man’s lungs.  It sent a creeping chill through Shirley’s blood.  Warren’s right hand dropped, nervously for an instant, despite his resolution.  In that second Shirley had brought his own weapon up to a level with the other’s eyes.

The door closed with a clang!

Warren’s face lost its sneering smile.  He was locked in from the rear!

“Now, let’s see you get out the front way,” retorted the criminologist.  He had one hand behind him.  He felt a metal contrivance, With three buttons on it.  He thought perhaps it were the controlling switch for the lights.  He would take his chances in the dark.  He pressed all three quickly.

There was a clang from the front, as some mechanism whirred for an instant.  A gong sounded above, and scurrying feet could be heard—­then were audible no more.  It was the warning alarm for the gangsters:  they had fled.