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.
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