Outside, from along the passageway, came a confused jangle of
commotion--whispering voices, shuffling feet, the swish of Chinese
garments. And the room itself began to spring into weird, flickering
shadows, that mounted and crept up the walls with the spreading fire.
There was not a second to lose before the room would be swarming with
that rush from the passageway--and there was still the letter, the
pocketbook! The table had fallen half over Dago Jim--Jimmie Dale pushed
it aside, tore the crushed letter and the pocketbook from the man's
hands--and felt, with a grim, horrible sort of anxiety, for the other's
heartbeat, for the verdict that meant life or death to himself. There
was no sign of life--the man was dead.
Jimmie Dale was on his feet now. A face, another, and another showed
in the doorway--the Wowzer was regaining his senses, stumbling to his
knees. There was one chance--just one--to take those crowding figures by
surprise. And with a yell of "Fire!" Jimmie Dale sprang for the doorway.
They gave way before his rush, tumbling back in their surprise against
the opposite wall; and, turning, Jimmie Dale raced down the passageway.
Doors were opening everywhere now, forms were pushing out into the
semi-darkness--only to duck hastily back again, as Jimmie Dale's
automatic barked and spat a running fire of warning ahead of him.
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