"Very well, I'll make a bargain with
you--providing it is agreeable to your young friend here."
"Ah!" exclaimed old Isaac shrilly. "So! That is good! It is done then."
He chuckled hoarsely. "Any bargain I make he will agree to. Is it not
so?" He fixed his eyes on Burton. "Well, is it not so? Speak up! Say--"
He stopped--the words cut short off on his lips. It came without
warning--a crash, a pound on the door below--another.
Burton shrank back against the wall.
"My God! The police!" he gasped. "Maddon's found out! We're--we're
caught!"
Jimmie Dale's eyes, on old Isaac, narrowed. The pounding in the alleyway
grew louder, more insistent. And then his first suspicion passed--it
was no "game" of Isaac's. Crafty though the old fox was, the other's
surprise and agitation was too genuine to be questioned.
Still the pounding continued--some one was kicking viciously at the
door, and banging a tattoo on the panels with his fists.
Old Isaac's clawlike hands doubled suddenly.
"It is some drunken sot," he snarled out, "that knows no better than to
come here and rouse the whole neighbourhood! It is true, in a moment we
will have the police running in from the street. But wait--wait--I'll
teach the fool a lesson!" He dashed around the table, ran for the
window, wrenched the catch up, flung the window open, and, snarling
again, leaned out--and instantly the knocking ceased.
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