And instantly then, with a sharp cry, as the whole ghastly meaning of it
swept upon him, Jimmie sprang after the other--too late! Came the
roar of a revolver shot, a stream of flame cutting the darkness of the
alleyway from the window in the house opposite--and, without a sound,
old Isaac crumpled up, hung limply for a moment over the sill, and slid
in a heap to the floor.
On his hands and knees, protected from the possibility of another bullet
by the height of the sill, Jimmie Dale, quick in every movement now,
dragged the inert form toward the table away from the window, and bent
hurriedly over the other. A minute perhaps he stayed there--and then
rose slowly.
Burton, horror-stricken, unmanned, beside himself, was hanging,
clutching with both hands at the table edge.
"He's dead," said Jimmie Dale laconically.
Burton flung out his hands.
"Dead!" he whispered hoarsely. "I--I think I'm going mad. Three days of
hell--and now this. We'd--we'd better get out of here quick--they'll get
us if--"
Jimmie Dale's hand fell with a tight grip on Burton's shoulder.
"There won't be any more shots fired--pull yourself together!"
Burton stared at him in a demented way.
"What's--what's it mean?" he stammered.
"It means that I didn't put two and two together," said Jimmie Dale a
little bitterly. "It means that there's a dozen crooks been dancing
old Isaac's tune for a long time--and that some of them have got him at
last.
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