THE ROOM WAS STILL IN DARKNESS.
The smile on Jimmie Dale's lips was gone, for his lips now had closed
together in a tight, drawn line. The lights in the rest of the house, as
witness the reception hall, were in order. This was no ACCIDENT! Silent,
motionless, he stood there, listening. Was he trapped at last--in his
own house! By whom? The police? The thugs of the underworld? It made
little difference--the end would differ only in the method by which it
was attained! What was that! Was there a slight stir, a movement at the
lower end of the room--or was it his imagination? His hand fell from the
electric-light switch to the doorknob behind his back. Slowly, without
a sound, it began to turn under his slim, tapering fingers, whose deft,
sensitive touch had made him known and feared as the master cracksman of
them all; and, as noiselessly, the door began to open.
It was like a duel--a duel of silence. What was the intruder, whoever he
might be, waiting for? The abortive click of the electric-light switch,
to say nothing of the opening of the door when he had entered, was
evidence enough that he was there. Was the other trying to place him
exactly through the darkness to make sure of his attack! The door was
open now. And suddenly Jimmie Dale laughed easily aloud--and on the
instant shifted his position.
"Well?" inquired Jimmie Dale coolly from the other side of the
threshold.
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