Came answering shots
from the men by the door; and then the Magpie, emptying his automatic at
the two men as he ran, the flame tongues cutting vicious lanes of fire
through the darkness, dashed for the window. There was a cry, the crash
of a heavy body pitching to the floor--and the Magpie had flung himself
out through the window, and in the momentary ensuing silence within the
room came the sound of his footsteps running on the gravel below.
There was a low moan, the movement as of some one staggering and
lurching around--and then the lights went on. But for an instant
Jimmie Dale did not move. He was staring at the form of a man still and
motionless on the floor in front of him--the man who had posed as Henry
LaSalle. Dead! The man was dead! His mind ran riot for a moment. Where
were the others--were there only these two? Only these two in the house!
Only these two--and one was dead! And then Jimmie Dale was on his feet.
One was dead--but there was still the other, the man who was reeling
there, back turned to him, by the electric-light switch. But even as
Jimmie Dale sprang forward, this second man, clawing at the wall for
support, slipped to his knees and fell upon the carpet.
Jimmie Dale reached him, snatched the revolver from his hand, and bent
over him. It was the man whose name he did not know, but whose face he
had reason enough to know too well--it was the leader of the Crime Club.
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