There was still time. She
was standing there by the door, listening. She, the Tocsin, she whom
he loved, she who, all through the years that had gone, had been so
strangely elusive and yet so intimately a part of his life, SHE was
standing there now, here with him--in peril with every second that
passed!
He had only to slip on his coat and vest now--and make a bundle of
Larry the Bat's things on the floor, so that he could carry them away
to destroy them. He stooped to gather up the clothes--and straightened
suddenly--and jumped toward the door again.
"They are coming, Jimmie!" she called, in a low voice. But he had
already heard them--the stairs were creaking loudly under the tread of
many feet. He pushed the Tocsin hurriedly back against the wall at the
side of the door.
"Stand there!" he said, under his breath. "Out of the line of fire!
Don't move!"
There was a rush against the door--and then a voice growled:
"Aw, cut dat out! Wot do youse want to do--scare him away by bustin' it!
Pick de lock, an' we'll lay for him inside till he shows up."
It was the Skeeter's voice. The Skeeter and his gang--the worst apaches
in the city of New York! Professional assassins, death contractors,
he had called them--and the lowest bidders! A man's life any time for
twenty-five dollars! No, they were not likely to forget the affair of
the pushcart man, to forget old Luddy and his diamonds, to forget--the
Gray Seal! And they were only the vanguard of what was to come!
Some one was working at the lock now.
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