Jimmie Dale edged in close to the building as he slouched by, so close that his hat brim seemed to touch the windowpane.  It was possible that from a room at the rear of the store there might be a light with a telltale ray perhaps filtering through, say, a door crack.  But there was nothing—­only blackness within.

He paused at the corner of the building by the alleyway.  Down here, adjoining the high board fence of Spider Jack’s back yard, Makoff made pretense at pawnbrokering in a small and dingy wooden building, that was little more pretentious than a shed—­and in Makoff’s place, so far as he could see, there was no light, either.

Jimmie Dale’s fingers were industriously rolling a cigarette, as, under the brim of his slouch hat, his eyes were noting every detail around him.  A yard in against the wall of Spider Jack’s, the wall cutting off the rays of the street lamp at a sharp angle, it was shadowy and black—­and beyond that, farther in, the alleyway was like a pit.  It would take less, far less, than the fraction of a second to gain that yard, but some one was approaching behind him, and a little group of people loitered, with annoying persistency, directly across the way on the other side of the street.  Jimmie Dale stuck the cigarette between his lips, fumbled in his pockets, and finally produced a box of matches.  The group opposite was moving on now; the footsteps he had heard behind him, those of a man, drew nearer, the man passed by—­and the box of matches in Jimmie Dale’s hand dropped to the ground.  He reached to pick them up, and in his stooping posture, without seeming to turn his head, flung a quick glance behind him up the street.  No one, for that fraction of a second that he needed, was near enough to see—­and in that fraction of a second Jimmie Dale disappeared.

A dozen yards down the lane, he sprang for the top of the high fence, gripped it, and, lithe and active as a cat, swung himself up and over, and dropped noiselessly to the ground on the other side.  Here he stood motionless for a moment, close against the fence, to get his bearings.  The rear of Spider Jack’s building loomed up before him—­the back windows as unlighted as those in front.  Luck so far, at least, was with him!  He turned and looked about him, and, his eyes growing accustomed to the darkness, he could just make out Makoff’s place, bordering the end of the yard—­nor, from this new vantage point, could he discover, any more than before, a single sign of life about the pawnbroker’s establishment.

Jimmie Dale stole forward across the yard, mounted the three steps of the low stoop at Spider Jack’s back door, and tried the door cautiously.  It was locked.  From his pocket came the small steel instrument that had stood Larry the Bat in good stead a hundred times before in similar circumstances.  He inserted it in the keyhole, worked deftly with it for an instant—­and tried the door again.  It was still locked.  And then Jimmie Dale smiled almost apologetically.  Spider Jack did not use ordinary locks on his back door!