A flashlight’s ray shot out—­and, with a twisted smile propped now on his left elbow to give free play to his revolver arm, Jimmie Dale followed the white spot eagerly with his eyes.  But it did not circle around; instead, the light was turned almost instantly toward the lower end of the room—­and, a second later, was holding steadily on the open door of the safe, and the litter of papers on the floor.

Came a savage growl of amazed fury from the Magpie:  then his step down the room; and, as he reached the safe, a torrent of unbridled blasphemy—­and then, in a sort of staggered gasp, as he leaned suddenly forward examining the knob of the dial: 

“The Gray Seal!”

A moment the Magpie stood there; and then, cursing again in abandon, turned, and started back for the window, his flashlight dancing before him—­and stopped, a snarl of fury on his lips.  The flashlight was playing full on Jimmie Dale under the table!

“Larry the Bat!  The Gray Seal!  By God!” choked the Magpie.  “You—­you—­” The Magpie’s flashlight, as he shifted it from his right hand to his left and wrenched out his revolver, had fallen upon two men crouched close against the wall by the library door—­and he screamed out in an access of fury.  “De double cross!  A plant!  De bulls!  You damned snitch, Larry!” screamed out the Magpie—­and fired.

The bullet tore into the carpet beside Jimmie Dale.  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.

The man, though evidently badly wounded, smiled defiantly in spite of his pain.

“So you’re the Gray Seal!” he flung out contemptuously.  “A clever enough safe-cracker—­but only a lowbrow, like the rest of them.  Another illusion dispelled!  Well, you’ve got the money—­better run, hadn’t you?”