Jimmie Dale threw up the window, swung out, as with a rush the officers burst through into the room and a revolver bullet hummed viciously past his ear, and dropped to the ground—­into encircling arms!

“Ah, no, you don’t, my bucko!” snapped a hoarse voice in his ear.  “Keep quiet now, or I’ll crack your bean—­understand!”

But the officer, too heavy to be muscular, was no match for Jimmie Dale, who, even as he had dropped from the sill, had caught sight of the lurking form below; and now, with a quick, sudden, lithe movement he wriggled loose, his fist from a short-arm jab smashed upon the point of the other’s jaw, sending the man staggering backward—­and Jimmie Dale ran.

A crowd was already collecting at the mouth of the alleyway, mostly occupants of the house itself, and into these, scattering them in all directions, eluding dexterously another officer who made a grab for him, Jimmie Dale charged at top speed, burst through, and headed down the street, running like a deer.

Yells went up, a revolver spat venomously behind him, came the shrill cheep-cheep! of the police whistle, and heavy boots pounding the pavement in pursuit.

Down the block Jimmie Dale raced.  The yells augmented in his rear.  Another shot—­and this time he heard the bullet buzz.  And then he swerved—­into the next alleyway—­that flanked the Sanctuary.

He had perhaps a ten yards’ lead, just a little more than the distance from the street to the side door of the Sanctuary that opened on the alleyway.  And, as he ran now, his fingers tore at his clothing, loosening his tie, unbuttoning coat, vest, collar, shirt, and undershirt.  He leaped at the door, swung it open, flung himself inside—­and then sacrificing speed to silence, went up the stairs like a cat, cramming his mask now into his pocket.

His room was on the first landing.  In an instant he had unlocked the door, entered, and locked it again behind him.  From outside, an excited street urchin’s voice shrilled up to him: 

“He went in that door!  I seen him!”

The police whistle chirped again; and then an authoritative voice: 

“Get around and watch the saloon back of this, Heeney—­there’s a way out through there from this joint.”

Jimmie Dale, divested of every stitch of clothing that he had worn, pulled a disreputable collarless flannel shirt over his head, pulled on a dirty and patched pair of trousers, and slipped into a threadbare and filthy coat.  Jimmie Dale was working against seconds.  They were at the lower door now.  He lifted the oilcloth in the corner of the room, lifted up the loose piece of the flooring, shoved his discarded garments inside, and from a little box that was there smeared the hollow of his hand with some black substance, possessed himself of two little articles, replaced the flooring, replaced the oilcloth, and, in bare feet, stole across the room to the door.