“By God”—­the Wowzer’s voice rose in a scream—­“youse hand over dat letter!”

“Youse go to—­”

Red, lurid red, a stream of flame seemed to cut across Jimmie Dale’s line of vision, came the roar of a revolver shot—­and like a madman Jimmie Dale flung his body at the door.  Rickety at best, it crashed inward, half wrenched from its hinges, precipitating him inside.  He recovered himself and leaped forward.  The room was swirling with blue eddies of smoke; Dago Jim, hands flung up, still grasping letter and pocketbook, pawed at the air—­and plunged with a sagging lurch face downward to the floor.  There was a yell and an oath from the Wowzer—­the crack of another revolver shot, the hum of the bullet past Jimmie Dale’s ear, the scorch of the tongue flame in his face, and he was upon the other.

Screeching profanity, the Wowzer grappled; and, for an instant, the two men rocked, reeled, and swayed in each other’s embrace; then, both men losing their balance, they shot suddenly backward, the Wowzer, undermost, striking his head against the table’s edge—­and men, table, and lamp crashed downward in a heap to the floor.

It had been no more, at most, than a matter of seconds since Jimmie Dale had hurled himself into the room; and now, with a gurgling sigh, the Wowzer’s arms, that had been wound around Jimmie Dale’s back and shoulders, relaxed, and, from the blow on his head the man, lay back inert and stunned.  And then it seemed to Jimmie Dale as though pandemonium, unreality, and chaos at the touch of some devil’s hand reigned around him.  It was dark—­no, not dark—­a spurt of flame was leaping along the line of trickling oil from the broken lamp on the floor.  It threw into ghastly relief the sprawled form of Dago Jim.  Outside, from along the passageway, came a confused jangle of commotion—­whispering voices, shuffling feet, the swish of Chinese garments.  And the room itself began to spring into weird, flickering shadows, that mounted and crept up the walls with the spreading fire.

There was not a second to lose before the room would be swarming with that rush from the passageway—­and there was still the letter, the pocketbook!  The table had fallen half over Dago Jim—­Jimmie Dale pushed it aside, tore the crushed letter and the pocketbook from the man’s hands—­and felt, with a grim, horrible sort of anxiety, for the other’s heartbeat, for the verdict that meant life or death to himself.  There was no sign of life—­the man was dead.

Jimmie Dale was on his feet now.  A face, another, and another showed in the doorway—­the Wowzer was regaining his senses, stumbling to his knees.  There was one chance—­just one—­to take those crowding figures by surprise.  And with a yell of “Fire!” Jimmie Dale sprang for the doorway.

They gave way before his rush, tumbling back in their surprise against the opposite wall; and, turning, Jimmie Dale raced down the passageway.  Doors were opening everywhere now, forms were pushing out into the semi-darkness—­only to duck hastily back again, as Jimmie Dale’s automatic barked and spat a running fire of warning ahead of him.  And then, behind, the Wowzer’s voice shrieked out: