It was apparently a quarrel among thieves over the spoils, each fearful lest the other was double-crossing.  Hobart and “Red” Hogan were doing most of the talking, although occasionally others chimed in, and once there was a woman’s voice added to the debate.  Seemingly the whole gang were present; a strong odour of tobacco smoke stole through the crack in the door, and both Hobart and Hogan swore angrily.  Who was to remain out there on guard while Hobart and the girl returned to Chicago for the money was evidently the question, Hogan wishing to accompany them to make sure of his share.  The woman sided with Hobart, the other men apparently ranged up with “Red,” and some very plain talking was indulged in.

McAdams listened grimly, the light through the crack showing his lips curled in a smile of appreciation.  He lowered his head, and with one eye at the slight opening gained a glimpse of the lighted room beyond.  A moment, motionless, he stared in on the scene; then straightened up, and, with revolver in hand, signalled to the others to close in closer.  They stood there for a tense instant, poised and eager; then the doors were flung crashing back, and they leaped recklessly forward, out of the darkness into the light.  It was a furious fight—­sharp, merciless, uncompromising.  The thieves, startled, desperate, were hurled back by the first rush against the further wall, tables and chairs overturned, the shrieking woman pushed headlong into one corner, and one of the fellows downed by the crashing butt of a revolver.  But the others rallied, maddened, desperate, rats caught in a trap, fighting as animals fight.  Hobart fired, catching an assailant in the arm; Hogan snatched up a chair and struck viciously at West, who leaped straight forward, breaking the full force of the blow, and driving his own fist into the man’s face.  It was all over within a minute’s fierce fighting—­the surprise turning the trick.  Hobart went down cursing, the gun kicked out of his hand, his arm broken; Hogan, struggling still, but pinned to the floor by three men, was given a blow to the chin which left him unconscious, while the other two threw up their hands and yelled for mercy.  McAdams wiped his streaming face, and looked around.

It was a shambles, the floor spotted with blood, the table overturned and broken, a blanket over one of the windows torn down, a smashed chair in one corner.  The detective who had been shot was still lying in front of the door, “Red” lay motionless, a ghastly cut over his eye, and Hobart, his arm dangling, sat propped up against the wall, cursing, malevolent, but helpless.  On the other side stood Sennett and “Dago Dave,” their hands high above their heads; each looking into the levelled barrel of a gun.  The woman had got to her knees, still dazed from the blow which had felled her.  The ex-service man smiled grimly, well satisfied.

“Some surprise party, eh, Jim?” he asked pleasantly.  “This rather puts a crimp in your little game, I would savy, old boy.  Going to cop the whole boodle tomorrow, was you?”