His hand tried the door cautiously; the knob turned easily enough, but there was no yielding to his pressure.  The lock was evidently on the outside, and he could discover no key-hole, no possibility of operating it from within.  Then, besides in all probability, a guard would be posted outside in the hall, waiting for some signal from Hobart.  West glanced again at the recumbent figure, bending over to make sure of his condition, then, gripping a chair, silently crossed the room.

There was not a minute to lose.  He knew that he must choose quickly whatever course he pursued.  Any instant Hobart might recover consciousness, and gain assistance by a rap on the door; indeed his confederates without might not wait for the signal.  The silence within, the length of time, might arouse suspicion.  The only chance lay in immediate action.  Standing on the chair West found the window had been securely nailed into place, but this had been done so long ago, it was quite possible for him to work the nails loose, yet it required all his strength to press up the warped sash sufficiently far to enable him to gain a view outside.  It was not encouraging.  Evidently he was upon the third floor, at the rear of the building, looking down into a cluttered up back yard.  His eyes could scarcely distinguish what was below, as the only glimmer of light came from a far distant street lamp at the end of an alley, the faint rays creeping in through holes in the fence.  Yet one black shadow seemed to promise the sloping roof of a shed directly below; but even with that to break his fall, it was a desperate leap.

He stared into those uncertain depths, endeavouring to measure the distance, deceived by the shifting shadows, afraid of what lay hidden below.  For the moment he forgot all that was behind him, his whole mind concentrated on the perils of so mad a leap into the dark.  The awakening came suddenly, the chair jerked from beneath his feet, his body hurled backward.  He fell, gripping at the window seat, so that he was flung against the support of a side wall, able to retain his feet, but not to wholly ward off a vicious blow, which left him staggering.  Half blinded, West leaped forward to grapple with the assailant, but was too late.  Hobart rushed back out of reach of his arms, and rapped sharply on the door panel.  It opened instantly, and big Mike, closely followed by another man, pushed forward into the room.  West was trapped, helpless; one man pitted against three.  He backed slowly away, brushing tack the dishevelled hair from his eyes, watching them warily, every animal instinct on the alert.

Mike took one comprehensive glance at the scene, at the overturned chair, the half-open window, the trapped man crouching motionless against the further wall.  The meaning of it all was plain, and his bar-room training gave quick insight as to the part he was to play.  He spoke gruffly out into the dark of the hall behind him, an order to some one concealed there; then shut the door tightly, and faced West, his head lowered like a bull about to charge.  West understood; he was locked in to fight it out—­three against one.  Hobart was nearest to him, his face swollen and red, his eyes ugly slits, with teeth snarling between thin lips.  The fellow laughed sneeringly, as their glances met.