How paltry details stood out!  The earthen floor still drowned the sound of footsteps; the narrow hall took the same turns; led on and on in devious fashion until he could hear, like the faint hum of bees, the distant rumble from the great thoroughfares, somewhere above, that paralleled the course of the river.  At the same time a slant of light like a sword, from the crack of a door, gleamed on the dark floor before him; he stepped toward it; the low sound of men’s tones could be heard—­Joe’s; a strange voice! no, a familiar one!—­that caused the listener’s every fiber to vibrate.

“And what did you say, when he pumped you for the cote?”

“That you would rather call on him.”

“And then he cared nought for the job?  You’re sure”—­anxiously—­“he wasn’t playing to find out?”

The other answered jocosely and walked away; a door closed behind him.  For a time the stillness remained unbroken; then a low rattle, as of dice on a table, caused John Steele to glance through a crevice.  What he saw seemed to decide him to act quickly; he lifted a latch and stepped in.  As he did so a huge man with red hair sprang to his feet; from one great hand the dice fell to the floor; his shaggy jowl drooped.  Casting over his shoulder the swift glance of an entrapped animal, he seemed about to leap backward to escape by a rear entrance when the voice of the intruder arrested his purpose, momentarily held him.

“Oh, I’m alone!  There are no police outside.”  He spoke in the dialect of the pick-purse and magsman.  To prove it, John Steele stooped and locked the door.

The small bloodshot eyes lighted with wonder; the heavy brutish jaws began to harden.  “Alone?”

The other tossed the key; it fell at the man’s feet; John Steele walked over to the opposite door and shot a heavy bolt there.  “Looks as if it would hold,” he said in thieves’ argot as he turned around.

“Are ye a gaby?” The red-headed giant stared ominously at him.

“On the contrary,” coolly, “I know very well what I am doing.”

A question interlarded with oaths burst from the other’s throat; John Steele regarded the man quietly.  “I should think it apparent what I want!” he answered.  As he spoke, he sat down.  “It is you,” bending his bright, resolute eyes on the other.

“And you’ve come alone?” He drew up his ponderous form.

John Steele smiled.  “I assure you I welcomed the opportunity.”

“You won’t long.”  The great fists closed.  “Do you know what I am going to do to you?”

“I haven’t any curiosity,” still clinging to thieves’ jargon or St. Giles Greek.  “But I’m sure you won’t play me the trick you did the last time I saw you.”

The fellow shot his head near; in his look shone a gleam of recognition.  “You’re the swell cove who wanted to palaver that night when—­”

“You tried to rob me of my purse?”

John Steele laughed; his glance lingered on his bulky adversary with odd, persistent exhilaration, as if after all that had gone before, this contest royal, which promised to become one of sheer brute strength, awoke to its utmost a primal fighting force in him.  “Do you know the penalty for attempting that game, Tom Rogers, alias Tom-o’-the-Road; alias—–­”