Those who wanted to get in and those who wanted to get out all tried to talk at once, but as soon as the police recognized Jerry Durand they gave him the floor.

“We’re after a flat-worker,” explained the ex-pugilist.  “He must be tryin’ for a roof getaway.”  He turned and led the joint forces back up the stairs.

Thugs and officers surged up after him, carrying with them in their rush the Runt.  He presently found himself on the roof with those engaged in a man-hunt for his friend.  When Clay shattered the window and disappeared inside after his escape from the roof, Johnnie gave a deep sigh of relief.  This gun-play got on his nerves, since Lindsay was the target of it.

The bandy-legged range-rider was still trailing along with the party ten minutes later when its scattered members drew together in tacit admission that the hunted man had escaped.

“Did youse get a look at his mug, Mr. Durand?” asked one of the officers.  “It’s likely we’ve got it down at headquarters in the gall’ry.”

Durand had already made up his mind on that point.

“We didn’t see his face in the light, Pete.  No, I wouldn’t know him again.”

His plug-uglies took their cue from him.  So did the officers.  If Durand did not want a pinch there would, of course, not be one.

The gang leader was in a vile temper.  If this story reached the newspapers all New York would be laughing at him.  He could appeal to the police, have Clay Lindsay arrested, and get him sent up for a term on the charge of burglary.  But he could not do it without the whole tale coming out.  One thing Jerry Durand could not stand was ridicule.  His vanity was one of his outstanding qualities, and he did not want it widely known that the boob he had intended to trap had turned the tables on him, manhandled him, jeered at him, and locked him in a room with his three henchmen.

Johnnie Green chose this malapropos moment for reminding the officers of the reason for the coming to the house.

“What about the young lady?” he asked solicitously.

Durand wheeled on him, looked him over with an insolent, malevolent eye, and jerked a thumb in his direction.  “Who is this guy?”

“He’s the fellow tipped us off his pal was inside,” answered one of the patrolmen.  He spoke in a whisper close to the ear of Jerry.  “Likely he knows more than he lets on.  Shall I make a pinch?”

The eyes of the gang leader narrowed.  “So he’s a friend of this second-story bird, is he?”

“Y’betcha!” chirped up Johnnie, “and I’m plumb tickled to take his dust too.  Now about this yere young lady—­”

Jerry caught him hard on the side of the jaw with a short arm jolt.  The range-rider hit the pavement hard.  Slowly he got to his feet nursing his cheek.

“What yuh do that for, doggone it?” he demanded resentfully.  “Me, I wasn’t lookin’ for no trouble.  Me, I—­”