There was a crash of splintering panels, the sound of a bursting lock.  Almost as though it were an echo of it came a heavy pounding upon the street door.  Clay guessed that the thirty minutes were up and that the Runt was bringing the police.  He dived back into one of the empty rooms just in time to miss a rush of men pouring along the passage to the stairs.

Cut off from the street, Clay took to the roof again.  It would not do for him to be caught in the house by the police.  He climbed the ladder, pushed his way through the trapdoor opening, and breathed deeply of the night air.

But he had no time to lose.  Already he could hear the trampling of feet up the stairs to the second story.

Lightly he vaulted the wall and came to the roof door leading down to number 123.  He found it latched.

The eaves of the roof projected so far that he could not from there get a hold on the window casings below.  He made a vain circuit of the roof, then passed to the next house.

Again he was out of luck.  The tenants had made safe the entrance against prowlers of the night.  He knew that at any moment now the police might appear in pursuit of him.  There was no time to lose.

He crossed to the last house in the block—­and found himself barred out.  As he rose from his knees he heard the voices of men clambering through the scuttle to the roof.  At the same time he saw that which brought him to instant action.  It was a rope clothes-line which ran from post to post, angling from one corner of the building to another and back to the opposite one.

No man in Manhattan’s millions knew the value of a rope or could handle one more expertly than this cattleman.  His knife was open before he had reached the nearest post.  One strong slash of the blade severed it.  In six long strides he was at the second post unwinding the line.  He used his knife a second time at the third post.

Through the darkness he could see the dim forms of men stopping to examine the scuttle.  Then voices came dear to him in the still night.

“If he reached the roof we’ve got him.”

“Unless he found an open trap,” a second answered.

With deft motions Clay worked swiftly.  He was fastening the rope to the chimney of the house.  Every instant he expected to hear a voice raised in excited discovery of him crouched in the shadows.  But his fingers were as sure and as steady as though he had minutes before him instead of seconds.

“There’s the guy—­over by the chimney.”

Clay threw the slack of the line from the roof.  He had no time to test the strength of the rope nor its length.  As the police rushed him he slid over the edge and began to lower himself hand under hand.

Would they cut the rope?  Or would they take pot shots at him.  He would know soon enough.

The wide eaves protected him.  A man would have to hang out from the wall above the ledge to see him.