“I will get some from the butler, if you wait just a moment.  You can leave by the rear yard, if you don’t mind climbing a high board fence.”

Van Cleft hurried downstairs, in a few minutes, bearing a weather-beaten overcoat and an English cap, which Shirley drew down over his ears.  With the coat on, he looked very unlike the well-groomed club man who had entered.  Unseen by Van Cleft he shifted an automatic revolver into the coat pocket from the discarded garment.

“Now, Mr. Shirley, come this way.  Follow the rear area-way, across to the next yard, where after another climb you find a vacant lot where the Schuylers are preparing to erect their new city house.  Will you attend to everything?”

“Everything.  I’ll start sooner than you expect.”

Truly he did!  For no sooner had he descended the second fence into the empty lot than a stinging blow sent him at full length on the rocky ground, where the excavations were already being started.  Two men pounced upon him in a twinkling—­only his great strength, acquired through the football years, saved him from immediate defeat.  His head throbbed, and he was dizzy as he caught the wrist of the nearest assailant with a quick twist which resulted in a sudden, sickening crunch.  The man groaned in agony, but his companion kicked with heavy-shod feet at the prostrate man.  Shirley’s left hand duplicated the vice-like grip upon the ankle of the standing assailant, and his deftness caused another tendon strain!  Both men toppled to the ground, now, and before they realized it Shirley had reversed the advantage.  His automatic emphasized his superiority of tactics.  He understood their silence, broken only by muted groans:  they feared the police, even as did he, although for different reasons.  He “frisked” the man nearest him upon the ground, and captured deftly the rascal’s weapon:  then he sprang up covering the twain.

“Get up!  Youse guys is poachin’ in de wrong district—­dis belongs to de Muggins gang.  I’ll fix youse guys fer buttin’ in.  Up, dere!” His hands went into his coat pockets, but the men knew that they were still pointing at them, the gunman’s “cover” as it is called.  They staggered sullenly to their feet.  He beckoned with his head, toward the front of the lot.  They followed the silent instructions, one limping while his mate wrung the injured wrist in agony.

Directly before the lot stood a throbbing, empty automobile.  Shirley decided to take another car—­he could not guard them and drive at the same time.

“Down to Fift’ Avnoo,” he ordered.  “I got two guns—­not a woid from youse!” His erstwhile amiable physiognomy, now gnarled into an unrecognizable mask of low villainy bespoke his desperate earnestness.  The men obeyed.  This was apparently a gangster, of gangsters—­their fear of the dire vengeance of a rival organization of cut-throats instilled an obedience more humble than any other threats.