a crack of light seeping from under the door sill had already informed him that Limpy Mack had returned home.
And then Jimmie Dale was gone from the street—and down the half dozen steps was crouching in the blackness below the sidewalk at Limpy Mack's door. Again the silk mask was slipped over his face; again his fingers sought a pocket in the little leather girdle—and the next instant were silently and deftly at work with a pick-lock.
Perhaps a minute passed. Then Jimmie Dale straightened up, swung the door open, and like a flash was inside the room with the door closed behind him.
A startled oath greeted his entrance. Limpy Mack, peaked cap drawn over his eyes, was seated at a table on which burned an oil lamp. His heavy, rubber-tipped cane also lay across the table. He snatched at this now in lieu of a sheaf of banknotes which he let fall from his hands, and which he had evidently been engaged in counting—and rose, half threateningly, half defensively, to his feet.
“Good evening!” said Jimmie Dale pleasantly. “I seem to be in luck to-night.”
His automatic indicated the sheaf of notes, and then held on Limpy Mack. Jimmie Dale's glance swept swiftly, critically around the place. Its furnishings were few and of the crudest; a bed in one corner, near a second door that conveniently opened on the back yard no doubt; a washstand minus one leg, and therefore askew, that boasted a streaked and badly blistered mirror; the table and chair in front of the washstand; a dirty, unswept floor, bare of carpet—and that was all. The place reeked with filth.
“Nice quiet little resort you've got here,” smiled Jimmie Dale. His eyes were apparently roving again about the cellar-like room, apparently everywhere save on Limpy Mack. “I'm sure you—drop that!”
A revolver, almost free from Limpy Mack's pocket, fell with a clatter to the floor. The man screamed out in rage.
“Why, Limpy, that's raw,” said Jimmie Dale in a pained way. “I didn't think you'd fall for it. All I wanted was your gun.” He advanced to the table, and kicked the weapon across the floor under the bed.
There was a sudden swish through the air, as, quick without warning, Limpy Mack aimed a blow with his cane at Jimmie Dale's wrist and automatic. It missed. Again the man screamed out in fury.
Jimmie Dale's face set.
“Don't raise your voice again like that,” he said in flat tones. “Sit down!” His automatic swung to the level of the other's eyes.
With a snarl, Limpy Mack subsided into the chair. He scowled at Jimmie Dale.
“Who are you, anyway, you damned thug?” he demanded thickly.
“I'll tell you,” said Jimmie Dale. He was smiling whimsically now—not at Limpy Mack, but at the somewhat exacting demands of the situation in which he found himself. Mother Margot must in no way appear in this; and, besides that money on the table, there was the paper that Little Sweeney had given to Limpy Mack in Mother Margot's presence—a paper, in reference to the contents of which, he, Jimmie Dale, had acquired an intense curiosity. Ostensibly, therefore, he must appear—in order that no thought of Mother Margot might by any chance enter the other's mind—to be ignorant of even the existence of the paper, and yet, at the same time, get hold of it. “I'll tell you,” said Jimmie Dale. “I was walking down a certain street to-night, and I saw you sneak out of a little confectionery store that looked as though it had all been closed up for the night, and I said to myself: 'That's funny, because Limpy Mack never plays for chicken feed.' And then I went and read the sign on the window, and I remembered that everybody said Mrs. Kinsey had a well-filled stocking hidden away somewhere. So I just took a chance, Limpy, thinking that maybe you'd found it, and I followed you. And as I said before, I seem to have played in luck.”
“It's a lie!” growled Limpy Mack. “That ain't Mrs. Kinsey's, or anybody else's money. It's mine.”
“I'm delighted to know it,” murmured Jimmie Dale. “But even so, I still insist that I am in luck to-night. There must be quite a few thousand here.” He began to thrust the bills into his pockets.
Limpy Mack sat crouched down in his chair, the posture seeming to accentuate almost to deformity his stooped shoulders.
“Damn you!” he shrieked out. He gnawed at his unkempt gray moustache, and flung another oath at Jimmie Dale.
Jimmie Dale swept the table clean. It was obviously all that Limpy Mack had stolen from Mrs. Kinsey, for he would obviously have had it all out to count it—but there was still a certain paper in Limpy Mack's pocket.
“I wonder—since you say it was yours—if you haven't got some more,” suggested Jimmie Dale invitingly. “I'm afraid I'll have to trouble you to turn your pockets out, Limpy. Stand up!”
“I—I ain't got any more.” The man seemed suddenly cowed. He crouched still lower in his chair.
“Stand up!” repeated Jimmie Dale sternly. “Now I'm quite sure you have!”
“No!” Limpy Mack was whining now. “I—I'll tell you the truth. I got it where you said. But that's all—all of it was on the table. Say, you believe me, don't you? I'd come across if I had any more, wouldn't I? I couldn't help myself.”
The man was blatantly stalling now. The paper was—no, it wasn't on account of the paper. Behind Limpy Mack's back something showed in the blistered mirror—the head and shoulders of Little Sweeney protruding through the rear doorway, and in Little Sweeney's hand a levelled revolver. Limpy Mack's voice had drowned out any sound made by the opening of the door, if, indeed, there had been any sound at all.
Jimmie Dale's brain was working in lightning flashes now, but not a muscle of his face moved. His automatic dangling in his hand was useless. To swing it on the door with only a chance aim would be but the signal for Little Sweeney to fire.
“All right, Limpy,” said Jimmie Dale, and leaned slightly toward the end of the table. “I'll take your word for it that——”
And then Jimmie Dale was in action. With a sweep of his hand he sent the lamp crashing from the table to the floor, and ducked instantly to one side.
There was a yell from Limpy Mack; and, in the sudden darkness as the lamp went out, from the doorway came the tongue-flame of Little Sweeney's revolver and the roar of the report. Then a rush of feet, the flash and roar of the revolver again, and the next instant Jimmie Dale was locked in a hand to hand struggle with Little Sweeney. Here and there they swayed, the breath of one, panting, hard, on the other's cheek; the table toppled to the floor, carrying the chair with it; their feet crunched on the splintered glass from the lamp and chimney—and then suddenly Jimmie Dale reeled from a terrific blow across the head.
“I got him!” screamed Limpy Mack's voice exultantly. “I got him, Sweeney! I beaned him with the loaded handle of my cane.”
But though dazed, lurching, scarcely able to keep his feet, Jimmie Dale was still fighting like a wildcat. Twice since Little Sweeney had grappled with him, he had managed to strike the other with the butt of his automatic. He had only one chance now—to end it quickly—he was too nearly gone himself. He wrenched himself suddenly free, and swung again with all his strength. A gurgling voice—Little Sweeney's—answered the blow:
“Look out—Limpy—beat it—you know why—that paper—beat it—I——”
Again and again Jimmie Dale brushed his hand across his
