"That isn't my name."
"You have a dozen. I know you, however, as the forger, Andrew Barkswell."
"Well, I suppose I may's well come."
He was going in without resistance.
The Yankee was keen, but he failed to notice the movement of the woman.
Of a sudden she sprang forward behind the Yankee, and flung her arms about him, pinioning his arms for an instant. He soon tore loose, but precious time had been lost.
With a sweep of his hand, the man, whom our Yankee friend had taken for August Bordine, dashed the lamp to the floor, leaving the room in total darkness.
"Good-by, Mr. Keene. I hope you'll have better success next time," chuckled a voice, and then the outer door slammed, denoting that the outlaw had passed out into the night.
All this was the work of less than a minute.
The detective, for he it was, wrenched himself from the woman's detaining arms, and dashed down the hall to the street. Darkness reigned outside, and it soon became evident that the outlaw had made good his escape.