But in spite of this precaution, we were not two-thirds the way up the flight before a voice shot out of the darkness.
“Who's there?”
We stopped and held our breath. There was a minute of silence, but it was broken by the creak of a board as one of the men shifted his weight.
“There's some one here!” cried the voice above us. “Halt, or I'll shoot! Peterson! Conn! Come quick!”
There was no more need for silence, and Corson and I reached the landing just as a door opened that let the light stream from within. Two men had sprung to the doorway, and another could be seen faintly outlined in the dark hall.
“Holy Mother! it's the cops!” came in an awe-stricken voice at the sight of Corson's star.
“Right, my hearty!” cried Corson, making a rush for the man, who darted down the hall in an effort to escape. The two men jumped back into the room and tried to close the door, but I was upon them before they could swing it shut. Four of my men had followed me close, and with a few blows given and taken, the two were prisoners.
“Tie them fast,” I ordered, and hastened to see how Corson fared.
I met the worthy policeman in the hall, blown but exultant. Owens was following him, and between them they half-dragged, half-carried the man who had given the alarm.
“He made a fight for it,” puffed Corson, “but I got in wan good lick at him and he wilted. You'll surrinder next time when I tell ye, won't ye, me buck?”