A police siren wailed in the distance. That seemed to sober Brouke. "Drop me, you damn fool," he cried; "here come the police!"
Clayton carried the struggling man to the head of the stairs and pitched him down; then he turned back to the room where the woman lay on the floor where she had fallen. He raised her to her feet.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
"No, just frightened. He was trying to make me tell him where I kept my jewels."
The police siren sounded again, much closer now. "You better get out. Joe's awful sore. He'll have all three of you arrested."
Clayton glanced toward an open window, near which the branches of a great oak shone in the light from the street lamps in front of the house. He placed a foot upon the sill and leaped into the darkness. The woman screamed.
In the morning Clayton found Reece waiting for him in the lobby of the hotel. "Great little party, eh, what?" demanded the young man.
"I thought you would be in jail," said Clayton.
"Not a chance. Billy Brouke has a courtesy card from one of the big shots. Say, I see you're going to work for Abe Potkin, doing Tarzan."