“What are ye doing here?” he whispered fiercely.
Mr. Lane, with protruding eyes, saw the pitiless faces about him, saw Goyle lift a life-preserver from the table and turn half-round the better to strike, and fainted.
“Stop that!” growled Bat, with outstretched hand. “The little swine has fainted. Who is he? Do any of you fellers know him?”
It was the wizened-faced man whom Angel had addressed as Lamby who furnished the identification.
“He’s a little crook—name of Lane.”
“Where does he come from?”
“Oh, hereabouts. He was in the Scrubbs in my time,” said Lamby.
They regarded the unconscious burglar in perplexity.
“Go through his pockets,” suggested Goyle.
It happened—and this was the most providential happening of the day from Mr. Lane’s point of view—that when he had decided upon embarking on his career of high-class crime he had thoughtfully provided himself with a few homemade instruments. It was the little poker with flattened end to form a jemmy and the center-bit that was found in his pocket that in all probability saved Mr. Lane’s life.