“Leave him,” said Bat; “we’ve got no time for fooling with him.”
A motor-car came buzzing down Cawdor Street, which was unusual. They heard the grind of its brakes outside the door, and that in itself was sufficiently alarming. Bat extinguished the light, and cautiously opened the shutters. He drew back with an oath.
“What’s that?” Goyle whispered.
Bat made no reply, and they heard him open his matchbox.
“What are you doing?” whispered Goyle fiercely.
“Light the lamp,” said the other.
The tinkle of glass followed as he removed the chimney, and in the yellow light Bat faced the “Borough Lot.”
“U—P spells ‘up,’ an’ that’s what the game is,” he said calmly. He was searching his pockets as he spoke. “I want a light because there’s one or two things in my pocket that I’ve got to burn—quick!”
After some fumbling he found a paper. He gave it a swift examination, then he struck a match and carefully lit the corner.
“It’s the fairest cop,” he went on. “The street’s full of police, and Angel ain’t playing ‘gamblin’ raids’ this time.”