And Cord Van Ingen, in his convict shirt, standing with one hand against the wall of the recess, and the other on his hip, smiled cheerfully.
"That is very true," he said.
Under his hand were the three switches that controlled the light in the room.
"It is also true, my young friend," said Poltavo softly, "that you have meddled outrageously in this matter—that you are virtually dead."
Van Ingen nodded.
"Wasn't it a Polish philosopher," he began, with all the hesitation of one who is beginning a long discourse, "who said——"
Then he switched out the light and dropped flat on the floor. The revolvers cracked together, and Poltavo uttered an oath.
There was a wild scramble in the dark. A knot of men swayed over a prostrate form; then a trembling hand found the switch, and the room was flooded with light.
Poltavo lay flat on his back with a bullet through his leg, but the man they sought, the man in the striped shirt and with a three days' growth of beard, was gone.