“We'll try it,” decided the one who appeared to be in command. “We're in the dark, anyhow, and the thing may be only a steer. Mabbe it'll work—anyway, it won't do any harm.” His hand fell heavily on Jimmie Dale's shoulder. “Mrs. Hagan know you?” brusquely.
“Sure she does!” sniffled Larry the Bat.
“Good!” rasped the officer. “Well, we'll make the visit with you. And you do what you're told, or we'll put the screws on you—see? We're after something here, and you've blown the whole game—savvy? You've spilled the gravy—understand?”
In the darkness, Jimmie Dale smiled grimly. It was far more than he had dared to hope for—they were playing into his hands!
“But I don't know 'bout any game,” grovelled Larry the Bat piteously.
“Who in hell said you did!” growled the officer. “You're supposed to have snitched the lay to us, that's all—and mind you play your part! Come on!”
It was two doors down the hall to Mike Hagan's room, and there one of the officers, putting his shoulder to the door, burst it open and sprang in. The other shoved Jimmie Dale forward. It was quickly done. The three were in the room. The door was closed again.
Came a cry of terror out of the darkness, a movement as of some one rising up hurriedly in bed; and then Mrs. Hagan's voice:
“What is it! Who is it! Mike!”
The table—it was against the right-hand wall, Jimmie Date remembered. He sidled quickly toward it.