“Yes,” he said tersely. “Yes—if it is still there.”
“Still there!”—she repeated the words quickly, nervously. “Still there! What do you mean?”
“I mean if they, too, have not discovered that he was at Makoff's—if they have not got there first!” he said grimly. “There seems to be no limit to their cleverness, or their power. They penetrated his disguise as a chauffeur, and who knows what more they have learned since last night? We are fighting them in the dark, and—WHAT'S THAT!” he whispered tensely, suddenly—and leaning forward like a flash, as he whipped his automatic from his pocket, he blew out the lamp.
The room was in darkness. They stood there rigid, silent, listening. Her hand found and caught his arm.
And then it came again—a low sound, the sound of a stealthy footstep just outside the window that faced on the storage yard.
CHAPTER XI
THE MAGPIE
A minute passed—another. The automatic at Jimmie Dale's hip, the muzzle just peeping over the table top, held a steady bead on the window. Came the footstep again—and then suddenly, a series of low, quick tappings upon the windowpane. The Tocsin's hand slipped away from his arm. Jimmie Dale's set face relaxed as he read the underground Morse, and he replaced his revolver slowly in his pocket.
“The Magpie!” said Jimmie Dale, in an undertone. “What's he want?”