There came a faint creaking noise—some one was cautiously mounting the stairs. Jimmie Dale snatched his automatic from his pocket, and without a sound stole forward across the room to a position by the door. The footsteps were on the landing now. The doorknob was tried; the door began to open slowly, inch by inch, wider; a dark form slipped through into the room; the floor was closed again—and Jimmie Dale, reaching forward, clapped the muzzle of his automatic against the other’s head. But it was Larry the Bat who spoke—in a hoarse, guttural whisper.
“Youse let a peep outer youse, an’ youse goes bye-bye for keeps! See? Put yer hands over yer head, an’ do it—quick!”
Jimmie Dale’s left hand reached out and switched on the light. It was Meighan, hands elevated, startled, angry, who stood blinking in the glare—and then a low cry came from the man.
“Larry the Bat—the Gray Seal! So it’s a plant, is it! That damned she-pal of yours handed it to me good over the ‘phone!” Meighan’s lips tightened. “And where’s Virat—did you kill him, too?”
Jimmie Dale’s hand was searching swiftly through the detective’s clothes. He transferred a revolver and a pair of handcuffs to his own pockets.
“I had ter take a chance on de light,” said Larry the Bat plaintively; “‘cause I had ter frisk youse.” He turned off the light again. “Sure, she’s a slick one!” Larry the Bat, his left hand free again, turned his flashlight upon the detective. “Youse can put yer flippers down now. Mabbe she staked youse ter de tip dat de bonds was here, eh?”
“Yes, blast you—both of you!” growled Meighan.
“Well, dey ain’t,” said Larry the Bat coolly; “but mabbe, after all, she wasn’t handin’ youse no steer.”
Meighan, savage at his own helplessness, snarled his words.
“What do you mean?” he demanded.