The blow was about to fall upon Clyde Burke’s skull. Weak and choking, Clyde could only stare in helplessness.
Then a powerful fist shot into view. It clipped the gunman squarely on the chin. The leer became an expression of ugly surprise as the would-be murderer toppled to the floor.
Harry Vincent helped Clyde to his feet. As though in a dream, Clyde felt himself being helped back to the other office. Harry rested him in a chair, and gave him a drink of cold water. Clyde gulped the liquid and felt better.
“I looked out the window in the alcove,” explained Harry quietly. “The office on the floor above was empty. I suspected that you had entered a trap. I hurried over to help you.”
“Thanks,” gulped Clyde. “But what about the fellow you cracked on the chin?”
“I left him there,” answered Harry. “He doesn’t even know what hit him. We can let him lie there. One of Macklin’s men. We’ll recognize him if we see him again. I took a good look at his face. I brought your clippings along, too.”
There was a slight noise at the closed door. An envelope fluttered in through the mail chute. Harry opened it. When he had finished his hurried reading of the message, he let the paper fall to the floor — a blank sheet.
“We have our orders,” he said quietly.
He opened a closet door and brought out a large suitcase. From this he extracted articles of old clothing, two automatic revolvers, and two envelopes.
He threw trousers, shirt, sweater, and cap to Clyde.