Howard Milmarsh—the real one—was lying back in his chair, and a thin, red stream trickled over his forehead.
“Get that fellow!” shouted Nick, over his shoulder, as he rushed to the wounded man crumpled up in the big armchair.
“I’ve got him, all right,” replied Bonesy Billings.
Billings had backheeled Louden Powers just as he got to the door, and now was kneeling on the chest of the discomfited scoundrel.
Lampton, scared, was in his chair. He had jumped up when Louden tried to get away. Then, seeing that the attempt would fail, he prudently resumed his seat in a hurry.
Nick was examining the wound, putting his handkerchief to it and noting at the same time that the sufferer was talking rapidly.
“It just caught him with a glancing stroke,” announced the detective. “It jarred him, but that is all. It is not serious. Just enough of a concussion to——”
He stopped and looked around him, with a hopeful look in his keen, dark eyes.
“What’s this?” the wounded man was saying, in a natural, though weak, voice. “Are we off the roof? Is the fire still burning? We didn’t go through, did we? Where’s Bessie?”
“Here I am! Here I am!” she answered eagerly.