"If he reached the roof we've got him."
"Unless he found an open trap," a second answered.
With deft motions Clay worked swiftly. He was fastening the rope to the chimney of the house. Every instant he expected to hear a voice raised in excited discovery of him crouched in the shadows. But his fingers were as sure and as steady as though he had minutes before him instead of seconds.
"There's the guy—over by the chimney."
Clay threw the slack of the line from the roof. He had no time to test the strength of the rope nor its length. As the police rushed him he slid over the edge and began to lower himself hand under hand.
Would they cut the rope? Or would they take pot shots at him. He would know soon enough.
The wide eaves protected him. A man would have to hang out from the wall above the ledge to see him.
Clay's eyes were on the gutter above while he jerked his way down a foot at a time. A face and part of a body swung out into sight.
"We've got yuh. Come back or I'll shoot," a voice called down.
A revolver showed against the black sky.