"Can the tee-ayter stunt! Clarie leaves the front door unfastened, don't he?
An' dey'll be in dere in a minute now.

Wotcher want ter do?
Crab the game?
He might hear us an' fix Clarie before we had a chanst, the skinny old fox! An' dere's the light now--see! Beat it on yer toes fer the front of the house!" The room was flooded with light.

Through the portieres, that Jimmie Dale parted by the barest fraction of an inch, he could see Stangeist and another man, a thick-set, ugly-faced-looking customer--Clarie Deane, according to that brief, whispered colloquy that he had heard outside.
He looked again through the window.

The two dark forms had disappeared now, but they had disappeared just a few seconds too late--with the two other men now in the room, and one of them so close that Jimmie Dale could almost have reached out and touched him, it was impossible to get through the window without being detected, when the slightest sound would attract instant attention and equally instant suspicion.

It was a chance to be taken only as a last resort.
Jimmie Dale's face grew hard, as his fingers closed around his automatic and drew the weapon from his pocket.