Jimmie Dale gained his feet and leaped forward.

A revolver shot cut a lane of fire through the blackness; and, above the roar of the report, Whitey Mack's voice in a fierce yell: "It's all right, Lannigan! I got him! No--HELL!" There was a terrific crash of breaking glass.

"He's got away!" "Not yet, he hasn't!" gritted Jimmie Dale between his teeth, and his clubbed revolver swung crashing to the head of a dark form in front of him.
There was a half sigh, half moan.

The form slid limply to the floor.
Lannigan was floundering down the shop, leaping obstacles in a mad rush, his flashlight picking out the way.
Jimmie Dale stepped swiftly backward, and his hand groped out for the droplight, over the end of the bench, that he had knocked against in his own rush.

His fingers clutched it--and the lower end of the shop was flooded with light.