And the room itself began to spring into weird, flickering shadows, that mounted and crept up the walls with the spreading fire.
There was not a second to lose before the room would be swarming with that rush from the passageway--and there was still the letter, the pocketbook! The table had fallen half over Dago Jim--Jimmie Dale pushed it aside, tore the crushed letter and the pocketbook from the man's hands--and felt, with a grim, horrible sort of anxiety, for the other's heartbeat, for the verdict that meant life or death to himself.

There was no sign of life--the man was dead.
Jimmie Dale was on his feet now.

A face, another, and another showed in the doorway--the Wowzer was regaining his senses, stumbling to his knees.

There was one chance--just one--to take those crowding figures by surprise.

And with a yell of "Fire!" Jimmie Dale sprang for the doorway.
They gave way before his rush, tumbling back in their surprise against the opposite wall; and, turning, Jimmie Dale raced down the passageway.
Doors were opening everywhere now, forms were pushing out into the semi-darkness--only to duck hastily back again, as Jimmie Dale's automatic barked and spat a running fire of warning ahead of him.