Came then the sound of a struggle, oaths, the shuffling tread of feet--but in the dance hall the piano still rattled on, the mandolin twanged, voices sang and applauded, and beer mugs thumped time.
They were on the stairs now, the officers, half carrying, half dragging some one between them--and the man they dragged cursed them with utter abandon.

As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Jimmie Dale caught sight of the prisoner's face--not a prepossessing one--villainous,--low-browed, contorted with a mixture of fear and rage.
"It's a lie! A lie! A lie!" the man shrieked.

"I never seen him in me life--blast you!--curse you!--d'ye hear!" Inspector Clayton caught Jimmie Dale and the Runt by the collars.
"There's nothing to interest you around here!" he snapped maliciously.
"Go on, now--beat it!" And he pushed them toward the door.
They had heard the disturbance in the dance hall now and the occupants were swarming to the sidewalk.

A patrol wagon came around the corner.

In the crowd Jimmie Dale slipped away from the Runt.
Was he wrong, after all?
A fierce passion seized him.