Kline--the real Kline--was going to raid the place to-night.

When?
At what time?
It must be nearly eleven o'clock already, and-- It came sudden, quick as the crack of doom--a terrific crash against the bolted door--but the door, undoubtedly to the surprise of those without, held fast, thanks to the bolt.

The four men, white-faced, seemed for an instant turned to statues.

Came another crash against the door--and a sharp, imperative order to those within to open it and surrender.
"We're pinched! Beat it!" whispered Whitie Burns wildly--and dashed for the trapdoor.
Like a rat for its hole, Marty Dean followed.

Malone, farther away, dropped the plate on the floor, and rushed, with Moulton beside him, after the others--but he never reached the trapdoor.
Over the crashing blows, raining now in quick succession on the door of the room, over a startled commotion as lodgers, roomers, and tenants on the floor above awoke into frightened activity with shouts and cries, came the louder crash of a pile of packing boxes hurled to the floor.
And over them, vaulting those scattered in his way, Jimmie Dale sprang at Malone.