The man reeled back, with a cry.

Moulton dashed through the trapdoor and disappeared.

The short, ugly barrel of Jimmie Dale's automatic was between Malone's eyes.
"You make a move," said Jimmie Dale, in a low sibilant way, "and I'll drop you where you stand! Put your hands behind your back--palms together!" Malone, dazed, cowed, obeyed.

A panel of the door split and rent down its length--the hinges were sagging.

Jimmie Dale worked like lightning.
The cord with the slip noose from his pocket went around Malone's wrists, jerked tight, and knotted; the placard, his lips grim, with no sign of humour, Jimmie Dale dangled around the man's neck.
"An introduction for you to Mr.Kline out there--that you seem so fond of!" gritted Jimmie Dale.