A voice barked out: "Stand guard on this landing, Peters.

Higgins, you take the one above.
We'll start from the top of the house and work down.

Allow no one to pass you." "Yes, sir! Very good, Mr.Kline," was the response.
Kline!--the sharpest man in the United States secret service, she had said.

Jimmie Dale's lips set.
"I'm glad I had no shave this morning," said Jimmie Dale grimly to himself.
His fingers were working with the black substance in the hollow of his hand--and the long, slim, tapering fingers, the shapely, well-cared-for hands grew unkempt and grimy, black beneath the finger nails--and a little, too, played its part on the day's growth of beard, a little around the throat and at the nape of the neck, a little across the forehead to meet the locks of straggling and disordered hair.

Jimmie Dale wiped the residue from the hollow of his hand on the knee of his trousers--and lay still.
An officer paced outside.