It was as though one sensed acutely the crouching of some Thing in its lair--waiting silently, viciously, with sullen patience.
A footstep sounded--another.

Jimmie Dale drew quickly back around the corner into an areaway.

Two men passed--in helmets--swinging their nightsticks--that beat was always policed in pairs! They passed on, turned the corner, and went down the narrow cross street that Jimmie Dale had just been inspecting.

He started to follow--and drew back again abruptly.

A form flitted suddenly across the road and disappeared in the darkness in the officers' wake--ten yards behind the first another followed--at the same interval of distance still another--and yet still one more--four in all.
The darkness hid all six, the two policemen, the four men behind them--the only sounds were the OFFICERS' footsteps dying away in the distance.
Jimmie Dale's fingers were mechanically testing the mechanism of the automatic in his pocket.
"The Skeeter's gang!" he muttered to himself.