A sort of relief, fierce in the breaking of the tense expectancy, premonitory in the possibilities that it held, swept Jimmie Dale.

He crept along the hall.

The whisper had come from that room, presumably empty--that was for rent! By the door he crouched--his sensitive fingers, eyes to Jimmie Dale so often--feeling over jamb and panels with a delicate, soundless touch.
The door was just ajar.

The fingers crept inside and touched the knob and lock--there was no key within.
The whispering still went on--but it seemed like a screaming of vultures now in Jimmie Dale's ears, as the words came to him.
"Aw, say, Skeeter, dis high-brow stunt gives me de pip! Me fer goin' in dere an' croakin' de geezer reg'lar, widout de frills.

Who's to know?
Say, just about two minutes, an' we're beatin' it wid de sparklers." An inch, a half inch at a time, the knob slowly, very, very slowly turning, the door was being closed by the crouched form on the threshold.
"Close yer trap, Mose!" came a fierce response.