Was he too late, after all! Chloroform alone could--kill! To the right, just a little to the right--he must make no mistake--his ear placed the sound! He whipped his hands from the side pockets of his coat--the ray of his flashlight cut across the room and fell upon an aged face upon a bed, upon a hand clutching a wad of cloth, the cloth pressed horribly against the nose and mouth of the upturned face--and then, roaring in the stillness, spitting a vicious lane of fire that paralleled the flashlight's ray, came the tongue flame of his automatic.
There was a yell, a scream, that echoed out, reverberated, and went racketing through the house, and Jimmie Dale leaped forward--over a table, sending it crashing to the floor.

The man had reeled back against the wall, clutching at a shattered wrist, staring into the flashlight's eye, white-faced, jaw dropped, lips working in mingled pain and fear.
"Harve Thoms--you, eh ?" gritted Jimmie Dale.
A cunning look swept the distorted face.

Here, apparently, was only one man--there were pals, three of them, only a few yards away.
"You ain't got nothing on me!" he snarled, sparring for time.

"You police are too damned fresh with your guns!" "I'll take yours!" snapped Jimmie Dale, and snatched it deftly from the other's pocket.

"This ain't any police job, my bucko, and you make a move and I'll drop you for keeps, if what you've got already ain't enough to teach you to keep your hands off jobs that belong to your betters!" He was working with mad haste as he spoke.