A dull-toned roar, as from some great gulf below, rolled up from the street, a medley of slamming windows, the rush of feet as people poured from the houses, cries, shouts, and yells--and high over all the shrill call of the police-patrol whistle--and the CRACK, CRACK, CRACK of the Skeeter's revolver shots--the Skeeter and his hellhounds for once self-appointed allies of the law! Twice again Jimmie Dale fired--then crouching, running low, he zigzagged his way across the next roof.

The bullets followed him--once more his pursuers dashed forward.

And again Jimmie Dale, his face set like stone now, his breath coming in hard gasps, dodged behind a chimney, and with his gun checked their rush for the third time.
He glanced about him--and with a growing sense of disaster saw that two houses farther on the stretch of roof appeared to end.

There would be a lane or a street there! And in another minute or two, if it were not already the case, others would be following the gunmen to the roof, and then he would be--he caught his breath suddenly in a queer little strangled cry of relief.

Just back of him, a few yards away, his eyes made out what, in the darkness, seemed to be a glass skylight.
A dark form sped like a deeper shadow across the black in front of him, making for a chimney nearer by, closing in the range.