Jimmy’s hands went up. “He’s got the money here,” breathed Massey, “somewhere in this house.” “You’re mad,” said the other contemptuously. “Why did you hit him?” “He sat there makin’ a fool of me.” The murderer gave a vicious glance at the inert figure on the floor. “I want something more than his puzzle-talk. He asked for it.” He backed to the table where the decanter stood, and drank a tumbler half-filled with raw spirit. “We’re both in this, Jimmy,” he said, still keeping his man covered. “You can put down your hands; no monkey tricks. Give me your pistol.” Jimmy slipped the weapon from his pocket, and handed it butt foremost to the man. Then Massey bent over the fallen man and searched his pockets. “Here are the keys. You stay here,” said Massey, and went out, closing the door after him. Jimmy heard the grate of the key, and knew he was a prisoner. He bent over the old man. He lay motionless. Jimmy tried the pulse, and felt a faint flutter. Through the clenched teeth he forced a little whisky, and after a minute the old man’s eyes opened. “Jimmy!” he whispered; then remembering, “Where’s Massey?” he asked. There was no need to inquire the whereabouts of Massey. His blundering footfalls sounded in the room above. “Lookin’ for money?” gasped the old man, and something like a smile crossed his face. “Safe’s up there,” he whispered, and smiled again. “Got the keys?” Jimmy nodded. The old man’s eyes wandered round the room till they rested on what looked like a switchboard. “See that handle marked ‘seven’?” he whispered. Jimmy nodded again. “Pull it down, Jimmy boy.” His voice was growing fainter. “This is a new one that I read in a book. Pull it down.” “Why?” “Do as I tell you,” the lips motioned, and Jimmy walked across the room and pulled over the insulated lever. As he did there was a heavy thud overhead that shook the room, and then silence. “What’s that?” he asked sharply. The dying man smiled. “That’s Massey!” said the lips. * * * * * Half an hour later Jimmy left the house with a soiled slip of paper in his waistcoat pocket, on which was written the most precious verse of doggerel that the world has known. And the discovery of the two dead men in the upper chambers the next morning afforded the evening press the sensation of the year. CHAPTER III ANGEL ESQUIRE