There were keen wits in that crowd--men used to crises and quick to act. Bat Sands saw Jimmy’s attention diverted for a moment, and Jimmy’s pistol hand momentarily lowered. To think with Bat Sands was to act. Jimmy, turning back upon the “Lot,” saw the life-preserver descending, and leapt on one side; then, as he recovered, somebody threw a coat at the lamp, and the room was in darkness. Jimmy reached out his hand and caught the girl by the arm. “Into that cupboard,” he whispered, pushing her into the recess from which Goyle had so mysteriously vanished. Then, with one hand on the edge of the door, he groped around with his pistol for his assailants. He could hear their breathing and the creak of the floorboards as they came toward him. He crouched down by the door, judging that the “kosh” would be aimed in a line with his head. By and by he heard the swish of the descending stick, and “crash!” the preserver struck the wall above him. He was confronted with a difficulty; to fire would be to invite trouble. He had no desire to attract the attention of the police for many reasons. Unless the life of the girl was in danger he resolved to hold his fire, and when Ike Josephs, feeling cautiously forward with his stick, blundered into Jimmy, Ike suddenly dropped to the floor without a cry, because he had been hit a fairly vicious blow in that portion of the anatomy which is dignified with the title “solar plexus.” It was just after this that he heard a startled little cry from the girl behind him, and then a voice that sent his heart into his mouth. “All right! All right! All right!” There was only one man who used that tag, and Jimmy’s heart rose up to bless his name in thankfulness. “This way, Miss Kent,” said the voice, “mind the little step. Don’t be afraid of the gentleman on the floor, he’s handcuffed and strapped and gagged, and is perfectly harmless.” Jimmy chuckled. The mystery of Angel’s intimate knowledge of the “Lot’s” plans and of Connor’s movements, the disappearance of Goyle, were all explained. He did not know for certain that the occupant of the “empty” house next door had industriously cut through the thin party-walls that separated the two houses, and had rigged up a “back” to the cupboard that was really a door, but he guessed it. Then a blinding ray of light shot into the room where the “Borough Lot” still groped for its enemy, and a gentle voice said-- “Gentlemen, you may make your choice which way you go--out by the front door, where my friend, Inspector Collyer, with quite a large number of men, is waiting; or by the back door, where Sergeant Murtle and exactly seven plain-clothes men are impatiently expecting you.” Bat recognized the voice. “Angel Esquire!” he cried in consternation. From the darkness behind the dazzling electric lamp that threw a narrow lane of light into the apartment came an amused chuckle. “What is it,” asked Angel’s persuasive voice, “a cop?” “It’s a fair cop,” said Bat truthfully.