There might be a chance of escape. The tumult below continued. Scraps of angry talk came floating up. Mr. Lane looked out of the window; the drop into the street was too long, and there was no sign of rope in the house. Cautiously he opened the door of the room. The men were in the room beneath that in which he stood. The staircase that led to the street must take him past their door. Mr. Lane was very anxious to leave the house. He had unwittingly stepped into a hornets’ nest, and wanted to make his escape without disturbing the inmates. Now was the time--or never. Whilst the angry argument continued a creaking stair board or so might not attract attention. But he made no allowance for the gifts of these men--gifts of sight and hearing. Bat Sands, in the midst of his tirade, saw the uplifted finger and head-jerk of Goyle. He did not check his flow of invective, but edged toward the door; then he stopped short, and flinging the door open, he caught the scared Mr. Lane by the throat, and dragging him into the room, threw him upon the ground and knelt on him. “What are ye doing here?” he whispered fiercely. Mr. Lane, with protruding eyes, saw the pitiless faces about him, saw Goyle lift a life-preserver from the table and turn half-round the better to strike, and fainted. “Stop that!” growled Bat, with outstretched hand. “The little swine has fainted. Who is he? Do any of you fellers know him?” It was the wizened-faced man whom Angel had addressed as Lamby who furnished the identification. “He’s a little crook--name of Lane.” “Where does he come from?” “Oh, hereabouts. He was in the Scrubbs in my time,” said Lamby. They regarded the unconscious burglar in perplexity. “Go through his pockets,” suggested Goyle. It happened--and this was the most providential happening of the day from Mr. Lane’s point of view--that when he had decided upon embarking on his career of high-class crime he had thoughtfully provided himself with a few homemade instruments. It was the little poker with flattened end to form a jemmy and the center-bit that was found in his pocket that in all probability saved Mr. Lane’s life. Lombroso and other great criminologists have given it out that your true degenerate has no sense of humor, but on two faces at least there was a broad grin when the object of the little man’s visit was revealed. “He came to burgle Connor,” said Bat admiringly. “Here, pass over the whisky, one of ye!” He forced a little down the man’s throat, and Mr. Lane blinked and opened his eyes in a frightened stare. “Stand up,” commanded Bat, “an’ give an account of yourself, young feller. What d’ye mean by breaking into----” “Never mind about that,” Goyle interrupted savagely. “What has he heard when he was sneaking outside?--that’s the question.” “Nothin’, gentlemen!” gasped the unfortunate Mr. Lane, “on me word, gentlemen! I’ve been in trouble like yourselves, an’----” He realized he had blundered.