“Oh,” said Goyle with ominous calm, “so you’ve been in trouble like us, have you?” “I mean----” “I know what you mean,” hissed the other; “you mean you’ve been listenin’ to what we’ve been saying, you little skunk, and you’re ready to bleat to the first copper.” It might have gone hard with Mr. Lane but for the opportune arrival of the messenger. Bat went downstairs at the knock, and the rest stood quietly listening. They expected Connor, and when his voice did not sound on the stairs they looked at one another questioningly. Bat came into the room with a yellow envelope in his hand. He passed it to Goyle. Reading was not an accomplishment of his. Goyle read it with difficulty. “Do the best you can,” he read. “I’m lying ‘doggo.’” “What does that mean?” snarled Goyle, holding the message in his hand and looking at Bat. “Hidin’, is he--and we’ve got to do the best we can?” Bat reached for his overcoat. He did not speak as he struggled into it, nor until he had buttoned it deliberately. “It means--git,” he said shortly. “It means run, or else it means time, an’ worse than time.” He swung round to the door. “Connor’s hidin’,” he stopped to say. “When Connor starts hiding the place is getting hot. There’s nothing against me so far as I know, except----” His eyes fell on the form of Mr. Lane. He had raised himself to a sitting position on the floor, and now, with disheveled hair and outstretched legs, he sat the picture of despair. Goyle intercepted the glance. “What about him?” he asked. “Leave him,” said Bat; “we’ve got no time for fooling with him.” A motor-car came buzzing down Cawdor Street, which was unusual. They heard the grind of its brakes outside the door, and that in itself was sufficiently alarming. Bat extinguished the light, and cautiously opened the shutters. He drew back with an oath. “What’s that?” Goyle whispered. Bat made no reply, and they heard him open his matchbox. “What are you doing?” whispered Goyle fiercely. “Light the lamp,” said the other. The tinkle of glass followed as he removed the chimney, and in the yellow light Bat faced the “Borough Lot.” “U--P spells ‘up,’ an’ that’s what the game is,” he said calmly. He was searching his pockets as he spoke. “I want a light because there’s one or two things in my pocket that I’ve got to burn--quick!” After some fumbling he found a paper. He gave it a swift examination, then he struck a match and carefully lit the corner. “It’s the fairest cop,” he went on. “The street’s full of police, and Angel ain’t playing ‘gamblin’ raids’ this time.” There was a heavy knock on the door, but nobody moved. Goyle’s face had gone livid. He knew better than any man there how impossible escape was. That had been one of the drawbacks to the house--the ease with which it could be surrounded. He had pointed out the fact to Connor before. Again the knock.