It was then that he heard the snap of potassium chlorate--the safety powder he had sprinkled around the door detonated under foot like the tiny explosions of "cap" pistols. He caught up his automatic and spun around, just as a switch clicked over and the room was flooded with a blinding glare. For a space of seconds there was a strung, pulsating silence. Then: "Hullo, Snooper," said Storm, in a voice that was not his own. "How are things?" It was a deadlock. Snooper Brome's big hand held an ugly revolver which covered Storm, and Storm's little automatic was steadily focused on Mr. Brome's rainbow waistcoat. So they stood without movement, with every nerve keyed and strained to humming pitch, while their eyes never swerved a fraction of a millimetre from each other's trigger finger. Moments passed with the glittering clarity of crystal drops falling in a bottomless pit.... "What are you doing?" asked Mr. Brome, though the question was rather unnecessary. He looked pale, and his mane of black hair was more unruly than usual. "I might ask the same question," remarked Storm. Their eyes met over the blue-black gleam of their weapons--Storm's glinting metallically over his improvised mask, Snooper's blue ones cold and level. And Storm saw Snooper's first finger whiten over the knuckle ... saw the slight backward tremble of the hammer of his revolver. "Don't be a fool!" he snapped tensely. "An automatic's quicker than an uncocked revolver. I can shoot a fraction of a second before you can, and I never miss!" Snooper's finger relaxed, and the masked man rose slowly from his crouching position. "That's why you'll drop that gat," went on Storm's monotonous, unrecognisable voice. It was perfectly level, and yet he was playing the most terrific gamble of nerve in his career. He was banking, betting, coldly and unruffledly threatening on the infinitesimal margin of time's advantage the difference of weapons gave him. "You're poaching, Snooper. Your business is to fence, not to crack cribs yourself ... taking the bread out of the poor burglar's mouth.... I shall have to report you to the Larcenists' Union, Snooper, really I shall...." His voice trailed away. Brome slackened the muscles of his forearm preparatory to making his own gamble, for he knew how desperate was his position. And yet he need not have been afraid, for Storm had taken one of those swift, inspirational, entirely characteristic decisions of his. But, not knowing this, Eddie Brome watched keenly for the faintest wavering of the gun-metal grey eyes.... He stirred slightly, and the _crack!_ of another speck of potassium chlorate under his foot was like a gunshot in the stillness. For a decimal of a split second it distracted his attention.