“It’s here,” he whispered--“and so is he.” A weak perpendicular edge of light drawn upon the lowered blind of the shop seemed indeed to witness to the presence of someone in the back room, the door of which was patently ajar. “I never doubted that he would be,” whispered Gilead, excusably vainglorious. “We’d better not delay. He’s vicious and suspicious. Now, officer! And be prepared for contingencies.” “You won’t wait, then, sir, for the young woman’s arrival?” “No, I think not. Better make sure of our bird in the hand. We shall find her more amenable to argument when once we’ve settled with her confederate. She’s little to blame, poor creature--his tool, no worse. Now.” “Very well, sir. Stand by. It’s like he’ll take us for her.” He tapped on the door. Almost with the sound, the streak of light vanished from the blind, and left all in darkness. No response followed. They waited a breathless minute. “Queer!” muttered the detective. “The young woman can’t have arrived before us, I suppose?” “Not if I’m right in my calculations,” said Gilead. “Try again.” The officer knocked a second time, and louder. “It’s all right,” he whispered in a moment. “I hear steps. He’s coming.” But still the door was not opened--only some indefinable consciousness of a presence standing silent behind it was conveyed to them. The detective rapped again. Then suddenly, so close that it made Gilead start, a voice spoke through the keyhole--an odd strained little voice, with a hiccup in it. “Who’s there? What d’you want?” Gilead, glancing at the detective, put his finger to his lips and bent to respond: “I’ve brought some bird skins.” “I don’t want no bird skins,” answered the voice. “But you advertised.” “I don’t care. I’ve got all I need.” “Won’t you look at them?” “No.” “Just a squint, while I stand here. I’m short of cash.” “Wos that to me? You clear out.” “You advertised, you know. I’m not going to be put off without a reason. If you won’t open, I’ll kick the door in.” “Gosh! will you? Now, look ’ere; I’ll consider of ’em just this once to oblige you, if you’ll pass ’em in and take my answer and git. Is that a bargain?” “All right.” A chain rattled; a key was turned; the door opened an inch or two--and quick as thought the detective shot into the aperture an inflexible munition boot. There followed an oath, a crash; the vicious elastic figure of Mr Lightfoot, alias Jenniver, glimmered one moment in semi-darkness, and the next they were in, and the man was gone. “The room behind! Quick!” cried Gilead. They were round and into it on the echo of his cry. As they stumbled forward blindly--for the light had been extinguished--a flash and explosion met them full face, and Gilead tripped and half fell against the wall. But in the very act he remembered his electric torch, and whipped it out and pressed the button. The sudden flash revealed two men down upon the floor, wrestling together in a mortal grip.