Patsy instantly recognized the last two men, both crooks and cracksmen of national reputation, and he also realized more keenly that he was carrying his life in his hand. “Blink Morgan and Ginger Gridley,” he said to himself. “I’m in right, by thunder, if I can only stay right and keep things coming my way. If not--gee! I can see my finish.” These thoughts flashed through Patsy’s mind while Gridley, striding from the house, cried harshly: “What’s this, Turk? What’s the meaning of this? Why----” “Oh, you back up, Ginger, till I have time to explain,” Magill interrupted, springing from the car. “Lend a hand, Morgan, and take this skirt inside. She’s the cat who queered our game last night. We’ve got her where we want her, now, all right. Take her in.” The cadaverous man with squinted eyes, from which he derived his nickname, hastened to obey, Magill having rudely forced the woman to get out of the car while he was speaking, and she then was seized by Morgan and hurried into the house. Gridley, in the meantime, whom Patsy knew must be the leader of the gang, gazed with frowning eyes from one to the other, and then sternly repeated his question: “What’s the meaning of this, Magill? Why have you brought her here?” “Because she wouldn’t yield to persuasion,” Magill curtly declared. “We must force her to tell what we want to know. That could not be done without bringing her here.” “You still think she knows?” “She must know. She heard all that infernal squealer said.” “But who is this fellow?” “He helped me get her. He’s all right, too,” Magill forcibly asserted. “Get out, Dolan, and shake hands with Tom Gridley, more often called Ginger Gridley. You’ll find him full of ginger, too, if you cross him badly. He’s all right, Tom, and I couldn’t have got the skirt without his help. He hired the car with some money I gave him and----” “Come inside,” Gridley interrupted, extending his hand to Patsy. “It’s all right, Dolan, if you’re all that Magill says you are.” “I’m all that, and something more,” Patsy coolly assured him. “You can bank on me as long as I’m used right.” “You’ll have no kick coming, Dolan, if you’re handing us straight goods,” replied Gridley. “If not----” “Nothing doing in the if-not line,” put in Patsy tersely. “This way, then. Lock the door, Phelan.” The last was addressed to the fourth man of the gang, while Patsy followed them into the house. He heard the ominous click of the lock when Phelan turned the key. It told him there was no retreat, no backing out of the hazardous undertaking into which he had fearlessly ventured. Patsy Garvan, however, had no such inclination even for a moment. CHAPTER VIII. PATSY’S CLEVER WORK. Gridley led the way into a large, square room. Like the exterior of the grim stone house, it bore all the earmarks of antiquity. Great beams crossed the faded ceiling. The discolored walls were partly wainscoted. A smoldering log burned in a huge stone fireplace.