Sauntering by the court, into which Carney had quickly disappeared, Patsy saw that a diverging alley led to the back of the house, beyond which was a motley collection of old buildings, at none of the windows of which he could discover any person. “I’ll take a chance in the alley,” he said to himself, noting that the narrow court was deserted. “The rascal evidently has entered the back door of the house. I must find out for what, or who’s there, at least. It may be where the rascal lives.” Turning back, having come to that decision, Patsy stole into the court, crouching below the side windows of the house, the curtains of which were lowered. Then hugging the board fence of a small rear yard, he crept to the entrance of the alley, into which he cautiously peered. Despite his caution, however, this move was a fatal one. His head no sooner protruded beyond the corner of the fence, than an uplifted bludgeon fell as quick as a flash, catching him squarely on the skull and sending him to the ground as if felled with an ax. Three men, including Carney, quickly leaped upon him, one instantly winding a thick scarf around his head; and before Patsy had even begun to recover from the stunning blow, he was caught up bodily and carried through the back door of the house, which one of the ruffians hurriedly closed and locked. A dash of cold water brought Patsy to himself, so completely to himself, in fact, that he realized what had occurred before he betrayed that he was reviving; and instantly resolved to hide that fact until he could learn, or stealthily draw his revolver and hold up his captors. The last ambitious move was nipped in the bud by a sharp command from one of them--a wiry, muscular fellow in the twenties, whose right hand had struck Patsy to the ground. “Cut out that water, Tom,” he cried, addressing Carney, who had dashed the water upon Patsy after they had dropped him on the kitchen floor. “This isn’t a bathhouse. Turn him over first and be sure we are right. See whether he carries a gun and bracelets. Those would clinch it.” “I know I’m right,” said another, with a voice so cold and keen that it fairly cut into Patsy’s ears. “You’ll find both gun and bracelets. Put the irons on him, hands behind him, and make sure they are tightly locked. There will be time enough to revive him.” “That’s no pipe dream, Andy,” said the other, while he hastened to assist Carney. They had turned Patsy face downward while speaking, both crouching over him, and he knew that any attempt to resist them would result only in additional rough usage and do no earthly good. The mention of Margate’s name, however, had told him into whose hands he had fallen, and their remarks indicated plainly enough that he had walked into a trap. “I thought you had killed him, Larry, mebbe,” growled Carney. “I wanted to make sure you hadn’t. I’m not running my neck into a rope.”