Patsy’s conflicting thoughts were diverted again by Mullen, who suddenly said bluntly: "Get a move on. It won’t do to let her lie here. Some one might show up. Lay hold, both of you; it will take all three of us to lug her down to the steps." "She’ll stay there, all right, once we’ve put her there and fastened the trapdoor," growled Corson. "There’s no other way out." "In that case, by Jove, you rascals shall stay there with her," thought Patsy, with sudden, grim determination. "I’ll keep you there, by thunder, if I can catch you in your own trap. It won’t take me long to find help and arrest all three of you." Patsy’s sudden resolve then appeared entirely feasible, barring one fact. He did not know by what means the trap could be so secured as to prevent the three men from raising it from below, providing he went in search of assistants. He was not long, however, in solving the problem. "I have it," he muttered, with a constant eye on the three crooks. "I’ll shift the horse into that stall and make him fast. He’ll hold them down, all right. They cannot raise the trapdoor with him on it. I’ll get assistance and arrest all three, and then telephone to the chief." The three knaves, bearing their senseless burden, then were on their way through the trapdoor. Step by step they descended, laboring somewhat in the gloom and on the narrow stairs. Presently the last of the three heads, that of gaunt Jim Corson, disappeared below the stall floor. Patsy then moved quickly, but as quietly as a shadow. He pushed aside the sliding shutter, then crawled through the open window and dropped noiselessly on the stable floor. Not for an instant did he shrink from his hazardous undertaking, or hesitate because of the perils involved. He felt sure he could accomplish it. Shifting a revolver to a side pocket of his leather jacket, he crept back of the covered wagon and approached the stall in which the open trapdoor yawned like the mouth of a black, bottomless pit. He could hear the voices and movements of the three crooks, but not a ray of light was discernible below. "Now, you rascals, stay there till I come to arrest you," thought Patsy. "It won’t be long." He stretched out his hand to grasp the edge of the trapdoor and throw it down--but did not do so. A fourth man had stepped stealthily into the stable. He appeared like an evil shadow in the waning light of the November afternoon. The stillness was broken by a voice as cold and hard as steel, but as threatening as the hiss of a viper: "Stop! If you drop that door--you’ll drop with it." Patsy, crouching on the floor near the entrance to the stall, turned around as if electrified. He found himself covered with an automatic revolver, scarce six feet away, and beheld, with a gasp of momentary dismay, the scowling, white face of Gaston Goulard. "Gee whiz! the trick’s off!" leaped like a flash through his mind. "You’ll be a dead one if you drop that door," Goulard added sternly.