Then came a click of the lock. The sound of the street rain ceased. Clay knew that the door had been closed and that he was shut in with two desperate criminals. What have they done with Kitty? Why was she not with them? He asked himself that question even as he slipped back into a room that opened to the left. He groped his way through the darkness, for he dared not flash his light to guide him. His fingers found the edge of a desk. Round that he circled toward a closet he remembered having noted. Already the men were tramping up the stairs. They were, he could tell, in a vile humor. From this he later augured hopefully that their plans had not worked out smoothly, but just now more imperative business called him. His arm brushed the closet door. Next moment he was inside and had closed it softly behind him. And none too soon. For into the room came the gunmen almost on his heels. CHAPTER XXII TWO MEN IN A LOCKED ROOM "Jerry'll raise hell," a heavy voice was saying as they entered the room. "And that ain't all. We'll land in stir if we don't look out. We just ducked a bad fall. The bulls pretty near had us that time we poked our nose out from the Park at Seventy-Second Street." Some one pressed a button and the room leaped to light. Through the open crack of the closed door Clay recognized Gorilla Dave. The second of the gunmen was out of range of his vision. From the sound of creaking furniture Clay judged that the unseen man had sat down heavily. "It was that blowout queered us. And say--how came the bulls so hot on our trail? Who rapped to 'em?" "Must 'a' been that boob wit' the goil. He got busy quick. Well, Jerry won't have to salve the cops this time. We made our getaway all right," said Dave. "Say, where's Joey?" "Pulled a sneak likely. Wha's it matter? Listen! What's that?" Some one was coming up the stairs. The men in the room moved cautiously to the door. The hall light was switched on. "'Lo, Jerry," Gorilla Dave called softly. He closed the room door and the sound of the voices was shut off instantly. The uninvited guest dared not step out of the closet to listen, for at any instant the men might reenter. He crouched in his hiding-place, the thirty-eight in his hand. The minutes dragged interminably. More than once Clay almost made up his mind to steal out to learn what the men were doing. But his judgment told him he must avoid a brush with so many if possible. The door opened again. "Now beat it and do as I say if you know what's good for you," a bullying voice was ordering. The owner of the voice came in and slammed the door behind him. He sat down at the desk, his back to the closet. Through the chink Clay saw that the man was Jerry Durand. From his vest pocket he took a fat black cigar, struck a match and lit it. He slumped down in the swivel chair. It took no seer to divine that his mind was busy working out a problem.