"Oh, I'll be careful," said the other. "If he's drunk and in the dark it's odds against him touching me. Besides, I may persuade him to see reason." "You're a head-strong fool," asserted Moreland with emphasis. "I guess I'll have to come along too, and dry-nurse you." "No, you don't. You stay here and watch points. One man is quite enough. No sense in doubling the target." The Flying Squad man grumblingly saw commonsense in this. All the same as Labar quietly stole up to the narrow doorway and crept within, he collected two or three men and with them posted himself, so that a swift and sudden rush could be made after his friend if necessary. It was almost pitch-black within. Labar felt his way along the wall till he came to the foot of the stairs and then paused to listen. He could detect no sound in the house. He dropped to his hands and knees and stealthily ascended the first step, registering a mental oath as it creaked under him. He remembered that he had failed to retrieve the pistol that he had lent to Dr. Ware. Well, that would not matter much. He was not relying on gun-play. Inch by inch he crawled to the first landing and moved up the second flight. Not till he had reached the third flight, however, could he detect the sound of a man's hurried, irregular breathing. He flattened himself as closely as he could to the outline of the stair and waited, listening, for a second or two. Then he raised his voice sharply. "Now then, my man, if you've had enough of this tomfoolery we'll finish the business. You don't want to be hung for murder, do you?" He could in imagination visualise the figure at the top craning forward with ready weapon striving to pierce the darkness below. He instinctively braced himself for a shot. A thick voice answered him. "You go away. Don't drive me too far. I don't want to do anybody any harm, but I won't be took." It was something gained, at any rate, that the other had hesitated to shoot. That lonely vigil at the top of the darkened stairs had either sobered him or shaken his nerve. The inspector slowly wormed himself a step higher. "Don't be a silly ass, Stebbins. It won't do you any good to kill me. Think what you'd feel like when they came to pinion you in the condemned cell." He crawled cautiously to a further step. "Think of the hangman adjusting the straps, and the parson reading the burial service." "I can hear you moving," said the voice above, and Labar fancied that there was irresolution in the tone. "Don't you try no monkey business now." "You'll have a white cap over your face," went on Labar, "and they'll take you out in a little procession----" "Shut up," said the voice ferociously. "You can't frighten me." "I don't want to frighten you," said Labar. "I don't think you're the kind of man to be frightened. You've got sense--not like some of those other fellows. Suppose you give me that gun and let me look after you. You'll trust me, won't you?"