Clay guessed that the thirty minutes were up and that the
Runt was bringing the police. He dived back into one of the empty
rooms just in time to miss a rush of men pouring along the passage to
the stairs.
Cut off from the street, Clay took to the roof again. It would not do
for him to be caught in the house by the police. He climbed the
ladder, pushed his way through the trapdoor opening, and breathed
deeply of the night air.
But he had no time to lose. Already he could hear the trampling of
feet up the stairs to the second story.
Lightly he vaulted the wall and came to the roof door leading down to
number 123. He found it latched.
The eaves of the roof projected so far that he could not from there get
a hold on the window casings below. He made a vain circuit of the
roof, then passed to the next house.
Again he was out of luck. The tenants had made safe the entrance
against prowlers of the night. He knew that at any moment now the
police might appear in pursuit of him. There was no time to lose.
He crossed to the last house in the block--and found himself barred
out. As he rose from his knees he heard the voices of men clambering
through the scuttle to the roof. At the same time he saw that which
brought him to instant action. It was a rope clothes-line which ran
from post to post, angling from one corner of the building to another
and back to the opposite one.
No man in Manhattan's millions knew the value of a rope or could handle
one more expertly than this cattleman.
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