His knife was open before he
had reached the nearest post. One strong slash of the blade severed
it. In six long strides he was at the second post unwinding the line.
He used his knife a second time at the third post.
Through the darkness he could see the dim forms of men stopping to
examine the scuttle. Then voices came dear to him in the still night.
"If he reached the roof we've got him."
"Unless he found an open trap," a second answered.
With deft motions Clay worked swiftly. He was fastening the rope to
the chimney of the house. Every instant he expected to hear a voice
raised in excited discovery of him crouched in the shadows. But his
fingers were as sure and as steady as though he had minutes before him
instead of seconds.
"There's the guy--over by the chimney."
Clay threw the slack of the line from the roof. He had no time to test
the strength of the rope nor its length. As the police rushed him he
slid over the edge and began to lower himself hand under hand.
Would they cut the rope? Or would they take pot shots at him. He
would know soon enough.
The wide eaves protected him. A man would have to hang out from the
wall above the ledge to see him.
Clay's eyes were on the gutter above while he jerked his way down a
foot at a time. A face and part of a body swung out into sight.
"We've got yuh. Come back or I'll shoot," a voice called down.
A revolver showed against the black sky.
The man from Arizona did not answer and did not stop.
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