"
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.
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