suddenly queer inside of Jimmie Dale. Stace Morse! Was he wrong, after
all? Jimmie Dale drew closer to the Runt.

"Yer givin' me a steer, ain't youse?" He spoke again from the corner
of his mouth, almost inaudibly. "Are youse sure it was Stace croaked
Metzer? Wot fer? How'd yer know?"

The Runt was listening, his eyes strained toward the stairs. The hall
door to the street was closed, but both were quite well aware that there
was an officer on guard outside.

"He told me," whispered the Runt. "Metzer was fixin' ter snitch on him
ter-night. Dey've got de goods on Stace, too. He made a bum job of it."

"Why didn't he get out of de country den when he had de chanst, instead
of hangin' around here all afternoon?" demanded Jimmie Dale.

"He was broke," the Runt answered. "We was gettin' de coin fer him ter
fade away wid ter-night, an'--"

A revolver shot from above cut short his words. Came then the sound of a
struggle, oaths, the shuffling tread of feet--but in the dance hall the
piano still rattled on, the mandolin twanged, voices sang and applauded,
and beer mugs thumped time.

They were on the stairs now, the officers, half carrying, half dragging
some one between them--and the man they dragged cursed them with utter
abandon. As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Jimmie Dale
caught sight of the prisoner's face--not a prepossessing
one--villainous,--low-browed, contorted with a mixture of fear and rage.