we'll have a look."

The other man, who had been leaning against the bar, had disappeared,
while the fellow at the table had seemingly fallen asleep. Mike came
forward with a bunch of keys in his hand.

"I keep dot room locked," he exclaimed gruffly, "for some beoples run off
with all dings they get their fingers on. Hey, you, Carl," and he roughly
shook the sleeper into semi-consciousness, "wake up, and see to the bar
awhile. I've got some business. Whoever comes, you keep them
here--understand. All right, gents."

The three stood close behind him as Mike inserted the key, and opened the
door. It was already growing dusk without, and the tightly closed room,
with shade drawn at the single window, was so dark that West could
scarcely discern its shape and contents. Mike, without hesitation,
stepped within, his great bulk blotting out whatever view there was.

"Come right in, gents," he insisted. "Von minute, an' I turn on
the light."

West never understood why he responded so recklessly to this invitation,
and advanced without hesitation. He had no suspicion of any trick, no
conception of being in any danger. He stepped in directly behind the
leader, and Sexton followed. An instant later, the door closed, with the
sharp click of a night latch, and Mike flashed on the light. As he did
so, he wheeled about, and shot one mighty clinched fist straight into
West's face. This was done so suddenly, so unexpectedly, the man
attacked found no opportunity to even throw up a hand in self-defence.
The giant Pole flung his whole weight into the crashing blow, and the