compressed; his eyes alone were alive, speaking, alert.

John Steele folded the paper and placed it in an inside pocket. The
other suddenly breathed heavily; John Steele, looking at him, walked to
the door leading to the street. He put his hand on the key and was about
to turn it, but paused. Something without held his attention,--a
crunching sound as of a foot on a pebble. It abruptly revived misgivings
that had assailed him before entering the place, that he had felt as a
vague weight while dealing with the fellow. The police agent! Time had
passed, too great an interval, though he had hastened, hastened as best
he might, struggling with his own growing weakness, the other's reviving
power.

Again the sound! Involuntarily he turned his head; it was only an
instant's inattention, but Tom Rogers had been waiting for it. Springing
behind in a flash, he seized John Steele by the throat. It was a deadly,
terrible grip; the fingers pressed harder; the other strove, but slowly
fell. As dizziness began to merge into oblivion, Rogers, without
releasing his hold, bent over.

"You fool! Did you think I would let you get away with the paper? That I
couldn't see you were about done for?"

He looked at the white face; started to unbutton the coat; as he reached
in, his attention was suddenly arrested; he threw back his head.

"The traps!"

Voices below resounded without.