Pete thrust saw and rope under his mattress and flung himself upon it,
all dressed as he was, face to the wall, with one careless arm under his
head, just as if he had dropped asleep unawares.

A few seconds later came a little click, startling to tense nerves, at
the cell door; a slender shaft of light lanced the darkness, spreading to
a mellow cone of radiance. It searched and probed; it rested upon the
silent figure on the bed.

"Sh-h-h!" said a sibilant whisper.

Peter muttered, rolled over uneasily, opened his eyes and leaped up,
springing aside from that golden circle of light in well-simulated
alarm.

"Hush-h!" said the whisper. "I'm going to let you out. Be quiet!"

Keys jingled softly in the dark; the lock turned gently and the door
opened. In that brief flash of time Pete Johnson noted that there had
been no hesitation about which key to use. His thought flew to the kindly
undersheriff. His hand swept swiftly over the table; a match crackled.

"Smoke?" said Pete, extending the box with graceful courtesy.

"Fool!" snarled the visitor, and struck out the match.

But Pete had seen. The undersheriff was a man of medium stature; this
large masked person was about the size of the larger of his lately made
acquaintances, the brothers Poole.