He laughed shortly, ironically after a moment. It was as though some
malignant ingenuity had conspired to trap him. He was caught either way.
What was he to do? The question kept pounding at his brain, growing more
sinister with each repetition. What was he to do? Defy the police--and
be branded as a stool-pigeon, a snitch, an informer in every nook and
cranny of the underworld! He could not do that. Everything, all that
meant anything in life to him now would be swept from his reach at even
the first breath of suspicion. Nor was it an idle threat that his
unwelcome visitor had made. He was not fool enough to blind himself on
that score--it could be only too easily accomplished. And on the other
hand--but what was the use of torturing his brain with a never-ending
rehearsal of details? Was there a middle course? That was his only
chance. Was there a way to safeguard Smarlinghue and, yes, this
miserable hovel of a place, priceless now as his new Sanctuary.

He followed the moonpath's slant with his eyes to where it touched the
floor and disclosed the greasy, threadbare, pitiful carpet. A grim
whimsicality fell upon him. It would be too bad to lose it! It was
luxury to what Larry the Bat had known! There had not even been a carpet
in the old Sanctuary, and--he sat suddenly bolt upright on the cot, his
eyes, that had mechanically travelled on along the moonpath, strained
now upon where the light fell upon the threshold of the door. There was
a little white patch there, a most curious little white patch--that had
not been there when he had thrown himself on the cot. Came a sudden,
incredulous thought that sent the blood whipping fiercely through his
veins; and with a low cry, in mad, feverish haste now, he leaped from
the cot and across the room.

It was an envelope that had been thrust in under the door. In an instant