produced his own flashlight and revolver--but he did not move. His eyes
now were on Birdie Lee, who, like a man dazed and terror-stricken, had
lurched back against the safe, the flashlight that dangled in his hand
sweeping queer, aimless patches of light about the floor.

Still silence--only the uproar from the dance hall that would have
drowned out to those below the sound of the revolver shot. Then Birdie
Lee staggered forward, and knelt beside the prostrate form on the floor.
He stood up again presently, swaying unsteadily on his feet, turning his
head wildly about, now this way, now that. And then his whisper, broken,
hoarse, quavered through the room:

"He's dead. My God--he's--he's dead."

"Drop that flashlight!" Jimmie Dale's voice rang cold, imperative.
"_Drop it!_" And, sweeping the hangings aside, the ray of his own light
suddenly full upon Birdie Lee, he leaped forward.

With a low, terrified cry, the other let the flashlight fall as though
from nerveless fingers, and shrank back against the safe.

"Now put your hands above your head!" directed Jimmie Dale curtly.

The man obeyed.

Dark, frightened eyes stared out at Jimmie Dale from behind the mask
that covered Birdie Lee's face. Swiftly, deftly, Jimmie Dale felt over
the other's clothing for a weapon. There was none. Then, himself in
darkness, the blinding light in Birdie Lee's face, he pulled off the
other's mask, and with a grim, quick touch of his revolver muzzle traced