"Clear! All clear--for me! I--I can go back to--to my own life again!"

It was as though she were whispering some amazing thing of unbelievable joy to herself.

"YES!" he cried out again. "Yes! But go--go, Marie!"

But now, for answer, suddenly she reached out and took the key from the door and put it in the pocket of her dress.

"We will go together, Jimmie--or not at all," she said simply. "We are wasting precious moments. Hurry and dress!"

He hesitated miserably. What could he do--if she WOULD not go! And it was true--the moments were flying. Better, rather than futile argument, to use them as she said. There was still a chance! Why not! Five minutes! He could do better than that! He MUST do better than that!

Without a word, he ran back across the room. In frantic haste, from face, hands, wrists, and neck came the stain. There was still time. She was standing there by the door, listening. She, the Tocsin, she whom he loved, she who, all through the years that had gone, had been so strangely elusive and yet so intimately a part of his life, SHE was standing there now, here with him--in peril with every second that pa.s.sed!

He had only to slip on his coat and vest now--and make a bundle of Larry the Bat's things on the floor, so that he could carry them away to destroy them. He stooped to gather up the clothes--and straightened suddenly--and jumped toward the door again.

"They are coming, Jimmie!" she called, in a low voice. But he had already heard them--the stairs were creaking loudly under the tread of many feet. He pushed the Tocsin hurriedly back against the wall at the side of the door.

"Stand there!" he said, under his breath. "Out of the line of fire!

Don't move!"

There was a rush against the door--and then a voice growled:

"Aw, cut dat out! Wot do youse want to do--scare him away by bustin' it!

Pick de lock, an' we'll lay for him inside till he shows up."

It was the Skeeter's voice. The Skeeter and his gang--the worst apaches in the city of New York! Professional a.s.sa.s.sins, death contractors, he had called them--and the lowest bidders! A man's life any time for twenty-five dollars! No, they were not likely to forget the affair of the pushcart man, to forget old Luddy and his diamonds, to forget--the Gray Seal! And they were only the vanguard of what was to come!

Some one was working at the lock now. There was one way to stop that. It would not take them long to find out that he WAS there once the door was opened! Better know it with the door SHUT! Jimmie Dale lifted his revolver coolly and fired through the panel.

A burst of yells answered the shot; and among them, high above the others, the Magpie's scream:

"We got him! We got him! He's dere now!"

And then it seemed that pandemonium broke loose--there was a volley of shots, the bullets splintering through the door panels as from a machine gun, so fast they came--and then another rush against the door.

Flat on the floor, but well back and to one side, Jimmie Dale fired steadily--again and again.

Came screams of pain, yells, and oaths--and they fell back from the door.

And now from above, from overhead, came tumult--windows thrown up, the stamp of feet, cries of fright. And from the street, a low, sullen roar.

The underworld was gathering fast!

Once more the rush upon the door--and Jimmie Dale, a grim, twisted smile upon his lips, emptied his revolver into the panels. Once more they fell back--and then there came the Skeeter's voice, snarling like an infuriated beast:

"He'll get de lot of us like dis! Cut it out! Besides, we'll have de bulls down here in a minute--an' he's OUR meat, not theirs. Dey'd be too d.a.m.ned soft wid him--dey'd only send him to de chair. Youse chase upstairs, Mose, an' pa.s.s de word to beat it--an' beat it quick. We'll BURN de skunk out--dat's wot. An' de bulls can stand alongside an'

watch, if dey likes--but he's our meat."

Jimmie Dale did not dare to look at the Tocsin's face. Mechanically he refilled the magazine of his automatic--and lay there, waiting. The roar from the street grew louder. They seemed to be fighting out there, as though an inadequate number of police were trying to disperse a mob--and not succeeding! Pretty soon, with the riot call in, there would probably be a battle--for the Gray Seal! Sublime irony! It was death at the hands of either one!

Children whimpered on the stairs outside, men swore, women cried, feet shuffled hurriedly by as the tenement emptied. Occasionally, a pertinent invitation to him to remain where he was, there was a vicious rip through the panel, and the drumming whir of a bullet flying through the room. And then a curious, ominous crackling sound--and then the smell of smoke.

Jimmie Dale stood up, his face drawn and haggard. The tenement would go like matchwood, burn like a bonfire, with any kind of a start--and there was no doubt about the start! The Skeeter, the Magpie, and the rest would have seen that it had headway enough to serve their purpose before either firemen or police could thwart them. He, Jimmie Dale, could take his choice: walk out into a bullet, or stay there and--he smiled miserably as his eyes fell upon the pile of Larry the Bat's clothing on the floor. There was no longer need to worry about ITS destruction--the fire would take care of that only too well! And then a low, bitter cry came to his lips, and he clenched his hands. If it were only himself--only himself! He crossed to the Tocsin and caught her in his arms.

"Oh, my G.o.d--Marie!" he faltered.

The cape and hood had fallen from her, and with the hood had fallen the gray-streaked hair of Silver Mag--and now as she smiled at him it was from a face that was very beautiful and very brave and very full of tenderness.

And he held her there--and neither spoke.

It seeped in under the threshold of the door, it came from everywhere, filling the room--the black, strangling smoke. Outside in the hall all was silence now--save for that crackle of flame that grew in volume, that came now in quick, sharp reports, like revolver shots. From out in the street swelled a cry: "Death to the Gray Seal!" Then the clang of bells, the roar and rattle of fire apparatus, strident voices bellowing orders, and the crowd again, blood hungry: "Death to the Gray Seal!"

There was a chance, just one--if the fire had no headway along the upper end of the landing--and if they had not thought to set a watch for him ABOVE! They--the Magpie, the Skeeter, and his gang--must have been driven even out of the house now by the smoke and flame.

"Give me the key, I am going to open the door, Marie," he said quietly.

"Cover your face with a handkerchief, anything, and run to the LEFT to the next flight of stairs. There are two flats above this--we'll make the roof if we can. Now--are you ready?"

It was an instant before she answered, an instant in which she lifted her face to his, and held his face between her two hands--and then:

"I am ready, Jimmie."

He flung open the door, his arm around her to help her forward--and instinctively, with a cry, fell back for a moment. With the inrush of the draft poured the smoke, and through it, lurid, yellow, showed the flames leaping from the stair well.

And then all was blind madness. Together they ran. At the foot of the stairs she fell, recovered herself, staggered up another--and fell again. He caught her up in his arms and, staggering now as she had staggered, went on. His lungs seemed to be bursting. His limbs grew weak and trembled under him. He could not see or breathe. The nauseating fumes suffocated him, bringing an intolerable agony. He gained the first landing above. There was one more--one more! If he could only rest here for a moment! Yes, that was it--rest. It wasn't so bad here now. She stirred in his arms, struggled to her feet--and he was helping her on again, and up the next flight of stairs.

And suddenly he found himself laughing in hysteria--for they were climbing a half stair, half ladderway at the end of the upper landing, and the open skylight was above them, and they were drinking in the pure, fresh air--and now they were out upon the roof, and the roar from the street was in their ears, like the roar of great waters from some canyon far below. Jimmie Dale tried to speak, and found his lips were cracked and dry. He wet them with his tongue.

"Don't stand up--we'd be seen--CRAWL," he mumbled hoa.r.s.ely.

It took a long time--over one roof, and then another, and yet another--and then through the skylight of a tenement whose occupants were either craning from the front windows, or were on the street below.

It was, perhaps, half an hour--and then they, too, were standing in the street, and all about them the crowd was shouting in wild excitement.

Up the block, inside the fire lines, the Sanctuary was blazing furiously--and now suddenly the wall seemed to bulge outward. It brought a yell from the crowd:

"Death to the Gray Seal!"

She pulled at his arm.

"Let us get away! Let us get away, Jimmie!" she whispered frantically.

A strange smile was on Jimmie Dale's lips.

"We're safe now--for always," he whispered back. "Look!"

The Sanctuary wall bulged farther outward, seemed to hang an instant hesitant in mid-air--and fell with a mighty crash.

The Gray Seal was dead!