"You--go--too," he ordered.
. . . . . . . .
The dogs had led us to a strange looking house, and were now
baying and leaping up against the door. We did not stop to knock,
but began to break through, for inside we could hear faintly
sounds of excitement and cries of "Police--police!"
The door yielded and we rushed into a long hallway. Up the passage
we went until we came to another door.
An instant and we were all against it. It was stout, but it shook
before us. The panels began to yield.
. . . . . . . .
On the other side of that door from us, the master crook stood for
a moment. Dr. Morton hesitated, not knowing quite what to do.
Just then the wounded Pitts Slim lifted his hand feebly. He seemed
vaguely to understand that the game was up. He touched the
Clutching Hand.
"You did your best, Chief," he murmured thickly. "Beat it, if you
can. I'm a goner, anyway."
Clutching Hand hesitated by the wounded crook. This was the
loyalty of gangland, worthy a better cause. He could not bring
himself to desert his pal. He was undecided, still.
But there was the door, bulging, and a panel bursting.
He moved over to a panel in the wall and pushed a spring. It slid
open and he stepped through. Then it closed--not a second too
soon.
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