INTO THE HANDS OF HIS ENEMY

Durand waited alone for word to be flashed him that the debt he owed
Clay Lindsay had been settled in full. A telephone lay on the desk
close at hand and beside it was a watch. The second-hand ticked its
way jerkily round and round the circle. Except for that the stillness
weighed on him unbearably. He paced up and down the room chewing
nervously the end of an unlit cigar. For the good tidings which he was
anxious to hear was news of the death of the strong young enemy who had
beaten him at every turn.

Why didn't Collins get to the telephone? Was it possible that there
had been a slip-up, that Lindsay had again broken through the trap set
for him? Had "Slim's" nerve failed him? Or had Bromfield been unable
to bring the victim to the slaughter?

His mind went over the details again. The thing had been well planned
even to the unguarded door through which Collins was to escape. In the
darkness "Slim" could do the job, make his getaway along with Dave, and
be safe from any chance of identification. Bromfield, to save his own
hide, would keep still. If he didn't, Durand was prepared to shift the
murder upon his shoulders.

The minute-hand of the watch passed down from the quarter to the half
and from the half to the three quarters. Still the telephone bell did
not ring. The gang leader began to sweat blood. Had some one bungled
after all the care with which he had laid his plans?

A door slammed below. Hurried footsteps sounded on the stair treads.
Into the room burst a man.