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NIGHT-HAWKS
63
goner. Now beat it, kid, lively. Dose — letters is — me dyin' — blessin' — "
The words trailed off. The filming eyes saw his messenger disappear; then, with a grnnt of relief, Shifty Stone sprawled forward across the table — thief, gunman, ticket-of-leave man — gentleman, with crooked nobleness, devoting his last few moments on earth to a tardy restitution for his life. Exit Shifty.
It was night. Mildred felt uncomfortably reminded of the fact by a particularly vicious jangle of the front-door bell. Why all servants invariably take a night off at the same time is a mystery, but such is usually the case, at least in fiction such as I am now writing. As she hesitated, the bell rang again. Mildred went to the bookcase, fumbled behind Shakespeare in limp leather, and brought forth triumphantly the smallest, mother-of-pearliest, most helpless revolver that ever a burglar laughed at. With this formidable weapon behind her back, she went to the door and opened it an inch on the burglarchain. A folded bit of paper, unpleasantly grease-smeared, was thrust into her startled hands.
"De letter is f'r yer father. Shifty says t ' hang t' it wid yer life," croaked a hoarse voice from the darkness. Footsteps ran down the gravel path. Mildred, white and breathless with premonition, consulted the letter in her hand. She read aloud :
I do swear as I was the feller wliot croaked Murphy. Mister Taring hadn't even no gun. Warden's shot done f'r me. Shifty Stoxe.
"Oh!" moaned the girl, sick with the knowledge of the letter's meaning, shuddering from the still damp stains that soiled her hands — "oh, where shall I hide this where it cant be found?"
It was night. In the rear room of Keefe's Lodging House events were flitting by on noiseless rubber heels. The room still echoed to the racket of Varing's arrest. Wardell, cocky with triumph, sat waiting Nichol's return from the nearest swinging door with the wherewithal of a "night of it." Then, presto ! a puncture in the smooth-running wheel of events. Enter Nichol, chalky and batted as to eye, carrying a sinisterappearing note.
"A guy wuz jus' slippin' it under de door ! " he gasped. Nichol was obviously not of the material .of which even good crooks are made. Wardell ripped the sheet apart.
' ' H — 1 ! " he remarked disgustedly. He rose and reached for his hat. "Dat fool Shifty has queered our gime 'less we look lively. Cussed if he aint wrote a confession t' croakin' Murphy and sent it t' Varing's house. C'mon, Foxy, we gotter rustle."
The dark swallowed them. Half an hour later, they emerged into the circle of illumination that marked the District Attorney's library window.
' ' Gee ! but we 'se de lucky guys ! ' '
SIMULTANEOUSLY, TWO PISTOL-SHOTS CLIPPED THE AIR