Jimmie Dale moved softly forward now, gained the back entrance of the
Spider's house, and tried the door cautiously. It was locked. From one
of the little pockets in the girdle under his shirt came a black silk
mask, which he slipped over his face; from another of the pockets came a
little steel picklock. He was pressed close against the door now, his
body merged with the black shadows of the wall. A minute passed--and
then the door swung open, and closed without a sound. Another minute
passed, and still another. From upstairs came the sound of stertorous
breathing, nothing else, only quiet, and a silence that was heavy in
itself--and then the round, white ray of Jimmie Dale's flashlight winked
through the blackness. As between himself and the Wolf, he was first, at
least, on the ground!
He was in the kitchen of the house. On the opposite side of the room
from him were two doors, one of them, the one to the left, open--and the
flashlight, playing through, disclosed a passageway leading, obviously,
to the shop at the front, and continuing to the stairway. He crossed to
the right-hand door noiselessly, opened it, and, with a low ejaculation
of satisfaction, stepped in over the threshold.
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