And yet to
attempt the window was to invite a shot and expose himself, for, dark as
it was, his body would show plainly enough against the background of
that lesser gloom of window square.
Jimmie Dale's eyes strained through the blackness across the room. He
could just make out the configuration of the doorway. The Wolf was just
on the other side of it, just inside the kitchen, he was sure of that.
Almost a smile was flickering over Jimmie Dale's tight-pressed lips.
There was a way--there was a way now, if the Wolf did not get him with a
chance shot. He moved again, and reached the window, crouched low
beneath the sill--and passed by the window.
And then the Wolf spoke from the doorway in a hoarse whisper, and in the
whisper there was a low, taunting laugh.
"I been waitin' for you to try the window, but you're too foxy--eh? All
right, my bucko--then I'll get you another way--with just one shot, see?
And then--_good-night_! And say, whoever t'hell you are, thanks for
crackin' the box for me!"
The man's voice came from the _right_ of the doorway--and the door
opened _inward_--and he, Jimmie Dale, remembered that he had opened it
_wide_. It was slow, very slow, this creeping inch by inch through the
darkness.
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