It was the chance he had
invited--three yards--two--his breath was coming in hard, short panting
gasps--_safe_! Yes! He had won now--they would not get another shot at
him, at least not another that he would have any need to fear!
He swerved into the lane, still running at top speed. A high board
fence, she had said--yes, there it was! And it corresponded in location
with where he knew it should be--about three lots in from the street. He
sprang for it, and swung lithely to the top--and hung there, as though
still scrambling and struggling for his balance. The officers had not
turned into the lane yet, and he had no intention of affording them any
excuse for losing sight of their quarry!
Ah! There they were! A yell and a revolver shot rang out simultaneously
as they caught sight of him--and Jimmie Dale dropped down to the ground
on the inside of the fence. In the moonlight he could see quite
distinctly. He darted across the yard, heading for the basement door of
the building that loomed up in front of him.
The little steel picklock was in his hand as he reached the door. A
second--two--three went by. He straightened up--and again he
waited--stepping back a few feet to stand sharply outlined in the
moonlight.
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