Thanks to the unknown girl, the scheme had been frustrated.
For a moment, Harry was tempted to beat against the revolving wall, to attract the attention of the
policemen. But on second thought he decided to wait.
There were a dozen persons in that room who would testify that he was the cause of the trouble. He
could be framed with ease.
After all, he was safe here for the time being. Why should he invite more trouble?
The girl had promised to return, Harry had confidence in that promise.
He scanned the lighted room. There was not a woman in the place, let alone the one he sought. The
feminine patrons had evidently been escorted out; the girl had probably slipped away in the darkness.
Two rough-looking waiters began to clear up the debris, and the policemen left. Quiet was restored. The
few patrons who remained took their places at the tables, and the waiters brought them drinks.
Volovick remained. So did the man who had drawn the knife. The others— Harry could see nearly a
dozen of them—were fit companions for those men.
It would be suicide to attempt an escape now. There was only one thing to do—wait until the gang had
gone. Then, Harry hoped, the girl would return to release him.
Some of the men were engaged in discussion. Harry fancied that they were talking about him. Two men
came in from the entrance. They talked with Volovick. They had probably been stationed outside to
prevent Harry's escape.
This began to worry Harry. How long would it be before they began a search for his hiding place?
The proprietor must know of its existence. Would he suggest that they look behind the revolving panel?
These thoughts, and the constant throbbing of his wounded arm, made time pass slowly and feverishly for
Harry Vincent.
The whole affair was unexplainable, with one exception. He knew that he had been tricked by Volovick.
The fellow had followed Stanley Berger openly; had called the address aloud to the cab driver—all so
Harry would trail him to the Pink Rat.
Harry Vincent's conjecture that the proprietor knew of the hiding place behind the wall was quite correct.
The ruddy-faced little man had planned that secret compartment himself, and he did not know that any
other person knew of its existence. Hence he had no idea that Harry was hiding there.
The attack started by Volovick had been done without the proprietor's approval. He had not even seen
the intended victim. He was satisfied because the police had gone.
New patrons began to enter the den. Harry could see them through the peephole. They were typical
denizens of the underworld. One by one they strode in, gazing curiously about them, and making no
comment.
They had heard of the fight. They were looking the place over. But they asked no questions.
The presence of these newcomers was not encouraging to Harry.
Some of them might be in league with Volovick. None of them were known to Harry. He did not see a
single friendly face in the crowd.
One individual, in particular, was most ugly. He was dressed in a shabby, dirty sweater. An unlighted
cigarette clung to his lower lip. His face was grimy, and marked with short scars.
The man attracted Harry's attention because of his sharp, knowing eyes. As he looked about him, he
seemed to be ferreting out the thoughts of the others in the den.
Once or twice the man's eyes rested on the wall, and Harry instinctively drew away from the peephole.
Did this gangster know of the hiding place? His eyes were so penetrating that Harry imagined he could
see through the panel itself.
Placing his ear to the hole in the wall, Harry tried to catch the mumbled conversation; but without
success. So he abandoned the effort.
He knew that the fight was under discussion. The newcomers were listening in on the talk. Particularly the
ugly brute in the dirty sweater.
Volovick had become the center of those about him. He was speaking, and gesticulating. He was telling
what had happened, and he shook one fist in the air, as a threat of vengeance.
HALF an hour went by; a long, tense period. Thirty minutes of painful waiting for the man behind the
revolving panel.
Harry felt that he could not wait much longer. His arm troubled him; his nerves were on edge. He seemed
stifled in this cramped hole in the wall.
He thought of the girl. She must be thinking of him. Somewhere, outside this miserable place, she was
planning a rescue. But could she help him?
Harry could not picture her as a woman of the underworld. Any friends whom she might bring could not
hope to attack this crowd of gangsters. Yet the girl was his only hope.
It was while Harry's thoughts were dwelling on this subject that the unexpected happened.
Shifting his position, Harry leaned against the wall in front of him, and stretched his hand to one side. A
feeling of hope came over him as he saw Volovick rise to leave the Pink Rat, while those around him
seemed ready to depart.
In a few minutes his real enemies would be gone. The time for his deliverance would be at hand!
But as his thoughts took this trend, Harry's wrist struck against a small bar at the side of the wall.
The panel swung outward. Harry lost his balance.
Unknowingly, he had released the catch; now he was precipitated headlong into the room where the
gangsters stood.
Harry's appearance was so unexpected that it took the mobsmen by surprise. They stood gaping at this
man who had plunged from the wall. But as Harry rose to his knees, and turned his face upward,
Volovick recognized him.
'That's the man!' exclaimed Volovick. 'Get him! Now!'
The first gangster to spring forward was the one who had been looking at the wall—the ugly man with the
dirty sweater. He leaped straight at Harry, with a fiendish look upon his face.
Two others were coming from the side. Harry swung away from them, but he was directly in the path of
the man who was coming toward them.
He put up his hands to ward off the man's attack. But the sweater-clad gangster ignored him.
Instead of falling upon Harry, he threw himself against the other two men. Harry saw his fists swing with
short, murderous punches. The two men, taken by surprise, went down beneath his blows.
With a shout, Volovick hurled himself forward. The scar-faced gangster crouched low, and caught
Volovick's wrist, hurling the man over his shoulder.
With his free hand he whipped a revolver from the fold of his sweater, and the staccato reports of the
automatic reechoed through the room.
His shots were made with amazing precision. One crippled the wrist of a gunman, who had just drawn an
automatic. Another clipped the hand of a man who was pulling a knife from beneath his coat.
Then, almost drowned by the echoes of the revolver shots, came the popping of electric light bulbs, as
the scar-faced gangster used his unerring aim to plunge the room in semidarkness.
'Get to the door. Lie low against the wall.'
Harry obeyed the terse command which his rescuer uttered in a low voice. Dodging behind a table, he
escaped all notice. Crouching by the door, he watched the finish of the astounding conflict.
