"And now, there's another little job to be done. There's one of my men
a prisoner down on Davis Street. I must get him out."
"I'm with you, sor," said Corson heartily. "I'm hopin' there's some
heads to be cracked."
I had not counted on the policeman's aid, but I was thankful to accept
the honest offer. In the restaurant I found five of my men, and with
this force I thought that I might safely attempt an assault on the Den.
The Den was a low, two-story building of brick, with a warehouse below,
and the quarters of the enemy, approached by a narrow stairway, above.
"Step quietly," I cautioned my men, as we neared the dark and
forbidding entrance. "Keep close to the shadow of the buildings. Our
best chance is in a surprise."
There was no guard at the door that stood open to the street, and we
halted a moment before it to make sure of our plans.
"It's a bad hole," whispered Corson.
"A fine place for an ambush," I returned dubiously.
"Well, there's no help for it," said the policeman. "Come on!" And
drawing his club and revolver he stole noiselessly up the stairs.
I felt my way up step by step, one hand against the wall and my shoes
scraping cautiously for a resting-place, while my men followed in
single file with the same silent care.
But in spite of this precaution, we were not two-thirds the way up the
flight before a voice shot out of the darkness.
"Who's there?"
We stopped and held our breath. There was a minute of silence, but it
was broken by the creak of a board as one of the men shifted his
weight.
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