crouching and half-sitting posture on the stone doorstep. He threw up one hand, involuntarily, to find that his iron-grey wig had been whisked from its place on the top of his head. He did not wait to decipher this seeming miracle, for another stab of flame flashed from the gloom, and then another and another, from different points along the shadowy line of houses.
By this time Kestner had awakened to what it all meant, for still again he felt a quick sting of pain across the ridge of his shoulder. And his blood was up.
It was then that he brought his automatic into play. He watched for his light-flash, and shot abstemiously, remembering that his ammunition was limited and his period of defence problematical.
He was firing with the second revolver when Wilsnach came dodging and scurrying and fighting his way to the door. He kept calling out, as he came nearer, for the other man to get back out of the light.
Kestner did not get back out of the light, however, until he had seized the panting Wilsnach and swung him in through the half-opened door. Then the door was slammed shut and a key turned in the lock. The darkness was Cimmerian. But Wilsnach could feel Kestner catching and tugging at his coat-sleeve.
"Quick!" cried the Secret Agent. "They're on both sides of us here!"
"But are you hurt?" demanded Wilsnach.
"I've got a scratch or two," was the other's hurried answer. "But we'll be getting a heap worse if we're not out of here in three minutes!" He was dragging Wilsnach back deeper into the velvety dark-
