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“Sh!” he whispered. “Are you Detective Gubb? Good! I’ve been expecting you. Have you a gun?”

“In my telescope case,” whispered Philo Gubb.

“Take this one,” said the clerk, handing the paper-hanger-detective a glittering revolver. “Be careful. Come–I’ll show you the room.”

He came from behind the desk and picked up Philo Gubb’s telescope valise and led the way up the dingy stairway. Luckily for Billy Getz’s great practical joke, Philo Gubb had never seen Jack Harburger, or he would have recognized him in the plump little man carrying his telescope valise. Up three flights of dark stairs, Jack Harburger led Philo Gubb, and at the landing of the fourth floor he stopped.

“You were taking a risk–a big risk–coming undisguised,” he said.

“But I am disguised,” said Philo Gubb. “These here is false whiskers and hair.”

“What!” exclaimed Jack Harburger. “Wonderful work! A splendid make-up, detective! You fooled me with it, and I was on my guard. You’ll do. Bend down like an old man. That’s it! Now, listen: I have cut a hole through the wall from your room into Jack’s. You can hear every word he speaks. Have you pencil and paper? Good! Jot down every word you hear. And don’t make a sound. If you are discovered–well, they’re a desperate gang. Come!”

He led the way through a long, dark corridor that turned and twisted. At the extreme end he stopped, put down the telescope valise, and drew a key from his pocket.

“That’s Jack’s room,” he breathed softly, “and you go in here. Sorry it isn’t a better room. We had to use it, and you won’t be here long, anyway.”

He opened the door. It was a large door that swung outward, and it occupied one half of one side of the room. The floor of the room was carpeted, and the walls were papered, as was the ceiling. There was no window, but an electric light burned in the center of the ceiling. Across the far side of the room stood a narrow iron bed, with a small bureau beside it. Jack Harburger pointed to a hole in the wall-paper.

“That’s your ear-hole,” he whispered, and Philo Gubb stepped into the room. Instantly the door slammed behind him, the key turned in the lock, and he heard a heavy iron bar clank as it fell into place outside. He was a prisoner, caught like a rat in a trap, and he knew it! He threw himself against the door, but it did not give. The electric light above his head went dark. He put out his hand, and the wall gave slightly. He drew the revolver and waited, dreading what might next occur. He heard soft footsteps outside the door, and, raising the revolver, pulled the trigger. The trigger snapped harmlessly. He had been tricked, tricked all around.

“Is the oubliette prepared?” whispered a voice outside.

“All ready for him. Twelve feet of water. He’ll drown like a rat.”

“Good. A slow death, like a rat in a trap–like we served the other two. Then get rid of his body the same way.”

“A stone on it, and the river?”

“Yes. They never come up again.”

The voices died away along the corridor, and Philo Gubb was left in utter silence. Oubliette! The fate of the detectives of “The Pale Avengers” was to be his! Suddenly the room began to quiver. The floor and the walls trembled and creaked, and Philo Gubb threw himself once more against the door. He shouted and beat upon it with his hands. Inch by inch, creaking and swaying, the room glided downward. The door seemed to glide upward beyond the ceiling, giving place to a solid wall. He turned and beat on the side of the room, and it gave forth a hollow sound. As he moved, the room swayed under his feet. He was doomed!

Alone in the darkness, his fear suddenly gave way to a feeling of pride. He was dangerous enough, then, to be thought worthy of death? His last drop of doubt oozed out of his mind. He was–he must be–a great detective, or such means would not have been taken to get rid of him. He felt a sort of calm joy in this. His murderers knew his prowess.