OGER VERBECK, millionaire and clubman, wealthy son of a wealthy father, realized in that moment what true brotherhood means. His relations with Muggs flashed through his mind. Muggs, derelict of destiny, crook, offspring of scum—Verbeck had picked him up in Paris one night when Muggs, weary of existence, was about to throw himself into the Seine. Muggs was at the points those who tread the paths of crime often reach—disgusted with what he had made of his life, seeing no hope of living differently, ready to die rather than continue.
Verbeck saved him; Muggs became an honest man. They had been comrades since—a peculiar comradeship that caused comment because of the difference between them.
Now Verbeck remembered the adventures through which they had passed. Why, Muggs had even saved his life once! And now Muggs had gone into that factory, facing almost certain death—gone to the rescue of a man he did not know two weeks before, simply because he admired that man. Should not Roger Verbeck, then, stand by Muggs, whom he had known for five years, with whom he had stood shoulder to shoulder in many battles?
Verbeck forgot his wealth, his station in life, even his fiancée, and the happiness in store for him. He remembered only Muggs—Muggs, who often had fought for him, who now was facing danger, perhaps death, without Verbeck by his side.
Acting on the impulse that had come to him, Verbeck started forward:
"Oh, no, you don't!"
It was the chief who spoke, who grasped Verbeck around the waist, and called to two officers near for help.
"We can't allow it, Mr. Verbeck," he said. "I'm sorry Muggs went in. Certainly we cannot allow you to throw your life away."
"Then send in your men! Muggs has gone because Riley, one of your detectives, is in there!"
"Soon—but not just yet!" the chief said. "We must batter them more first!"
He signed to the two officers to watch Verbeck, and then hurried away to have another searchlight turned on the doorway in place of the one Muggs had smashed. Verbeck, raging, walked back and forth along the fence.
And Muggs, meantime, was crouching just inside the door, recovering breath after his dash. Muggs was the fighter, the killer now. His lower jaw was shot forward again, his lips set tightly over his teeth, his eyes narrowed.
He buttoned his coat tightly across his breast and pulled his cap down low over his eyes. Gripping the revolver, holding it in front of him ready for instant use, he began to creep slowly along the hallway.
When Muggs had passed through that hallway before, he had been unconscious, hence he knew nothing concerning it, and he did not dare strike a match; he was not sure his dash for the door had been unobserved. He made his way forward slowly through the blackness, his left hand continually feeling the wall.
He reached the short flight of steps and felt his way down them, stopping now and then to listen. From outside came the rattle of revolver fire; from the rooms above him came the answering shots. Muggs realized he was in the basement of the building, and he wanted to get to the first floor.
He came, presently, to the other hall, to the stairs, and went up, one step at a time, ready for instant battle, trying to hear the voices of the Black Star's men. But it was the voice of the Black Star himself that he heard.
"At them!" it shrieked. "No quarter! Die like men!"
Muggs could not locate the voice in the din. He was not sure from which room it came. He crept on along the hallway until he reached an open door. There he hesitated a moment, then, holding his weapon ready, he peered into the room.
The searchlight did not penetrate here, and the only illumination was reflected from the wall outside the one window. Not a person was in the room.
"At them! Die like men! No quarter!"
Muggs decided the voice of the Black Star came from another room down the hall. Again he went forward, always alert, expecting every instant that one of the master criminal's men would run into the hall and discover him. He came to another door, and found it closed.
He stopped to listen. Yes—shots were being fired from that room. And a searchlight flooded it, too, for the strong light came from beneath the door. To open that door meant to face bullets, perhaps. And Muggs did not want to do that unnecessarily until he had found Riley, or the Black Star.
He heard the Black Star's voice again—and it seemed to come from the basement. He went on along the hall and turned to the right. Before him a streak of bright light swept the floor. The door of the next room was open.