The man realized in that instant that he had been tricked. He snarled like a beast and sprang to one side.

Muggs was upon him before he could utter a cry. They clashed, each trying to find the other's throat. Muggs found that this would be no easy battle. Here was a man who was used to rough tactics, such as did not meet with the approval of the Black Star.

Across the room they fought, Muggs trying to get the advantage, trying to keep the other from shrieking for help, trying to get in a blow that would silence his adversary for a time.

The servant fought to carry out his orders that Muggs should be kept prisoner; but Muggs fought with the knowledge that he was trying to prevent the Black Star from having success in his latest undertaking, trying to help Roger Verbeck to victory.

Back and forth across the room they continued to battle. They fought fiercely, and both were becoming exhausted. Now they were on their feet, wrestling, and now they were upon the floor, rolling over and over, striking at each other, reaching for each other's throat and eyes.

And finally Muggs managed to get the grasp for which he had been striving. The servant gave a groan of pain, and his hold on the valet relaxed. Muggs choked—choked, and finally sprang to his feet and looked down at the unconscious man.

He would be unconscious for some time, Muggs knew, as he did not intend to waste precious time binding and gagging him. He ran to the door through which the Black Star had gone, and stood there for a moment to listen. He heard nobody outside—remembered that nobody had been attracted by the sounds of combat.

Muggs lifted the curtain, opened the door, and stepped into a dark hall. He had no weapon, no electric torch, not so much as a match in his pocket. He ran lightly to the end of the hall and found another door. This he opened cautiously, an inch at a time. He found that it opened into a room that was dimly lighted, a room that did not seem to have seen much use.

Muggs hurried in and closed and locked the door behind him. On the opposite side there was another door; Muggs listened at that for a time, and then opened it. He found himself facing another hall.

He hurried into it, and went on. He came to a flight of stairs and went up. He realized, now, that he had been in a basement. At the top of the stairs was a large room, half filled with rusted machinery and empty packing cases.

Muggs stooped and picked up from the floor a short iron bar; he had a weapon now. On he went, across the big room to a window. He looked out.

He was in the manufacturing district, he knew. This building was an old, abandoned factory. He could see the yard filled with scrap iron, the high fence around it, and, beyond, the empty street. Farther beyond that was the city, flashing with light.

Muggs started to raise the window. It stuck, but he managed to pry it up with the bar of iron, stopping now and then to listen and watch. He couldn't convince himself that the Black Star had left no guard other than the servant now unconscious below. That wasn't at all like the Black Star, Muggs thought. There must be a trap somewhere.

Then he remembered that the Black Star had been forced to move quickly. Perhaps this headquarters had not been completed when the master criminal had taken up his abode there.

Muggs got the window up, put out his head and looked around. It was pitch dark beneath the window and along the wall. Muggs got through, lowered himself and dropped.

He crouched against the wall, listening, the bar of iron clutched in his hand, ready for instant fight if occasion demanded it. Then he started following the wall, going toward where he had noticed a gate in the high fence.

He reached the corner of the building, and glanced around it cautiously. Not far from him, he seemed to see something move. Muggs was not sure at first whether it was an elusive shadow or a man. He decided an instant later that it was a man.

He scarcely breathed now. He had escaped thus far, and he did not intend to be stopped. He did not intend to waste much time, either. Even now, perhaps, the Black Star and his followers were surrounding the Branniton residence. Even now, perhaps, they were robbing women of their jewels, rendering the three men they had decided to abduct unconscious, and preparing to carry them away.

Like a shadow, the iron bar held ready, Muggs crept along the wall in the direction of the guard.

He was within ten feet of him when a match glowed. The flame shot up, and Muggs could see that the match was burning in the man's cupped hands, and that he was trying to light a cigar. Muggs covered the ten feet in two springs, the iron bar swept through the air and landed. There was a little whimper, and the Black Star's guard was stretched on the ground.

Muggs turned and ran across the yard. He had decided not to try the gate, for there might be another guard there. He sprang, grasped the top of the fence, running the risk that it might be charged and deadly, found that such was not the case, and drew himself up. A moment later, he was in the street.

Muggs never had been much of a runner, but he ran to-night. Up the street he went, his elbows glued to his sides, head bent forward, stumbling and staggering over the rough cobblestones, but making excellent progress. There was no person on the street, no vehicle in sight. This was an old manufacturing district far down the river, where there was nothing to attract people. Only a few street lights were burning, and they were far apart.

Almost breathless, Muggs ran on. His heart was pounding at his ribs, his side pained, his breathing was labored. He turned a corner into another street, and continued running!

Would he never reach a telephone? Would he never run across a member of the police force? Was there nobody in that end of town who could help him? Block after block he ran, always looking for a light, for a dingy saloon, for some place where he could get into communication with police headquarters and give the alarm. He was in despair; he felt that he could not keep up much longer.

Presently he saw lights ahead of him, and felt hope and joy surge within him. Ahead, only two blocks away, was one of the barns of the city street railway.

Panting, exhausted, Muggs stumbled through the entrance and ran into the little office. Half a dozen conductors and motormen sprang from their benches and hurried toward him.

"Quick—telephone!" Muggs gasped. "Police——"

He saw the telephone instrument on the wall, and lurched toward it. He grasped the receiver, tore it from the hook, began calling into the transmitter. One of the conductors was trying to talk to him; one of the motormen was trying to stop him from using the instrument until he explained. Muggs threw out a foot and kicked him away.

"Police headquarters! Police headquarters!" he shrieked. "This headquarters? Give me the chief! This is Muggs! Yes—Muggs! Hurry—hurry!—That you, chief? Mr. Verbeck there? This is Muggs. I just—got away. Black Star's gang—going to raid—Branniton house—get jewels—kidnap them swells——"

And then Muggs sank slowly against the wall.

His words had electrified the conductors and motormen. They picked him up, and one of them continued the conversation, telling what had happened, but he soon found himself talking to nobody. The chief had recognized Muggs' voice and that had been enough.

The conductors and motormen threw water into Muggs' face, and he gasped and sat up. They helped him to a bench and sat him there, while he fought for breath, grasped his chest where it pained, struggled to regain his strength.

"Got—to get there——" he gasped.

"Where?" one of the men cried.

"Richard Branniton's house—in the—West End!"

"The foreman's flivver's out in front; he'll let us use it," a conductor cried. "I don't go on duty for an hour yet. Come on!"

He ran toward the curb, and Muggs staggered after him. Muggs got into the cheap little car. The obliging conductor cranked it and sprang in beside him.

"We'll get there quick, or we'll shake every bolt and nut off the blamed thing!" he said.

The flivver lurched away down the street.

It would have done Muggs good had he been able to see the effect of his message at police headquarters. The chief sprang from his chair shrieking the news. Verbeck and the sheriff dashed with him through the assembly room and out to the street, and as they went, the chief shouted his orders. The reserves ran out and sprang into the automobiles, the deputies did the same.

"Good Muggs!" Verbeck cried, as he drove like a fiend through the streets. "I knew he'd do it—if he had a chance!"

Verbeck swung between two street cars, causing two motormen to turn pale for an instant, and then to curse joy riders. Strung out behind the powerful roadsters were the police cars. The sirens were not working now. The chief had issued orders that they were not to be used if it could be avoided, as it would indicate to the Black Star and his men that they were coming.

"Hope we get him this time!" the chief shrieked into Verbeck's ear. "Drive, man, drive!"

Verbeck drove. He forced the powerful roadster to do its utmost. He called upon the expensive engine to pay for itself this night. He swung around other vehicles, dashed around corners, swept up hills like a comet.

They passed through the retail district, and got on a wide avenue where there was not so much traffic, and where better speed could be made. And now they were in the section of better residences, speeding on.

They turned another corner—and the Branniton house was but four blocks away.