apers destroyed. "But
just before that interesting finale," McKnight ended, "we will walk in,
take the notes, grab Sullivan, and give the police a jolt that will put
them out of the count."

I suppose not one of us, slewing around corners in the machine that
night, had the faintest doubt that we were on the right track, or that
Fate, scurvy enough before, was playing into our hands at last. Little
Hotchkiss was in a state of fever; he alternately twitched and examined
the revolver, and a fear that the two movements might be synchronous
kept me uneasy. He produced and dilated on the scrap of pillow slip from
the wreck, and showed me the stiletto, with its point in cotton batting
for safekeeping. And in the intervals he implored Richey not to make
such fine calculations at the corners.

We were all grave enough and very quiet, however, when we reached the
large building where Mrs. Conway had her apartment. McKnight left the
power on, in case we might want to make a quick get-away, and Hotchkiss
gave a final look at the revolver. I had no weapon. Somehow it all
seemed melodramatic to the verge of farce. In the doorway Hotchkiss
was a half dozen feet ahead; Richey fell back beside me. He dropped his
affectation of gayety, and I thought he looked tired. "Same old Sam, I
suppose?" he asked.

"Same, only more of him."

"I suppose Alison was there? How is she?" he inquired irrelevantly.

"Very well. I did not see her this morning."

Hotchkiss was waiting near the elevator. McKnight put his hand on
my arm. "Now, look here, old man," he said, "I've got two arms and a
revolver, and you've got one arm and a splint. If Hotchkiss is right,
and there is a row, you crawl under a table."

"The deuce I will!" I declared scornfully.

We crowded out of the elevator at the fourth floor, and found ourselves
in a rather theatrical hallway of draperies and armor. It was very
quiet; we stood uncertainly after the car had gone, and looked at the
two or three doors in sight. They were heavy, covered with metal,
and sound proof. From somewhere above came the metallic accuracy of a
player-piano, and through the open window we could hear--or feel--the
throb of the Cannonball's engine.

"Well, Sherlock," McKnight said, "what's the next move in the game? Is
it our jump, or theirs? You brought us here."

None of us knew just what to do next. No sound of conversation
penetrated the heavy doors. We waited uneasily for some minutes, and
Hotch