late--too late, he was aware--for anything effective. Not
without a certain satisfaction in his sense of ownership, and with grim
resolutions concerning his dealings in future with the Robinsons, he
extinguished the lights in the rooms he had searched, and, glad of the
much-needed rest, retired in calm for six solid hours of sleep.

This brought him out, refreshed and vigorous, at a bright, early hour
of the morning. The housekeeper, not yet stirring in her downstairs
quarters, failed to hear him let himself out at the door--and his way
was clear for action.

His breakfast he took at an insignificant cafe. Then he went to his
room in Forty-fourth Street.

The "shadow," faithful to his charge, was waiting in the street before
the house. His presence was noted by Garrison, who nodded to himself
in understanding of the fellow's persistency.

Arrived upstairs, he discovered three letters, none of which he took
the time to read. They were thrust in his pocket--and forgotten.

The metal bomb, which was still in his coat, he concealed among a lot
of shoes in his closet.

From among his possessions, accumulated months before, when the needs
of the Biddle robbery case had arisen, he selected a thoroughly
effective disguise, which not only grew a long, drooping mustache upon
his lip, but aged him about the eyes, and appeared to reduce his
stature and his width of shoulders. With a pair of shabby gloves on
his hands, and a book beneath his arms, he had suddenly become a
genteel if poor old book-agent, whose appearance excited compassion.

Well supplied with money, armed with a loaded revolver, fortified by
his official badge, and more alert in all his faculties than he had
ever felt in all his life, he passed down the stairs and out upon the
street, under the very nose of the waiting "shadow," into whose face he
cast a tired-looking glance, without exciting the slightest suspicion.

Twenty minutes later he had hired a closed automobile, and was being
carried toward the Williamsburg Bridge and Long Island. The car
selected was of a type renowned for achievements in speed.

It was nearly ten o'clock when he stood at length on the sidewalk
opposite 1600 Myrtle Avenue, Woodsite, a modest cottage standing on a
corner. It was one of the houses farthest from the center of the town;
nevertheless, it had its neighbors all about, if somewhat scattered.

There was no sign of life about the place. The shades were drawn; it