“In private, eh?”—­he seemed to be sparring for time, as he smiled.  “In private!  You’ve a strange method of securing privacy, haven’t you?  A bit melodramatic, isn’t it?  Perhaps you’ll be good enough to tell me who you are?”

Jimmie Dale smiled indulgently.

“My mask is only for effect,” he said.  “My name is—­Smith.”

“Yes,” said Carling.  “I am very stupid.  Thank you.  I—­” he had reached the other side of the room now—­and with a quick, sudden movement jerked his hand to the dial of the safe that stood against the wall.

But Jimmie Dale was quicker—­without shifting his position, his automatic, whipped from his pocket, held a disconcerting bead on Carling’s forehead.

“Please don’t do that,” said Jimmie Dale softly.  “It’s rather a good make, that safe.  I dare say it would take me half an hour to open it.  I was rather curious to know whether it was locked or not.”

Carling’s hand dropped to his side.

“So!” he sneered.  “That’s it, is it!  The ordinary variety of sneak thief!” His voice was rising gradually.  “Well, sir, let me tell you that—­”

“Mr. Carling,” said Jimmie Dale, in a low, even tone, “unless you moderate your voice some one in the house might hear you—­I am quite well aware of that.  But if that happens, if any one enters this room, if you make a move to touch a button, or in any other way attempt to attract attention, I’ll drop you where you stand!” His hand, behind his back, extracted the key from the door lock, held it up for the other to see, then dropped it into his pocket—­and his voice, cold before, rang peremptorily now.  “Come back to the desk and sit down in that chair!” he ordered.

For a moment Carling hesitated; then, with a half-muttered oath, obeyed.

Jimmie Dale moved over, and stood in front of Carling on the other side of the desk—­and stared silently at the immaculate, fashionably groomed figure before him.

Under the prolonged gaze, Carling’s composure, in a measure at least, seemed to forsake him.  He began to drum nervously with his fingers on the desk, and shift uneasily in his chair.

And then, from first one pocket and then the other, Jimmie Dale took the two packages of banknotes, and, still with out a word, pushed them across the desk until they lay under the other’s eyes.

Carling’s fingers stopped their drumming, slid to the desk edge, tightened there, and a whiteness crept into his face.  Then, with an effort, he jerked himself erect in his chair.

“What’s this?” he demanded hoarsely.

“About ten thousand dollars, I should say,” said Jimmie Dale slowly.  “I haven’t counted it.  Your bank was robbed this evening at closing time, I understand?”

“Yes!” Carling’s voice was excited now, the colour back in his face.  “But you—­how—­do you mean that you are returning the money to the bank?”

“Exactly,” said Jimmie Dale.