Jimmie Dale avoided the elevators—­it was only one flight up, and elevator boys on occasions had been known to be observant.  At the top of the first landing, a long, wide, heavily carpeted corridor was before him.  “Number one hundred and forty-eight, the corner room on the right,” the Tocsin had said.  Jimmie Dale walked nonchalantly along—­past No. 148.  At the lower end of the hall a group of people were gathered around the elevator doors; halfway down the corridor a bell boy came out of a room and went ahead of Jimmie Dale.

And then Jimmie Dale stopped suddenly, and began to retrace his steps.  The group had entered the elevator, the bell boy had disappeared around the farther end of the hall into the wing of the hotel—­the corridor was empty.  In a moment he was standing before the door of No. 148; in another, under the persuasion of a little steel instrument, deftly manipulated by Jimmie Dale’s slim, tapering fingers, the lock clicked back, the door opened, and he stepped inside, closing and locking the door again behind him.

It was already a quarter past nine, but no one was as yet in the connecting room—­the fanlight next door had been dark as he passed.  His flashlight swept about him, located the connecting door—­and went out.  He moved to the door, tried it, and found it locked.  Again the little steel instrument came into play, released the lock, and Jimmie Dale opened the door.  Again the flashlight winked.  The door opened into a bathroom that, obviously, at will, was either common to the two rooms or could, by the simple expedient of locking one door or the other, be used by one of the rooms alone.  In the present instance, the occupant of the adjoining apartment had taken “a room with a bath.”

Jimmie Dale passed through the bathroom to the opposite door.  This was already three-quarters open, and swung outward into the bedroom, near the lower end of the room by the window.  Through the crack of the door by the hinges, Jimmie Dale flashed his light, testing the radius of vision, pushed the door a few inches wider open, tested it again with the flashlight—­and retreated back into No. 148, closing the door on his side until it was just ajar.

He stood there then silently waiting.  It was Hamvert’s room next door, and Hamvert and the Weasel were already late.  A step sounded outside in the corridor.  Jimmie Dale straightened intently.  The step passed on down the hallway and died away.  A false alarm!  Jimmie Dale smiled whimsically.  It was a strange adventure this that confronted him, quite the strangest in a way that the Tocsin had ever planned—­and the night lay before him full of peril in its extraordinary complications.  To win the hand he must block Hamvert and the Weasel without allowing them an inkling that his interference was anything more than, say, the luck of a hotel sneak thief at most.  The Weasel was a dangerous man, one of the slickest second-story workers in the country,