He moved forward now toward the house, the rear of which faced him—­the light that flooded the lawn came from a side window.  Jimmie Dale was figuring the time and distance from New York as he crept cautiously along.  How quickly could the Weasel make the journey?  The Weasel would undoubtedly come, and if there was a convenient train it might prove a close race—­but in his own favour was the fact that it would probably take the Weasel quite some little time to recover his equilibrium from his encounter with the Gray Seal in the Palais-Metropole, also the further fact that, from the Weasel’s viewpoint, there was no desperate need of haste.  Jimmie Dale crossed the lawn, and edged along in the shadows of the house to where the light streamed out from what now proved to be open French windows.  It was a fair presumption that he would have an hour to the good on the Weasel.

The sill was little more than a couple of feet from the ground, and, from a crouched position on his knees below the window, Jimmie Dale raised himself slowly and peered guardedly inside.  The room was empty.  He listened a moment—­the black silk mask was on his face again—­and with a quick, agile, silent spring he was in the room.

And then, in the centre of the room, Jimmie Dale stood motionless, staring around him, an expression, ironical, sardonic, creeping into his face.  The robbery had already been committed!  At the lower end of the room everything was in confusion; the door of a safe swung wide, the drawers of a desk had been wrenched out, even a liqueur stand, on which were well-filled decanters, had been broken open, and the contents of safe and desk, the thief’s discards as it were, littered the floor in all directions.

For an instant Jimmie Dale, his eyes narrowed ominously, surveyed the scene; then, with a sort of professional instinct aroused, he stepped forward to examine the safe—­and suddenly darted behind the desk instead.  Steps sounded in the hall.  The door opened—­a voice reached him: 

“The master said I was to shut the windows, and I haven’t dast to go in.  And he’ll be back with the police in a minute now.  Come on in with me, Minnie.”

“Lord!” exclaimed another voice.  “Ain’t it a good thing the missus is away.  She’d have highsteericks!”

Steps came somewhat hesitantly across the floor—­from behind the desk, Jimmie Dale could see that it was a maid, accompanied by a big, rawboned woman, sleeves rolled to the elbows over brawny arms, presumably the Mittels’ cook.

The maid closed the French windows, there were no others in the room, and bolted them; and, having gained a little confidence, gazed about her.

“My, but wasn’t he cute!” she ejaculated.  “Cut the telephone wires, he did.  And ain’t he made an awful mess!  But the master said we wasn’t to touch nothing till the police saw it.”

“And to think of it happening in our house!” observed the cook heavily, her hands on her hips, her arms akimbo.  “It’ll all be in the papers, and mabbe they’ll put our pictures in, too.”