“I won’t get over it as long as I live!” declared the maid.  “The yell Mr. Mittel gave when he came downstairs and put his head in here, and then him shouting and using the most terrible language into the telephone, and then finding the wires cut.  And me following him downstairs half dead with fright.  And he shouts at me.  ‘Bella,’ he shouts, ’shut those windows, but don’t you touch a thing in that room.  I’m going for the police.’  And then he rushes out of the house.”

“I was going to bed,” said the cook, picking up her cue for what was probably the twentieth rehearsal of the scene, “when I heard Mr. Mittel yell, and—­Lord, Bella, there he is now!”

Jimmie Dale’s hands clenched.  He, too, had caught the scuffle of footsteps, those of three or four men at least, on the front porch.  There was one way, only one, of escape—­through the French windows!  It was a matter of seconds only before Mittel, with the police at his heels, would be in the room—­and Jimmie Dale sprang to his feet.  There was a wild scream of terror from the maid, echoed by another from the cook—­and, still screaming, both women fled for the door.

“Mr. Mittel!  Mr. Mittel!” shrieked the maid—­she had flung herself out into the hall.  “He’s—­he’s back again!”

Jimmie Dale was at the French windows, tearing at the bolts.  They stuck.  Shouts came from the front entryway.  He wrenched viciously at the fastenings.  They gave now.  The windows flew open.  He glanced over his shoulder.  A man, Mittel presumably, since he was the only one not in uniform, was springing into the room.  There was a blur of forms and brass buttons behind Mittel—­and Jimmie Dale leaped to the lawn, speeding across it like a deer.

But quick as he ran, Jimmie Dale’s brain was quicker, pointing the single chance that seemed open to him.  The motor boat!  It seemed like a God-given piece of luck that he had noticed it was like his own; there would be no blind, and that meant fatal, blunders in the dark over its mechanism, and he could start it up in a moment—­just the time to cast her off, that was all he needed.

The shouts swelled behind him.  Jimmie Dale was running for his life.  He flung a glance backward.  One form—­Mittel, he was certain—­was perhaps a hundred yards in the rear.  The others were just emerging from the French windows—­grotesque, leaping things they looked, in the light that streamed out behind them from the room.

Jimmie Dale’s feet pounded the planking of the wharf.  He stooped and snatched at the mooring line.  Mittel was almost at the wharf.  It seemed an age, a year to Jimmie Dale before the line was clear.  Shouts rang still louder across the lawn—­the police, racing in a pack, were more than halfway from the house.  He flung the line into the boat, sprang in after it—­and Mittel, looming over him, grasped at the boat’s gunwhale.

Both men were panting from their exertions.

“Let go!” snarled Jimmie Dale between clenched teeth.