The Palace Saloon was near the upper end of the Bowery, and, failing a taxicab, of which none was in sight, his quickest method was to walk, and he started briskly forward.  It was not far; and it was barely ten minutes from the time he had left the Palace Saloon when he swung through Washington Square to Fifth Avenue, and, a moment later, turned from that thoroughfare, heading west toward Sixth Avenue, along one of those streets which, with the city’s northward trend, had quite lost any distinctive identity, and from being once a modestly fashionable residential section had now become a conglomerate potpourri of small tradesmen’s stores, shops and apartments of the poorer class.  He knew Max Diestricht’s—­he could well have done without the aid of the arc lamp which, even if dimly, indicated that low, almost tumble-down, two-story structure tucked away between the taller buildings on either side that almost engulfed it.  It was late.  The street was quiet.  The shops and stores had long since been closed, Max Diestricht’s among them—­the old Hollanders’ name in painted white letters stood out against the background of a darkened workshop window.  In the story above, the lights, too, were out; Max Diestricht was probably fast asleep—­and he was stone deaf!

A glance up and down the street, and Jimmie Dale was standing, or, rather, leaning against Max Diestricht’s door.  There was no one to see, and if there were, what was there to attract attention to a man standing nonchalantly for a moment in a doorway?  It was only for a moment.  Those master fingers of Jimmie Dale were working surely, swiftly, silently.  A little steel instrument that was never out of his possession was in the lock and out again.  The door opened, closed; he drew the black silk mask from his pocket and slipped it over his face.  Immediately in front of him the stairs led upward; immediately to his right was the door into the shop—­the modest street entrance was common to both.

The door into the workshop was not locked.  He opened it, stepped inside, and closed it quietly behind him.  The place was in blackness.  He stood for a moment silent, straining his ears to catch the slightest sound, reconstructing the plan of his surroundings in his mind as he remembered it.  It was a narrow, oblong room, running the entire depth of the building, a very long room, blank walls on either side, a window in the middle of the rear wall that gave on a back yard, and from the back yard there was access to the lane; also, as he remembered the place, it was a riot of disorder, with workbenches and odds and ends strewn without system or reason in every direction—­one had need of care to negotiate it in the dark.  He took his flashlight from his pocket, and, preliminary to a more intimate acquaintance with the interior, glanced out through the front window near which he stood—­and, with a suppressed cry, shrank back instinctively against the wall.