His slim, sensitive fingers played for an instant among the knobs and dials that studded the door, guided, it seemed by the sense of touch alone—­and the door swung open.  Within was another door, with locks and bolts as intricate and massive as the outer one.  This, too, he opened; and then from the interior took out a short, thick, rolled-up leather bundle tied together with thongs.  He rose from his knees, closed the safe, and drew the portiere across the alcove again.  With the bundle under his arm, he glanced sharply around the room, listened intently, then, unlocking the door that gave on the hall, he switched off the lights and went to his dressing room, that was on the same floor.  Here, divesting himself quickly of his dinner clothes, he selected a dark tweed suit with loose-fitting, sack coat from his wardrobe, and began to put it on.

Dressed, all but his coat and vest, he turned to the leather bundle that he had placed on a table, untied the thongs, and carefully opened it out to its full length—­and again that curious, cryptic smile tinged his lips.  Rolled the opposite away from that in which it had been tied up, the leather strip made a wide belt that went on somewhat after the fashion of a life preserver, the thongs being used for shoulder straps—­a belt that, once on, the vest would hide completely, and, fitting close, left no telltale bulge in the outer garments.  It was not an ordinary belt; it was full of stout-sewn, up-right little pockets all the way around, and in the pockets grimly lay an array of fine, blued-steel, highly tempered instruments—­a compact, powerful burglar’s kit.

The slim, sensitive fingers passed with almost a caressing touch over the vicious little implements, and from one of the pockets extracted a thin, flat metal case.  This Jimmie Dale opened, and glanced inside—­between sheets of oil paper lay little rows of gray, adhesive, diamond-shaped seals.

Jimmie Dale snapped the case shut, returned it to its recess, and from another took out a black silk mask.  He held it up to the light for examination.

“Pretty good shape after a year,” muttered Jimmie Dale, replacing it.

He put on the belt, then his vest and coat.  From the drawer of his dresser he took an automatic revolver and an electric flashlight, slipped them into his pocket, and went softly downstairs.  From the hat stand he chose a black slouch hat, pulled it well over his eyes—­and left the house.

Jimmie Dale walked down a block, then hailed a bus and mounted to the top.  It was late, and he found himself the only passenger.  He inserted his dime in the conductor’s little resonant-belled cash receiver, and then settled back on the uncomfortable, bumping, cushionless seat.

On rattled the bus; it turned across town, passed the Circle, and headed for Fifth Avenue—­but Jimmie Dale, to all appearances, was quite oblivious of its movements.