Agatha’s mother, frantic now, beat the door of the vault with her hands.  Somebody wildly suggested dynamite.  Annabel turned to Jimmy, her large eyes full of anguish, but not yet despairing.  To a woman nothing seems quite impossible to the powers of the man she worships.

“Can’t you do something, Ralph—­try, won’t you?”

He looked at her with a queer, soft smile on his lips and in his keen eyes.

“Annabel,” he said, “give me that rose you are wearing, will you?”

Hardly believing that she heard him aright, she unpinned the bud from the bosom of her dress, and placed it in his hand.  Jimmy stuffed it into his vest-pocket, threw off his coat and pulled up his shirt-sleeves.  With that act Ralph D. Spencer passed away and Jimmy Valentine took his place.

“Get away from the door, all of you,” he commanded, shortly.

He set his suit-case on the table, and opened it out flat.  From that time on he seemed to be unconscious of the presence of any one else.  He laid out the shining, queer implements swiftly and orderly, whistling softly to himself as he always did when at work.  In a deep silence and immovable, the others watched him as if under a spell.

In a minute Jimmy’s pet drill was biting smoothly into the steel door.  In ten minutes—­breaking his own burglarious record—­he threw back the bolts and opened the door.

Agatha, almost collapsed, but safe, was gathered into her mother’s arms.

Jimmy Valentine put on his coat, and walked outside the railings towards the front door.  As he went he thought he heard a far-away voice that he once knew call “Ralph!” But he never hesitated.

At the door a big man stood somewhat in his way.

“Hello, Ben!” said Jimmy, still with his strange smile.  “Got around at last, have you?  Well, let’s go.  I don’t know that it makes much difference, now.”

And then Ben Price acted rather strangely.

“Guess you’re mistaken, Mr. Spencer,” he said.  “Don’t believe I recognize you.  Your buggy’s waiting for you, ain’t it?”

And Ben Price turned and strolled down the street.

XI

CHERCHEZ LA FEMME

Robbins, reporter for the Picayune, and Dumars, of L’Abeille—­the old French newspaper that has buzzed for nearly a century—­were good friends, well proven by years of ups and downs together.  They were seated where they had a habit of meeting—­in the little, Creole-haunted cafe of Madame Tibault, in Dumaine Street.  If you know the place, you will experience a thrill of pleasure in recalling it to mind.  It is small and dark, with six little polished tables, at which you may sit and drink the best coffee in New Orleans, and concoctions of absinthe equal to Sazerac’s best.  Madame Tibault, fat and indulgent, presides at the desk, and takes your money.  Nicolette and Meme, madame’s nieces, in charming bib aprons, bring the desirable beverages.