“I don’t see how that boy managed it,” said Holtzmann.  “He was alone only a few minutes.”

“Never mind.  He’s as smart as a steel trap.  Was the safe door open?”

“Yes.  My clerk left it open.  He is a new one and rather careless.  What’s to be done?”

“I’m going after the rascal,” cried Aaron Woodward.

“You’d have a fine time finding him here in Chicago.”

“I must find him.  Most likely when he discovers how valuable the papers are he’ll be off at once for home with them.  I can intercept him at the depot.”

“That’s an idea, if you can locate the right depot.”

“I’ll be off at once,” went on Mr. Woodward.

“I’ll go with you,” returned Chris Holtzmann, and three minutes later the two men quitted the office, locking the door after them.

I waited several minutes to make sure they were not returning, and then emerged from my hiding-place.

I was stiff in every joint and nearly stifled from the hot air in the closet.  But at present I gave these personal matters scant attention, my mind being bent upon escape.

Even if the door had been unlocked, I would not have chosen it as a means of egress.  It led into the main hall of the Palace of Pleasure, and here I might meet some one to bar my escape.

The window was close at hand, and I threw it open.  The noise I made did not frighten me, for in the main hall a loud orchestra was drowning out every other sound.

I looked out and saw a number of people walking up and down the street.  No one appeared to be watching me, and waiting a favorable opportunity, I slid out of the window to the sidewalk below.

With my ever present handbag beside me I hurried down the side street as fast as my feet would carry me.  The neighborhood of the Palace of Pleasure was dangerous for me, and I wished to get away from it as quickly as possible.

After travelling several blocks I slackened my pace and dropped into a rapid walk.  Coming to a fruit-stand, I invested in a couple of bananas, and then asked its proprietor where Hallock Street was.

“Sure an’ it’s the first street beyant the cable road,” was the reply.

“And where is the cable road?” I queried.

“Two squares that way, sor,” and the woman pointed it out.

I thanked her and hurried on.  When I reached the street, I found the numbers ran in the three hundreds, and I had quite a walk to the southward to reach No. 28.

At length I stood in front of the house.  It was a common-looking affair, and the vicinity was not one to be chosen by fastidious people.  The street, sidewalks, and doorways all looked dirty and neglected.  I concluded that since being discharged Sammy Simpson had come down in the world.

“Does Mr. Simpson live here?” I asked of a slip of a girl who sat on the stoop, nursing a ragged doll.

“Yes, sir; on the third floor in the front,” she replied.