During the proceedings, Mr. Yollop stood obediently over against the wall, his hands aloft, his back towards the rummaging Cassius.

“What’s in that room over there?” demanded the burglar, pointing to a closed door.  For obvious reasons there was no response.  He scowled for a second or two and then, striding over to Mr. Yollop, seized him by the shoulder and turned him about-face.  Then he repeated the question.

“That’s the room where my niece sleeps.  A little ten year old child, Cassius.  You will oblige me by not disturbing—­”

“Is her hair bobbed?” broke in Mr. Smilk.

“Certainly not.  She wears it long.  Beautiful golden tresses, Smilk.  Particularly beautiful when she’s asleep, spreading out all over the pillow like a silken—­” An audible, muffled, groan came from the occupant of the rocking-chair heard only by Mr. Smilk.  His gaze went first to the purpling face of Mrs. Champney, then to the door, then back to the lady again.

“For your sake, Mr. Yollop, I won’t clip it,” he announced.  “I know I’d ought to, but—­Well, I guess it’s about time we went back to the library again.  The cops will be along in a couple of minutes now, according to my calculations.  I can tell almost to a minute how long it takes them to get around to where a burglary has been committed.  If you’ll tell me where you think your slippers are we’ll stop and get ’em on the way.”

Leaving Mrs. Champney seated alone and helpless in the midst of the confusion, Smilk marched Mr. Yollop to his bedroom and then up the hall to the scene of the first encounter.

“It seems sort of a pity not to get away with all this stuff,” said the burglar, rattling the objects in his pocket.  “It ain’t professional.  I’m beginnin’ to change my mind about bein’ arrested, Mr. Yollop:  I know a girl that would be tickled to death to have these things to splash around in.  She’s a peach of a—­say, I believe I’ll use your telephone again.  I’ll call her up and see how she feels about it.  If she says she’d like to have ’em, I’ll make my getaway before the cops—­”

“You will find the telephone directory hanging on the end of the desk, Cassius,” said Mr. Yollop graciously.  He was seated in the big arm chair again, wriggling his toes delightedly in the cozy, fleece lined bed-room slippers.  “But are you not afraid she will be annoyed if you get her out of bed this time o’ night?  It’s after three.”

“I know the number.  Yes, she’ll be sore at first, but—­Hello Central?” He lowered his voice almost to a whisper, so that Mr. Yollop could not hear.  “Give me Plaza 00100.  Right.”  Turning to Mr. Yollop, he announced as he sank back into the chair comfortably: