ar, and the open window
escaped his notice. I felt all the nervous dread of a real malefactor,
and when I heard the gate close behind him, and saw Burton put a leg
over the sill, I was almost as relieved as I would have been had
somebody's family plate, tied up in a tablecloth, been reposing at my
feet.

Burton had an instinct for getting around in the dark. I lighted another
match as soon as he had closed the window, and we made out our general
direction toward where the stairs ought to be. When the match went out,
we felt our way in the dark; I had only one box of wax matches, and
Burton had dropped his in a puddle.

We got to the second floor, finally, and without any worse mishap than
Burton banging his arm against a wheel of some sort. Unlike the first
floor, the second was subdivided into rooms; it took a dozen precious
matches to find our way to the side of the building overlooking the
club, and another dozen to find the window we wanted. When we were there
at last, Burton leaned his elbows on the sill, and looked down and
across.

"Could anything be better!" he said. "There's our theater, and we've got
a proscenium box. That room over there stands out like a spot-light."

He was right. Not more than fifteen feet away, and perhaps a foot lower
than our window, was the window of the room where Fleming had been
killed. It was empty, as far as we could see; the table, neat enough
now, was where it had been before, directly under the light. Any one who
sat there would be an illuminated target from our window. Not only that,
but an arm could be steadied on the sill, allowing for an almost perfect
aim.

"Now, where's your staircase?" Burton jeered.

The club was evidently full of men, as he had prophesied. Above the
rattle of the rain came the thump--thump of the piano, and a half-dozen
male voices. The shutters below were closed; we could see nothing.

I think it was then that Burton had his inspiration.

"I'll bet you a five-dollar bill," he said, "that if I fire off my
revolver here, now, not one of those fellows down there would pay the
slightest attention."

"I'll take that bet," I returned. "I'll wager that every time anybody
drops a poker, since Fleming was shot, the entire club turns out to
investigate."

In reply Burton got out his revolver, and examined it by holding it
against the light from across the way.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," he said. "Everybody down there knows me;
I'll drop in fo