ed a disreputable collarless flannel shirt over his head, pulled on
a dirty and patched pair of trousers, and slipped into a threadbare and
filthy coat. Jimmie Dale was working against seconds. They were at the
lower door now. He lifted the oilcloth in the corner of the room,
lifted up the loose piece of the flooring, shoved his discarded garments
inside, and from a little box that was there smeared the hollow of
his hand with some black substance, possessed himself of two little
articles, replaced the flooring, replaced the oilcloth, and, in bare
feet, stole across the room to the door. Against the door, without a
sound, Jimmie Dale placed a chair, and on the chair seat he laid the two
little articles he had been carrying in his hand. It was intensely black
in the room, but Jimmie Dale needed no light here. From under the bed he
pulled out a pair of woolen socks and a pair of congress boots, both as
disreputable as the rest of his attire, put them on--and very quietly,
softly, cautiously, stretched himself out on the bed.

The officers were at the top of the stairs. A voice barked out:

"Stand guard on this landing, Peters. Higgins, you take the one above.
We'll start from the top of the house and work down. Allow no one to
pass you."

"Yes, sir! Very good, Mr. Kline," was the response.

Kline!--the sharpest man in the United States secret service, she had
said. Jimmie Dale's lips set.

"I'm glad I had no shave this morning," said Jimmie Dale grimly to
himself.

His fingers were working with the black substance in the hollow of his
hand--and the long, slim, tapering fingers, the shapely, well-cared-for
hands grew unkempt and grimy, black beneath the finger nails--and a
little, too, played its part on the day's growth of beard, a little
around the throat and at the nape of the neck, a little across the
forehead to meet the locks of straggling and disordered hair. Jimmie
Dale wiped the residue from the hollow of his hand on the knee of his
trousers--and lay still.

An officer paced outside. Upstairs doors opened and closed. Gruff, harsh
tones in commands echoed through the house. The search party descended
to the second floor--and again the same sounds were repeated. And then,
thumping down the creaking stairs, they stopped before Jimmie Dale's
room. Some one tried the door, and, finding it locked, rattled it
violently.

"Open the door!" It was Kline's voice.

Jimmie Dale's eyes were closed, and he was breathi