"A waste of brain tissue, unless you have some talisman. But tell me, you have some definite idea?" "You see that hole in the ceiling? I was enlarging it." "Ha! A man of action! Nil desperandum, eh? Let me have a look at it." He mounted on the table, and thrust his hand into the opening. "I say, youngster," he said, a note of eagerness in his voice, "there is a chance, on my life there is. The boards above are not over firm. We may be skipping out of the frying-pan into the fire, but one can only die once. Continue with your work; I’ll mount guard and warn you of anyone approaching." Kenneth scraped away with his penknife, until the hole was large enough to admit his head and shoulders. The light, coming through a single crack, did not increase, so that the enlargement of the hole might easily escape notice if a constable entered. The stranger put the chair on the table. "Mount on that," he said; "put your back against the boards, and shove--gently." Kenneth did as he was instructed. The pressure of his back started the nails, and a plank rose, with an alarming creak. "That won’t be heard through the rumble of traffic outside," said the man. "Wait a little. You don’t know anything of the room above?" "Nothing. I heard somebody go in and out a while ago; I think it is empty." "Well now: let us keep cool. We can get into the room: that is certain. Can we get out of it? We shall have to descend the stairs. Our chance of life depends on one half-minute. ’Can a man die better than facing fearful odds?’ Look here: we’ll toss. Heads: we’ll go up; tails--why, hang it, we’ll still go up! Fortuna fortibus! Wait till we hear the rumble of the next artillery wagon; then! ..." They had not long to wait. Heavy traffic passed at short intervals. "Now!" said the stranger. Kenneth gave a heave. In a moment two planks were removed. Resting his arms on the edges of those on either side of the gap, he hoisted himself up. His companion quickly followed. They stood in the room. The next half minute was filled to breathlessness. It was a bedroom. A street lamp outside threw a little light into it. Hanging from a peg on the door was a policeman’s tunic and helmet. "Fortune’s our friend," murmured the stranger. In ten seconds he had helped Kenneth to don the uniform. They crept out of the room, and peeped over the stair rail. The way was clear. All sounds within were smothered by the noise in the street. They stole downstairs, past the closed door of the guardroom, through the outer door, and into the open. "War with England!" shouted a newsman at the corner. "We win the first trick!" chuckled the stranger, as they hurried along. CHAPTER III--THE SECOND TRICK "The first trick--yes: but what are trumps?" said Kenneth, in reply to his companion’s remark.