It was not high from the ground, but I could not grip the top of the rail without help. With Tom's assistance I went over lightly enough, and without noise. The window was the one which had been broken during the first assault on the house, and never repaired. I found ample room for crawling through. The door into the hall stood partly ajar, a little light streaming through the crack, so I experienced no difficulty in moving about freely. A glance told me the apartment was unoccupied, although I heard the murmur of distant voices earnestly conversing. Occasionally an emphatic oath sounded clear and distinct. My first thought was that the men with me would be better concealed here than in the bushes below, and I leaned over the rail, and bade them join me. Within another minute the three of us were in the room intently listening. I stole across to the crack of the door. The hall was empty so far as I could see looking toward the rear of the house, and the voices we heard were evidently in the dining-room. Occasionally there was a clatter of dishes, or the scraping of a chair on the polished floor. One voice sang out an order to a servant, a nasal voice, slightly thickened by wine, and I wheeled about, gazing inquiringly into Mortimer's face. "That's Grant," he said quickly, "and half drunk." "I thought so; that's when he is really dangerous. Stay close here; if the hallway is clear I am going to get into the shadow there under the stairs. Have your weapons ready." Where the fellow was who had been at the front door I could not determine. He had disappeared somehow, and I slipped along the wall for the necessary ten feet like a shadow, and crept in beneath the shelter of the staircase. From here I could look into the room opposite, although only a portion of the space was revealed. There was no cloth on the table, and but a few dishes, but I counted a half-dozen bottles, mostly empty, and numerous glasses. Grant was at one end, his uniform dusty and stained, but his eyes alone betraying intoxication. Beside him was a tall, stoop-shouldered man, with matted beard, wearing the coat of a British Grenadier, but with all insignia of rank ripped from it. He had a mean mouth, and yellow, fang-like teeth were displayed whenever he spoke. Beyond this fellow, and only half seen from where I crouched, was a heavy-set individual, his face almost purple, with a thatch of uncombed red hair. He wore the cocked hat of a Dragoon, pushed to the back of his head, his feet were encased in long cavalry boots, crossed on the table, and he was pulling furiously at a pipe, the stem gripped firmly between his teeth. Who the bearded man might be I had no means of knowing, but this beauty was without doubt Fagin. I stared at him, fascinated, recalling the stories of his fiendish cruelty, my heart thumping violently, while my fingers gripped the butt of my pistol. Then, without warning, a man stepped out of the darkened parlor, passed within three