“I do. The chances are ten to one, if he had left by way of the front door, that Madame Denise would have seen him.” “He is some athlete, by Jove, if he climbed a rope to the roof, or even to the photographer’s window,” Chick declared. “He had confederates who aided him,” Nick replied. “He could not have got away with such a quantity of plunder without assistance.” “Surely not.” “Let’s have a look at the bedroom window.” Nick led the way into the room where, still using his lens, he began a thorough inspection of the window lock, the sashes and panes, and finally the interior sill and the outside stonework. All that he found of any significance were a few tiny particles on the sill, hardly discernible without a lens, but which, when viewed through it, appeared to be short, yellow bristles, or hairs. Quick to detect their true character and significance, however, Nick said, quite abruptly: “I am right, by Jove, in that a rope was used. Here are particles of hemp on the sill. A rope, or a hemp cord of smaller size, was drawn in through this window.” “But why did the rascal use this window, Nick, after entering through that in the bathroom?” Chick questioned. Nick leaned out and gazed upward. “I have it,” he replied. “A rope evidently was used for removing the plunder through this window, which is much larger than that in the bathroom. It was not lowered to the rear area, however, for there is no exit to the street. Nor was it drawn up to the quarters of Gilbert, the photographer, or we would have found evidence of it last night. It must have been drawn up to the roof, therefore, and then transferred by some means to another building, or----” “What’s up?” Chick cried, interrupting. Nick had drawn back into the room with an abruptness that startled his assistant, even more than the altered expression on his strong, clean-cut face. “I think, Chick, we’ve been fooled.” “Fooled? What the deuce do you mean?” “I mean----” Nick did not remain to say what he meant. Instead, with a sharper light leaping up in his eyes, he strode hurriedly to the front parlor, in which Mr. Strickland and Wilhelmina then were seated. “You told me last evening, Mr. Strickland, that Gerald Vaughn and his sister are old friends of yours. How long have you known them?” he asked, pausing in the middle of the room. “Why, only since they have lived next door, Mr. Carter,” was the reply, with a look of surprise. “How long is that?” “About four months, as near as I can remember.” “They do not own the corner house, then?” “Oh, no. It is owned by Colonel Morgan Barker, who has been living abroad with his wife and two daughters for nearly a year. Their children are studying music in Berlin. The Vaughns met them, and, as they were about to visit New York for a few months, they arranged with Colonel Barker to occupy his furnished house during their stay here.” “Who is Colonel Barker’s agent in New York?”