Groping his way softly along the dark room, he quietly opened the window and stepped out on the fire escape. The platform of the fire escape extended from the window of number twenty-seven to that of number twenty-five, and all Max had to do was to creep along the iron grating until he was beside the window with which he had previously tampered. When he reached it, he crouched down, hidden by the dark shade which had been drawn, and put his ear close to the crack. He could now hear every word that was spoken, and, it was plain to be seen, it afforded him the liveliest satisfaction. “So I was right!” he thought triumphantly, “I suspected it for some time, but now I know it. I must have some more tangible proof, though. I must see the thing done, and find out who else is in the plot. And then--farewell to the old Mar, and hurrah for a life of ease and luxury.” CHAPTER II. THE WAITER HAS A WIFE. The waiter remained outside the window until he heard Atherton leave the room, then he stole back to number twenty-seven, left things exactly as he had found them, and descended to the waiters’ room, where he changed to street attire. Ten minutes later he left the premises, and at the end of half an hour he let himself into a modest little flat in a “model” tenement house on East Seventy-seventh Street, near the river. Here he proceeded to do other things which were out of the ordinary for a club waiter. For instance, he changed his clothes once more, and, after he had done so, he loaded a revolver and stowed it away in one of his pockets. He put a fresh battery into an electric flash light, and slipped that into another pocket. He next went down to a room in the basement, in which a motor cycle was stored, and he spent half an hour in pumping up the tires, tinkering with the lamp, oiling the bearings, filling the tank, and generally putting the machine in order for a run. Finally he returned to the little sitting room, set out a frugal supper for two, consisting of cold beef and potato salad from a delicatessen store, bread and cheese, and a bottle of first-class claret--the last named being from the cellars of the Marmawell. When all these preparations were completed, he lighted a pipe and consulted his watch. “Half past nine,” he mused. “I needn’t start for the theater for another hour yet.” He opened a black leather case and drew out a well-worn mandolin. Dropping into an easy-chair, he started to play the instrument in a fashion which proved that he was both a passionate lover of music and a capable performer. Any one popping into the little room and seeing him leaning back in that easy-chair, with a far-away, dreamy look in his half-closed eyes, and a rapt expression on his face, would have found it hard to believe that he was capable of the side he had shown shortly before.