Pud took a long, deep breath and crept down the hall toward The Tower door. He reached it, pulled it slowly toward him. From above came the complaining of the stair treads, then silence. Pud could imagine the man’s disgust as he swept his light over the square emptiness of that chamber, and something very close to a chuckle mingled with the click of the latch as it slipped into place. Swiftly then Pud’s fingers flew to the key. Perhaps it had been unused so long that it had forgotten how to turn, for it resisted his efforts stubbornly. He put all his strength against it unavailingly, and his heart sank. Beyond the door were faint creakings. The burglar was coming back down the stairs! Caution urged Pud to flight, but he was stubborn, too, and, getting a new grasp on the key and putting the fingers of his left hand about the knuckles of his right, he made a final and desperate effort. There was a loud protest from the unwilling key, but it turned! Then Pud ran! Back at the door of his own room he paused and listened. There was no sound for a long moment save the thumping of his own heart. Then the knob of The Tower door was gently turned. A second silence. Then there was a straining, creaking noise as the imprisoned man put his weight against the door. But Aunt Sabrina’s house had been built in the days when doors were made strong and thick and heavy, and for the time, at least, Pud had no fear of its yielding. With a bound, Pud was pulling the blanket from Tim and prodding him into wakefulness, and after that many things happened with confusing rapidity. Lights flared upstairs and down. Pud spoke breathlessly to a sleepy telephone operator and, after what seemed an interminable time, to a gruff-voiced police sergeant. Tim and Harmon, close to The Tower door, talked to each other in deep, bass voices designed to impress the burglar with the fact that his escape in that direction was barred by at least two resolute men. As Pud left the telephone to light the gas in the dining-room and rescue Aunt Sabrina’s silver, he heard Harmon saying in loud tones that seemed to come from his boots――or that would have come from his boots had he worn any: ‘I’s sure cravin’ to use this here ol’ resolver, Mister Daley. I ain’ had me a chance to shoot it off for a long time!’ And then came Tim’s voice, deep and husky: ‘And I’d certainly like to use this automatic of mine, Mister Johnson!’