It was rather pathetic, his turning to me like that. Relatively, I suppose, I seemed like a friend. It’s a fact that I was sorry for him and that I believed he knew no more of the present whereabouts of the necklace than I did. Old Eagle-Eye was in charge, however, and I referred to him for his consent. He gave it by rising, with a bow to old Mrs. Corbin. “I think we’d better adjourn up-stairs,” he said. “That’s the real field of battle anyhow.” “You’ll come too, sir, won’t you?” Bruce asked me. And when I agreed, he handed me my crutches and helped me to my feet. “I’ve never been searched before,” he remarked gloomily as we rode up in the elevator together. “I’ve never even seen a man searched.” “I never have either,” I confessed nervously. I think I dreaded the ordeal almost as much as he. There is something rather horrifying about the idea. But we might have spared our apprehensions, for the search, as it happened, never came off. The elevator shaft on the top floor opens directly into the billiard room. Bruce opened the door when the car stopped and stepped out, but since there was a slight inequality between levels, he turned back instantly to caution me about it. I swung myself out without difficulty, but I all but lost my balance and fell back into the car from sheer astonishment at what I saw. “Good lord!” I gasped. “Punch, what in the world are you doing?” Mr. Smith was at my side in an instant, and his right hand went under his coat, even before he saw what I was looking at. The little boy never turned his head. He was standing beside the billiard table, covering with his trusty rifle one of the closed doors down at the end of the room. He was still very pale, but his eyes were shining now, and his hands were steady. “Look out,” he said quietly. “He’s in the trunk closet.” “Who is?” Bruce demanded. “What do you mean?” But Mr. Smith asked no questions. He whipped out the automatic pistol from under his coat. “It’s all right if you’re sure he’s there,” he said. “I’ve got the door covered too.” “Well, I’m pretty sure,” said Punch. “I saw a drop of oil on the hinge. That’s how I know.” “Any other way out of it than through that door?” Mr. Smith asked briskly, but speaking low as the boy had done. “No,” said Punch. “It’s an awfully big place. It goes clear around the corner. But that’s the only way out, unless he’s made a hole in the roof.” “They’re slate shingles,” Mr. Smith observed. “He’s still in there, then.” “What are they talking about?” Bruce demanded of me. “The thief’s in there,” Mr. Smith told him. “Punch’s ghost, the man in pajamas. Look here, can you shoot quick and straight if you have to? If you can I’ll give you this pistol. I’m going to open the door.” He held the weapon out to Bruce. “With my apologies,” he added. “Thanks very much, sir,” said Bruce. “But I’ll open the door myself.” Mr. Smith nodded. “Stand to one side when you do,” he cautioned him. “Don’t get in our line of fire.”