“Hi, there! Officer!” I shouted lustily. My hail, if not my words, reached him; he glanced up, saw the figure on the ladder, and was seized instantaneously with the spirit of the chase. Yelling something reassuring, the gist of which escaped me, he constituted himself a reception committee of one and started for the ladder’s foot. But our doughty Teuton was a resourceful person. Roused to the urgency of his plight, he looked wildly up at me, down at the officer, and, hastily pushing up the nearest window, hoisted himself across its sill, and again took refuge in the St. Ives Hotel. With a bellow of rage, the policeman dashed toward the porte-cochere, while I ducked back into the room, rapidly revolving my chances of cutting off the man’s retreat below. If the system of numbering was the same on every floor, my thief must, of course, emerge from Room 303. But this similarity was problematical, and to invade apartments at random, disturbing women at their opera toilets and maybe even waking babies, was too desperate a shift to try. It reminded me to wait with what patience I could summon for the house detective. And where was he, by the way? I had turned in my alarm a good five minutes before. In an unenviable humor I stumbled across the room, tripping and barking my shins over various malignant hassocks, tables, and chairs. Finding the switch at last, I flooded the room with light, and saw myself in the mirror, with tie and coat askew. “Now,” I muttered, straightening them viciously, “we’ll see what he took away.” But the trunk seemed undisturbed when I examined it, and my various bags and suitcases were securely locked. I had found Forrest’s power of attorney and was storing it in my pocket when voices rose outside. A group of four was approaching, comprised of a spruce, dress-coated manager; a short thick-set, broad-faced man who was doubtless the long-overdue detective; a professional-appearing gentleman with a black bag, obviously the house-physician; and the policeman that I had summoned from his stroll below. The latter, in an excited brogue, was recounting his late vision of the thief, “hangin’ between hivin and earth, no less,” while the detective scornfully accused him of having been asleep or jingled, on the ground of my late telephone to the effect that I was holding the man. The manager, as was natural, took the initiative, bustling past me into my room and peering eagerly around. “I needn’t say, Mr. Bayne,” he orated fluently, “how sorry I am that this has happened--especially beneath our roof. It is our first case, I assure you, of anything so regrettable. If it gets into the papers it won’t do us any good. Now the important thing is to take the fellow out by the rear without courting notice. Why, where is he?” he asked hopefully. “Surely he isn’t gone?”