Leslie went into her bedroom with a yawn, gathered her sleeping things and disappeared into the bathroom. The listener heard the sound of running water, heard her bid a reassuring good-night to the tremulous servant, and then the door of the bedroom opened and closed. The light was extinguished; there was the creak of a bed, and after a while the sound of deep, regular breathing. For an hour the yellow man lay, not moving a muscle, and then, reaching up, he caught hold of the wooden moulding, tested its strength, and was satisfied. He felt the long, queer-shaped knife that was in his belt, and, with the agility of a cat, and supported only by his sinewy fingers, he drew himself clear of the wardrobe, and dropped noiselessly on to the carpet. The wardrobe hardly creaked as he moved; save for the soft pad of his bare feet and the breathing of the sleeper there was no sound. Holding the knife lightly in his right hand, he groped along the pillow with his left, ready to pounce upon and strangle the scream before it rose. There was no head on the first pillow, none on the right--the bed was empty. He straightened himself up quickly, half turned as he heard a sound from behind him, but it was too late. An arm of steel flung round his throat, the knife hand was gripped at the wrist and twisted so sharply that the weapon fell to the floor. “I want you!” It was Coldwell’s voice. He lifted the little figure without difficulty, and reached out his hand to turn on the light. At that moment the prisoner recovered himself, and with amazing strength twisted round to face the detective. Coldwell realized that he had on his hands something with the ferocity and suppleness of a wild cat, something that growled and clawed and kicked so that not a limb of him was still. The unexpectedness of that furious onslaught threw him for a second off his balance. He drove out with his right, but as though he could see in the dark, the assassin dodged, and in another second he was free and had flown through the open door. Coldwell followed, but too late. With one leap the little man crashed through sash and pane and dropped unharmed to the street below. A policeman made a dive at him, but he ducked, flew across the road, and disappeared down a court by the side of a theatre toward St. Martin’s Lane. “Didn’t even see him,” said Coldwell bitterly, when he called the girl in from Lucretia’s room. The detective’s face was scratched, his collar torn. “It was rather like tackling a young tiger.” Leslie had turned on the lights and they saw the extent of the damage. He must have dived for the lower sash, head-first, for the upper window was untouched. There was not a scrap of glass remaining, and the cross supports of wood were smashed to splinters. “I’ve heard of such things being done,” said Coldwell, “and I’ve seen them done--on the stage! But never in real life and through three-quarter inch moulding!”