"I much prefer staying here," I retorted. And for the second time he smiled his saddened smile. "Oh, it's nothing objectionable," he explained. "Nobody's going to hurt you. And we'll be back here in ten minutes." "But, oddly enough, I have rooted objections to deserting my guests." "Your guests won't be sorry, I imagine," he replied, as he looked at his silver turnip of a watch. "And we're losing good time." "Please go," said Alice Churchill, emboldened, apparently, by some instinctive conclusion which she could not, or did not care to, explain. And she was backed up, I noticed, by a nod from her brother. I also noticed, as I rose to my feet, that I still held the necklace in my hand. I was a little puzzled as to just what to do with it. "That," said the sagacious stranger, "you'd better leave here. Let the young lady keep it until we get back. And you, Fessant," he went on, turning to the belligerent-lipped jewel thief, "you stay right here and make yourself pleasant. And without bein' rude, you might see that the young lady and her brother stay right here with you." Then he took me companionably by the arm and led me away. "What's the exact meaning of all this?" I inquired as we threaded our course out to the cab-stand and went dodging westward along Forty-third Street in a taxi. The rain, I noticed, through the fogged window, was still falling. "I want you to show me exactly where that man sat in that box," was his answer. "And two minutes in the theater will do it." "And what good," I inquired, "is that going to do me?" "It may do you a lot of good," he retorted, as he flung open the cab door. "I feel rather sorry for you if it doesn't," was my answer as I followed him out. We had drawn up before a desolate-looking stage door over which burned an even more desolate-looking electric bulb. The man turned and looked at me with a short ghost of a grunt, more of disgust than contempt. "You're pretty nifty, aren't you, for a New York edition of Jesse James?" And without waiting for my answer he began kicking on the shabby-looking stage door with his foot. He was still kicking there when the door itself was opened by a man in a gray uniform, obviously the night watchman. "Hello, Tim!" said the one. "Hello, Bud!" said the other. "Doorman gone?" "'Bout an hour ago!" Then ensued a moment of silence. "Burnside say anything was turned in?" "Didn't hear of it," was the watchman's answer. "My friend here thinks he's left something in a box. Could you let us through?" "Sure," was the easy response. "I'll throw on the house-lights for youse. Watch your way!" He preceded us through a maze of painted canvas and what looked like the backs of gigantic picture-frames. He stepped aside for a moment to turn on a switch. Then he opened a narrow door covered with sheet-iron, and we found ourselves facing the box entrances.