I said nothing as he produced the telltale flashlight. I also remained silent as he triumphantly unearthed the jimmy and the damnatory skeleton keys. I could see the interchange of exultant glances as these were tossed out on the polished table-top. "Get the straps from the golf bags!" suggested the youth with the Savage. I could not help remembering how this scene was paralleling another of the same nature and the same night, when Benson and I had been the masters of the situation. The man called Orrie seemed a little nonplussed at the fact that he had found no valuables in my outer pockets, but he did not give up. He grimly ignored my protests as he explored still deeper and dug out my monogramed wallet, and then a gold cigarette-case, on which my name was duly inscribed. He turned them over in his hand a couple of times and examined them carefully. Then a great light seemed to come to him. He succumbed, as even his elders have done, to a sudden sense of drama. I saw him dart to the outer room and catch up a telephone directory. He riffled through the pages with quick and impatient fingers. Then he strode back, and looked me up and down. "I know what this man's done," he cried, his eyes alight with conviction. "What?" demanded the younger man. "He's visited more than this house to-night. He's gone through Witter Kerfoot's, as well. He's taken these things from there. And now _it's up to us to take him back with them_!" I could see the sheer theatricality of the situation clutch at his two listeners. I could see them surrender to it, although the girl still seemed to hesitate. "Hadn't I better call Uncle Anthony?" she suggested. At one breath her words brought me back to both the tragedy that lay so close at hand, and the perilous complexity of my own position. "No, that's foolish!" cut in Orrie. "The car's still outside. Caddy, I think you'll have to come along. You can sit with Jansen on the driving-seat." The hero of the maneuver turned back to me. I was thinking mostly of the soft-eyed girl with the baby-white skin, and how I could get her safely away. "Will you come quietly?" my captor demanded of me. "Yes," I answered, without looking up, "I'll come quietly." It was the girl's voice, a little shrill with excitement, that next broke the silence. "Orrie, he's not a burglar!" she cried out, in her treble-noted conviction. "Then what is he?" "He's a gentleman." "What makes you think so?" demanded the indifferent Orrie as he motioned me, with a curt movement of his Colt-barrel, toward the hall door. "I know by his nails!" was her inconsequential yet quite definite reply. Orrie laughed. "Then you'd give tea and macaroons to every burglarious barber out of Sing Sing," he scoffed. "And our real answer's waiting for us in Gramercy Square."