As he did so, I turned to the woman with her hands still pressed to her ears. With one fierce jerk I tore the rubber-banded packet of papers from her clutch. "But the code?" gasped Palmer, as he tugged crazily at the safe door. I did not answer him, for a sudden movement from the woman arrested my attention. She had stooped and caught up the fallen revolver. The man in blue, rolling over on his hip, was drawing a second gun from his pocket. "Quick!" I called to Palmer as I swung him by the armpit and sent him catapulting out through the smoke to the open door. "Quick--and duck low!" The shots came together as we stumbled against the stairhead. "Quick!" I repeated, as I pulled him after me. "But the code?" he cried. "I've got it!" I called out to him as we went panting and plunging down through that three-tiered well of darkness to the street and liberty. "I've got it--I've got everything!" CHAPTER IV THE OPEN DOOR "Shall I call the car, sir?" asked the solicitous-eyed Benson, covertly watching me as I made ready for the street. "No," was my studiously detached retort, "I intend to walk." "Latreille was asking, sir, if you would care to have the car laid up." The significance of that bland suggestion did not escape me. And it did not add to my serenity of mind. "Just what business is that of Latreille's?" I demanded, with a prickle of irritation. My patient-eyed old butler averted his glance, with a sigh which he didn't seem quite able to control. "And at the end of the month," I went on, "I intend to discharge that man, I'm tired of his insolences." "Yes, sir," Benson softly yet fervently agreed. My nerves were on edge, I knew, but I wasn't looking for sympathy from my hired help. And when I swung the door shut behind me I am afraid it was a movement far from noiseless. I was glad to get out into the open, glad to get away from old Benson's commiserative eyes, and have space about me, and cool air to breathe, and uncounted miles of pavement to weary my legs on. I noticed, as I turned, into Fifth Avenue, that the moving finger of light on the Metropolitan clock-dial pointed to an hour past midnight. So I veered about that delta of idleness, where the noontide turbulence of Broadway empties its driftwood into the quietness of the square, and pursued my way up the avenue.