The vault door stood open. There were pictures stacked on the bunk now, against the wall, on the floor. Dan stepped from the carrier, went to the nearest heap of paintings. They had been dumped hastily, it seemed. They weren't even wrapped. He examined the topmost canvas, still in a heavy frame; as though, he reflected, it had just been removed from a gallery wall-- "Let's look around for Snithian," Dan said. "I want to talk to him." "I suggest we investigate the upper floors, Dan. Doubtless his personal pad is there." "You use the carrier; I'll go up and look the house over." "As you wish, Dan." Blote and the carrier flickered and faded from view. Dan stooped, picked up the pistol he had dropped in the scuffle with Fiorello and stepped out into the hall. All was silent. He climbed stairs, looked into rooms. The house seemed deserted. On the third floor he went along a corridor, checking each room. The last room on the west side was fitted as a study. There was a stack of paintings on a table near the door. Dan went to them, examined the top one. It looked familiar. Wasn't it one that _Look_ said was in the Art Institute at Chicago? There was a creak as of an un-oiled hinge. Dan spun around. A door stood open at the far side of the room--a connecting door to a bedroom, probably. "Keep well away from the carrier, Mr. Slane," a high thin voice said from the shadows. The tall, cloaked figure of W. Clyde Snithian stepped into view, a needle-barreled pistol in his hand. "I thought you'd be back," he piped. "It makes my problem much simpler. If you hadn't appeared soon, it would have been necessary for me to shift the scene of my operations. That would have been a nuisance." * * * * * Dan eyed the gun. "There are a lot more paintings downstairs than there were when I left," he said. "I don't know much about art, but I recognize a few of them." "Copies," Snithian snapped. "This is no copy," Dan tapped the top painting on the stack. "It's an original. You can feel the brush-work." "Not prints, of course. Copies." Snithian whinnied. "Exact copies." "These paintings are stolen, Mr. Snithian. Why would a wealthy man like you take to stealing art?" "I'm not here to answer questions, Mr. Slane!" The weapon in Snithian's hand bugged. A wave of pain swept over Dan. Snithian cackled, lowering the gun. "You'll soon learn better manners." Dan's hand went to his pocket, came out holding the automatic. He aimed it at Snithian's face. The industrialist froze, eyes on Dan's gun. "Drop the gun." Snithian's weapon clattered to the floor. "Now let's go and find Kelly." "Wait!" Snithian shrilled. "I can make you a rich man, Slane." "Not by stealing paintings." "You don't understand. This is more than petty larceny!" "That's right. It's grand larceny. These pictures are worth thousands."