Tense seconds crawled by on leaden feet. Mark's mouth was dry, his throat cottony. He stood taut, his back to the wall, waiting fearfully for some sign that Vance had been aroused. At last he relaxed again. Reached through the broken pane and unlocked the big window. Swung it open, ever so gently, and stepped inside, fading swiftly into the thick blackness of the nearest corner. Once Mark had interviewed a burglar as a feature assignment. He remembered the man's words now. "Gettin' in ain't the hard part," the second-story worker had explained. "It's gettin' out that's tough. The first thing you gotta do on a job is to line up an exit." Now, as his eyes grew accustomed to the blackness, Mark searched for a means of escape. There was a window at the far end of the room. He approached it with swift, silent strides. Opened it wide. The slightest of creakings caught his ear. Instantly he was on the alert, every muscle tense. The sound was not repeated. He relaxed. Where would the picture be? A large canvas hung above the fireplace. He tiptoed over to it. The lovely face of the first Elaine Duchard looked down at him! With trembling fingers he whipped a knife from his pocket. Looked about for a chair to stand on-- "It ain't smart to work a room without fixin' the door first," the burglar had said. "You feel lots better if you know nobody ain't gonna stumble in on you unexpected." Ten seconds later Mark had wedged a straight-back chair under the knob of the only door leading into the rest of the house. Turning, he hurried back to the Jerbette painting. With swift, deft slashes he cut it from its frame. Started to roll it up. "Ah! A visitor!" * * * * * The trespasser whirled as if he had been stabbed. He stumbled from the chair on which he stood. As he did so, the brilliant beam of a five-cell flashlight hit him square in the face like a physical blow. It blinded him. Left him helpless. "No doubt this is just a social call. Too bad that the police will call it breaking and entering with larcenous intent!" It was the oily, mocking voice of Adrian Vance, and it came from the French window through which Mark had entered. "Try to lie out of it!" Vance gloated. "Just try to explain that picture in your hands!" "I don't have to explain, Vance. You know why I'm here." The wail of a siren sounded in the distance. "Oh, of course I know." The other was laughing softly, greasily. "But will the police understand, Carter? That siren you hear--it's coming here, you know; I called the station before I came down to grab you." Mark's heart jumped like a wounded stag. He looked around wildly. Was this to be the end of it all? Was he to lie in jail while Elaine went to her death, back there in Bourbon France? His captor was speaking again: "I didn't dream I could have this much luck! To see that slut Elaine dead--that was the height of my ambition. But now--to have you sent to the penitentiary for burglary--"