"Mr. Stephens," he said, speaking in his usual tone, and rising as he spoke, "I have a little matter of business just around the corner from here, which I think I will attend to while you are reading those papers." Mr. Stephens glanced up and laughed. "I will recommend you for one of the night police," he said, gayly. "You have business at all hours of the night in all imaginable places." Meantime Theodore had been taking in the position of the strong box, and decided that he could get a nearer view of it without exciting the suspicion of Winters in the closet. It was, as he feared, unlocked and empty! Now at all hazards the thief must not be suffered to escape. "I will take your night-key, Mr. Stephens," said Theodore, quietly, "and let myself in without ringing on my return." A moment more and he stood alone on the granite steps. The night was still and gloomy, the moon gave only a fitful glimmering now and then as it peeped from between heavy clouds, the air was sharp and piercing, but the young man on the steps felt in a white heat as he waited in breathless anxiety for the advent of a policeman. One thing he had determined upon, not to leave the steps where he stood guard over the gray-haired unsuspicious man inside. There was no telling how soon Winters might weary of his cramped quarters, and attempt to escape by first shooting his employer. Would the policeman never come? He heard steps and voices in the distance. "Come out here, old moon, and give a fellow a little light on the subject. What you pouting about, I'd like to know? You haven't got to blunder along home in the dark. This is the most extraordinary street I ever saw anyhow; it keeps whirling round and turning somersaults, instead of walking straight ahead like a respectable street." The voice that uttered these disjointed sentences was only too well known to Theodore. He stepped down one step and spoke in a low tone: "Pliny, what does this mean? Where are you going?" "Going round like a top, first on my head and then on my heels. How are you?" Poor Theodore! the plot thickened. What should he do with this poor drunkard? Could he endure to let him stagger to his home to that waiting sister in this condition? A shrill, sharp, merry whistle broke at this moment on his ear; that voice he knew too, and waited until its owner came up; then addressed him still in low tones: "Tommy, where are you going?" "Going home--been to a fire--whole block burned down by the square, Mr. Stuart's house and--" Theodore checked his voluble information. "Have you seen anything of McPherson?" "Yes, sir; he was at the fire too. Just whisked around the corner below here to go to his rooms. We came up together." Theodore's listening ear caught the sound of an approaching policeman, and he hastened his plans. Pliny had sunk down on the steps and was muttering to himself in drunken, broken sentences.