Pressed close to the pane he applied his eye to the crack which was the widest near the sill. He saw a portion of the room, looking curiously vivid and distinct in the narrow concentration of his view. It seemed flooded with unsteady, warmly yellow light. Straight before him he saw a table with a rifled tea-tray on it, and back of that another table. The one eye pressed to the crack grew absorbed as it focused itself on the second table. Among a litter of books, ornaments and feminine trifles, stood a small desk of dark wood. It was as if it had been placed there to catch his attention--the goal of his line of vision. Shifting his position he pressed his cheek against the glass and squinted in sidewise to where a deepening and quivering of the light spoke of a fire. Then he saw the figure of the sleeping woman, lying in an attitude of complete repose in the armchair. He gazed at her striving to gage the depth of her sleep. One of her hands hung over the arm of the chair, with the gleam of the fire flickering on the white skin. The same light touched a strand of loosened hair. Her face was in profile toward him, the chin pressed down on the shoulder. It looked like a picture in its suggestion of profound unconsciousness. He pushed fearfully on the cross-bar of the pane, and the window rose a hair’s-breadth. Then again, and it was high enough up for him to insert his hand. He did so, and drew forward the curtain of heavy rep so as to hide from the sleeper the gradual stages of his entrance. By degrees he raised it to a height sufficient to permit the passage of his body. The curtain shielded the girl from the current of cold air that entered the room. He crept in softly on his hands and knees, then rose to his feet. For a moment he made no further movement, but stood, his gaze riveted on the sleeper, watching for a symptom of roused consciousness. She slept on peacefully, the light sound of her breathing faintly audible. The silence of the hushed house seemed weirdly terrifying after the tumult of the night outside. The thief stole forward to the desk, his eye continually turned toward her. When he reached the table she was so far behind him that he could only see the sweep of her wrapper on the floor, her shoulder, and the top of her head over the chair-back. He tried the desk with an unsteady hand. It was locked, but the insertion of a steel file he carried broke the frail clasp. It gave with a sharp click and he stood, his hair stirring, watching the top of her head. It did not move, the silence resettled, he could again hear her light, even breathing.