Stockbridge reached for the bottle of Bourbon. He held it up to the light. It was half full. "All right," said he. "I might finish part of this--that's all." Drew glanced at Delaney. "That'll be all right," he said turning. "That bottle's been tested. You might let this officer try a little of it. Nothing like being sure, you know." Delaney was willing. The drink he poured, after the butler brought a clean glass, would have cost him considerable money in war time. He upended it neat. He smiled as one hand rested upon his chest. "Fine!" he said with sincerity. "There's nothin' th' matter with that!" Drew turned toward the portières, where, between, the butler waited. "We'll go now," he said. "Remember--lock and bolt this door. Instruct your man to stay outside and not to leave it under any circumstances. When you go up to your bedroom, have him go with you. Then lock the upstairs door and let your valet sleep across the threshold. You can have a mattress moved for that purpose. I'll come in--first thing in the morning. Good night, sir!" "Good night," repeated Stockbridge rising from his chair and leaning his hands upon the polished surface of the table. "Good night to both of you!" Drew glanced back as the butler pressed in the curtains and started closing the hardwood door. The Magnate still stood erect under the rich glow from the overhead cone. His eyes were slit-lidded and defiant. He glared about the room like an aged lion in a jungle-glade. He started around the table. The door closed. Drew waited in the hallway. He heard the lock snap. The bolt shot home. Stockbridge was alone in a sealed room. "Watch this door!" ordered Drew clutching the butler's purple sleeve. "Watch it like a cat. Stay right near it under any and all circumstances. Don't go away from it. It may mean life or death to your master." "I'll stoiy right 'ere, sir." "See that you do," cautioned the Detective. "See that you do." Delaney found the hats and coats in the foyer. These they donned, opened the outer door, and stepped into the night with jaws squared and hands thrust deep in their pockets. They crossed the snow-mantled Avenue upon a long diagonal which brought them to the up-town corner and the waiting taxi, whose engine was softly purring beneath its hooded bonnet. The driver was asleep. He woke as Drew laid a hand on his arm. "Seen anything?" asked the Detective. "Nothin', boss, but snow. Nothin' at all," he yawned. Delaney glanced about. He opened the taxi door on the street side and lunged inward with a sigh of relief. Drew followed and pulled the door shut. "Where's the bunch?" he asked. "Just how did you post them?" "Flood's with the fixed-post cop on the Avenue. He's down a block. Flynn and Cassady are in the alley--in the yard, I mean. They're watching the junction-box and the wires. Joe and O'Toole went east. Harrigan is planted across the street. That's him between the two buildings. See him?"