"See here," exclaimed Mr. Yollop, irritably; "you got me in this position and I want you to get me out of it. While I've been squatting here listening to you, they've both gone to sleep and I'm hanged if I can move 'em. I never would have dreamed of sitting on them if you hadn't put the idea into my head, confound you." "Let 'em hang down for a while," suggested Mr. Smilk. "That'll wake 'em up." "Easier said than done," snapped the other. He managed, however, to get his benumbed feet to the floor and presently stood up on them. Mr. Smilk watched him with interest as he hobbled back and forth in front of the desk. "They'll be all right in a minute or two. By Jove, I wish my sister could have heard all you've been saying about prisons and paroles and police. I ought to have had sense enough to call her. She's asleep at the other end of the hall." "I hate women," growled Mr. Smilk. "Ever since that pie-faced dame got me chucked out of Sing Sing,--say, let me tell you something else she done to me. She gave me an address somewhere up on the East Side and told me to come and see her as soon as I got out. Well, I hadn't been out a week when I went up to see her one night,--or, more strictly speakin', one morning about two o'clock. What do you think? It was an empty house, with a 'for rent' sign on it. I found out the next day she'd moved a couple of weeks before and had gone to some hotel for the winter because it was impossible to keep any servants while this crime wave is goin' on. The janitor told me she'd had three full sets of servants stole right out from under her nose by female bandits over on Park Avenue. I don't suppose I'll ever have another chance to get even with her. Everything all set to bind and gag her, and maybe rap her over the bean a couple of times and--say, can you beat it for rotten luck? She--she double-crossed me, that's what she--" A light, hesitating rap on the library door interrupted Mr. Smilk's bitter reflection. CHAPTER THREE "Some one at the door," the burglar announced, after a moment. Mr. Yollop had failed to hear the tapping. "You can't fool me, Cassius. It's an old trick but it won't work. I've seen it done on the stage too many times to be caught napping by,--" "There it goes again. Louder, please!" he called with considerable vehemence and was rewarded by a scarcely audible tapping indicative not only of timidity but of alarm as well--"Say," he bawled, "you'll have to cut out that spirit rapping if you want to come in. Use your night-stick!" "Ah, the police at last," cried Mr. Yollop. "You'd better take this revolver now, Mr. Smilk," he added hastily. "I won't want 'em to catch me with a weapon in my possession. It means a heavy fine or imprisonment." He shoved the pistol across the desk. "They wouldn't believe me if I said it was yours." A sharp, penetrating rat-a-tat on the door. Mr. Smilk picked up the revolver.