uniformed page held open the front door for him to pass out. Once on
the sidewalk the self-styled diamond master of the world paused long
enough to pull on his gloves, carelessly chucking the small sole-leather
grip with its twenty-odd million dollars' worth of precious stones under
one arm; then he turned up Fifth Avenue toward Thirty-fourth Street. A
sneak thief brushed past him, appraised him with one furtive glance,
then went his way, seeking quarry more promising.

Simultaneously with Mr. Wynne's appearance three men whose watchful eyes
had been fastened on the doorway of the H. Latham Company for something
more than an hour stirred. One of them--Frank Claflin--was directly
across the street, strolling along idly, the most purposeless of all in
the hurrying, well-dressed throng; another--Steve Birnes, chief of the
Birnes Detective Agency--appeared from the hallway of a building
adjoining the H. Latham Company, and moved along behind Mr. Wynne, some
thirty feet in the rear; the third--Jerry Malone--was half a block away,
up Fifth Avenue, coming slowly toward them.

Mr. Birnes adjusted his pace to that of Mr. Wynne, step for step, and
then, seeming assured of his safety from any chance glance,
ostentatiously mopped his face with a handkerchief, flirting it a
little to the left as he replaced it in his pocket. Claflin, across
the street, understood from that that he was to go on up Fifth
Avenue to Thirty-fourth Street, the next intersection, and turn west
to board any crosstown car which Mr. Wynne might possibly take; and
a cabby, who had been sitting motionless on his box down the street,
understood from it that he was to move slowly along behind Mr.
Birnes, and be prepared for an emergency.

Half-way between Thirty-third and Thirty-fourth Streets, Jerry Malone