The glove was still in his hand. He thrust it into his pocket as he
began the descent. The iron ladder ran down the building to the alley.
It ended ten feet above the ground. Kirby lowered himself and dropped.
He turned to the right down the alley toward Glenarm Street.

A man was standing at the comer of the alley trying to light a cigar.
He was a reporter on the "Times," just returning from the Press Club
where he had been playing in a pool tournament.

He stopped Lane. "Can you lend me a match, friend?"

The cattleman handed him three or four and started to go.

"Just a mo'," the newspaper-man said, striking a light. "Do you
always"--puff, puff--"leave your rooms"--puff, puff, puff--"by the fire
escape?"

Kirby looked at him in silence, thinking furiously. He had been
caught, after all. There were witnesses to prove he had gone up to his
uncle's rooms. Here was another to testify he had left by the fire
escape. The best he could say was that he was very unlucky.

"Never mind, friend," the newspaper-man went On. "You don't look like
a second-story worker to yours truly." He broke into a little amused
chuckle. "I reckon friend husband, who never comes home till Saturday
night, happened around unexpectedly and the fire escape looked good to
you. Am I right?"

The Wyoming man managed a grin. It was not a mirthful one, but it
served.