instantaneously with the spirit of the chase.

Yelling something reassuring, the gist of which escaped me, he
constituted himself a reception committee of one and started for the
ladder's foot. But our doughty Teuton was a resourceful person. Roused
to the urgency of his plight, he looked wildly up at me, down at the
officer, and, hastily pushing up the nearest window, hoisted himself
across its sill, and again took refuge in the St. Ives Hotel.

With a bellow of rage, the policeman dashed toward the porte-cochere,
while I ducked back into the room, rapidly revolving my chances of
cutting off the man's retreat below. If the system of numbering was the
same on every floor, my thief must, of course, emerge from Room 303. But
this similarity was problematical, and to invade apartments at random,
disturbing women at their opera toilets and maybe even waking babies,
was too desperate a shift to try.

It reminded me to wait with what patience I could summon for the house
detective. And where was he, by the way? I had turned in my alarm a good
five minutes before.

In an unenviable humor I stumbled across the room, tripping and barking
my shins over various malignant hassocks, tables, and chairs. Finding
the switch at last, I flooded the room with light, and saw myself in the
mirror, with tie and coat askew.

"Now," I muttered, straightening them viciously, "we'll see what he
took away." But the trunk seemed undisturbed when I examined it, and my
various bags and suitcases were securely locked. I had found Forrest's
power of attorney and was storing it in my pocket when voices rose