Mad Maitland, he was concerned only to profit by it. Never before had the
long arm of the law stretched hungry fingers so near his collar. He went,
springing down the hall in long, soundless strides, vanishing into its
shadows.

As he disappeared Maitland stepped to the door, raised his revolver, and
pulled the trigger twice. The shots detonated loudly in that confined
space, and rang coincident with the clash and clatter of shivered glass. A
thin cloud of vapor obscured the doorway, swaying on the hot, still air,
then parted and dissolved, dissipated by the entrance of four men who,
thrusting the door violently open, struggled into the hallway.

Blue cloth and brass buttons moved conspicuously in the van, a grim face
flushed and perspiring beneath the helmet's vizor, a revolver poised
menacingly in one hand, locust as ready in the other. Behind this outward
and visible manifestation of the law's majesty bobbed a rusty derby,
cocked jauntily back upon the red, shining forehead of a short and
thick-set person with a black mustache. O'Hagan's agitated countenance
loomed over a dusty shoulder, and the battered silk hat of the nighthawk
brought up the rear.

"Come in, everybody," Maitland greeted them cheerfully, turning back into
the study and tossing the revolver, shreds of smoke still curling up from
its muzzle, upon a divan. "O'Hagan," he called, on second thought, "jump
down-stairs and see that all New York doesn't get in. Let nobody in!"

As the janitor unwillingly obeyed, policeman and detective found their
tongues. A volley of questions, to the general purport of "What's th'
meanin' of all this here?" assailed Maitland as he rested himself coolly
on an edge of the desk. He responded, with one eyebrow slightly elevated: