wall space opposite the door. In the centre of the mean and uninviting
apartment stood a table, its top littered with odds and ends, amongst
which the remains of a meal, dishes and food, fraternised gregariously
with a painter's palette, brushes and paint tubes. A chair or two, long
since disabled, and a rickety washstand completed the appointments.

The moonlight's path across the floor wavered suddenly, the door opened,
was locked again, and with a quick, catlike step a man moved along the
side of the wall where the shadows lay thickest near the door, dropped
on his knees, and began to fumble hurriedly with the base-board of the
wall, pausing at every alternate second to listen intently.

A minute passed. A section of the base-board was lifted out, the man's
hand was thrust inside--and emerged again with a large roll of
banknotes. He turned his head for a quick glance around the room, his
eyes, burning out of a gaunt, hollow-cheeked, pallid face, held on the
torn window shade--and then, in almost frantic haste, he thrust the
banknotes back inside the wall, and began to replace the base-board. But
it was not the window shade, nor yet the courtyard without with which he
was concerned--it was the sound of a heavy footstep outside the door.

And now the door was tried. The man on the floor, working with desperate
energy to replace the base-board, coughed in an asthmatic, wheezing way,
as there came the imperative smashing of a fist upon the door panels,
coupled with a gruff, curt demand for admittance. Again the man
coughed--to drown perhaps the slight rasping sound as the base-board
slid back into place--and, rising to his feet, shuffled hastily to the
door and unlocked it.

The door was flung violently open from without, a heavy-built,