Having arranged his get-away, Jimmie returned to the living-room.  In defiance of caution and that he might carry with him a farewell picture of the place where for years he had been so supremely happy, he swept it with his torch.

The light fell upon Jeanne’s writing-desk and there halted.  Jimmie gave a low gasp of pleasure and surprise.  In the shaft of light, undisturbed in their silver frames and in their place of honor, he saw three photographs of himself.  The tears came to his eyes.  Then Jeanne had not cast him utterly into outer darkness.  She still remembered him kindly, still held for him a feeling of good will.  Jimmie sighed gratefully.  The sacrifice he had made for the happiness of Jeanne and Maddox now seemed easier to bear.  And that happiness must not be jeopardized.

More than ever before the fact that he, a dead man, must not be seen, impressed him deeply.  At the slightest sound, at even the suggestion of an alarm, he must fly.  The will might take care of itself.  In case he were interrupted, where he dropped it there must it lie.  The fact of supreme importance was that unrecognized he should escape.

The walls of the dining-room were covered with panels of oak, and built into the jog of the fireplace and concealed by a movable panel was the safe.  In front of it Jimmie sank to his knees and pushed back the panel.  Propped upon a chair behind him, the electric torch threw its shaft of light full upon the combination lock.  On the floor, ready to his hand, lay the will.

The combination was not difficult.  It required two turns left, three right, and in conjunction two numerals.  While so intent upon his work that he scarcely breathed, Jimmie spun the knob.  Then he tugged gently, and the steel door swung toward him.

At the same moment, from behind him, a metallic click gave an instant’s warning, and then the room was flooded with light.

From his knees, in one bound, Jimmie flung himself toward his avenue of escape.

It was blocked by the bulky form of Preston, the butler.

Jimmie turned and doubled back to the door of the living-room.  He found himself confronted by his wife.

The sleeve of her night-dress had fallen to her shoulder and showed her white arm extended toward him.  In her hand, pointing, was an automatic pistol.

Already dead, Jimmie feared nothing but discovery.

The door to the living-room was wide enough for two.  With his head down he sprang toward it.  There was a report that seemed to shake the walls, and something like the blow of a nightstick knocked his leg from under him and threw him on his back.  The next instant Preston had landed with both knees on his lower ribs and was squeezing his windpipe.

Jimmie felt he was drowning.  Around him millions of stars danced.  And then from another world, in a howl of terror, the voice of Preston screamed.  The hands of the butler released their hold upon his throat.  As suddenly as he had thrown himself upon him he now recoiled.