over a letter box. A key on the bunch fitted it and he drew out some mail and walked, having met not a soul, to the top of the house. Then, after a moment's pause, he opened the studio door and found himself in a haven so secure that he could hardly believe it had been attained so easily.
In his cautious ascent he had not failed to notice the names on the doors he passed. Immediately under him was a dressmaking establishment. Below that was a floor devoted to small offices. Under that was a flower store. It seemed unlikely that any one else would sleep in the house.
Gone for Good
The studio was dusty. There was no evidence that any janitor had cleaned it. Looking about him at the odds and ends Bettington had collected—some of considerable value—he judged that the owner would not permit a janitor or maid to come unless under his supervision. There were small ivories and bronzes that could easily be stolen and disposed of.
He was glad that there was no telephone to startle him with its sudden imperative ringing. But he was glad that the electric light and gas had not been turned off. His eyes brightened when he saw that the former occupant had cans of milk, soup and fish in abundance. There were at least two pounds of tea. Further search revealed sugar and coffee.
He could live for a week on what he found and never venture outside the door. During the day he must be careful not to be seen. But at night New York was his own. Those who had known the dour, suspicious fisherman would not have recognized in the alert housebreaker the same man.
Jonathan Gibbs was gone, dead and buried. And this, too, in a sense he did not know. Other fishermen had found his waterlogged rowboat. And when he was not seen in his familiar haunts and had not called at the village store to exchange his eggs for groceries, a search was made.
His home was found unoccupied, his chickens famished. Plainly, Jonathan Gibbs had been drowned and his body swirled out to sea in the undertow.
At first the New York Gibbs ventured out only at night within a short radius of his sanctuary. There had been no mail. There had been no prying janitor. Those he passed upon the stairs took no notice, after the fashion of the metropolis.
He saw himself living there in safety until he made up his mind how to start again to get his living. Well, he had plenty of time. He had still almost four hundred dollars and almost four months' rent paid. He felt assured that Bettington was dead.
Sometimes he rehearsed a possible meeting of the two in the event that Bettington were rescued and came back. He would carry it off lightly. He would call the thing a jest. He had saved Bettington and now was exacting payment.
On His Trail
It was on the third evening of his occupancy that this calm and pleasurable optimism was swept away. He had gone to the subway entrance to buy an evening paper.
It was not yet seven and crowds were still in the street. After his six lonely years it comforted him to see humanity, hurrying and unheeding, pass him by.
As he stood on the steps before the front door feeling for his latchkey, he was conscious that a policeman across the street by the armory was looking at him.
Although it was dark he felt stricken with the certainty that the officer looked at him alone. He had never before at this time seen a policeman in this position.
From the front windows of his unlighted rooms he had an unobstructed view. The officer was now speaking to
