long cloak with a hood and flung it over her shoulders.
"The car is waiting," says she; "let us go." She turned to me. "Here is a mask I cut for you from some black stuff."
We were all a little quiet as we got into the car, a big touring affair with a double row of seats. I told the chauffeur to go to my hotel, and presently we pulled up in front of the door. I ran up and filled the pockets of my overcoat with what I thought I might need, then ran down and out, wondering what the gold-laced concierge who opened the door of the car for me would think if he knew that the gay swell he was serving was a burglar on the way to a job!
"What now?" asks Ivan, who was now driving the car.
"Go to the house," said I, getting up beside him, "and stop directly in front of the door."
"What do you propose to do?" says he, letting in the clutch.
"You will see. I'm not quite sure myself. Wait until we get there," I answered.
It was then about a quarter to three, and a little drizzle of rain was falling. We sped across the Place de la Concorde, all gleaming and glistening with the lamplight on the wet pavement, then across the river by the Pont Alexandre III, and around the Invalides. A minute later we pulled up in front of a high stone wall, over the top of which rose the branches of big trees, black and dripping with the rain. The street was deserted, so far as I could see, so I jumped out and crossed the sidewalk to a small
