CHAPTER THREE





"Some one at the door," the burglar announced, after a moment. Mr.
Yollop had failed to hear the tapping.

"You can't fool me, Cassius. It's an old trick but it won't work.
I've seen it done on the stage too many times to be caught napping
by,--"

"There it goes again. Louder, please!" he called with considerable
vehemence and was rewarded by a scarcely audible tapping indicative
not only of timidity but of alarm as well--"Say," he bawled,
"you'll have to cut out that spirit rapping if you want to come in.
Use your night-stick!"

"Ah, the police at last," cried Mr. Yollop. "You'd better take this
revolver now, Mr. Smilk," he added hastily. "I won't want 'em to
catch me with a weapon in my possession. It means a heavy fine or
imprisonment." He shoved the pistol across the desk. "They wouldn't
believe me if I said it was yours."

A sharp, penetrating rat-a-tat on the door. Mr. Smilk picked up the
revolver.

"You bet they wouldn't," said he. "If I swore on a stack of bibles I
let a boob like you take it away from me, they'd send me to