"You mean," said Burton excitedly, "you mean that all these crimes of yours that have seemed without motive, that have been so inexplicable, have really been like to-night to"
"I don't mean anything at all," interposed Jimmie Dale a little hurriedly. "Nothing, Burton—except that there is still one little thing more to do to bolster up that 'childish' story of mine—and then get out of here." He glanced sharply, critically around the room, his eyes resting for a moment at the last on the form on the floor. Then tersely: "I am going to turn out the light—we will have to pass the window to get to the door, and we will invite no chances. Are you ready?"
"No; not yet," said Burton eagerly. "I haven't said what I'd like to say to you, what I"
"Walk straight to the door," said Jimmie Dale curtly. There was the click of an electric-light switch, and the room was in darkness. "Now, no noise!" he instructed.
And Burton, perforce, made his way across the room—and at the door Jimmie Dale joined him and led him down the short flight of stairs. At the bottom, he opened the door leading into the rear of the pawnshop itself, and, bidding Burton follow, entered.
"We can't risk even a match; it could be seen from the street," he said brusquely, as he fumbled around for a moment in the darkness. "Ah—here it is!" He lifted a telephone receiver from its hook, and gave a number.
Burton caught him quickly by the arm.
"Good Lord, man, what are you doing?" he protested anxiously. "That's Mr. Maddon's house!"
"So I believe," said Jimmie Dale complacently. "Hello! Is Mr. Maddon there? . . . I beg pardon? . . . Personally, yes, if you please."
There was a moment's wait. Burton's hand was still nervously clutching at Jimmie Dale's sleeve. Then:
"Mr. Maddon ? " asked Jimmie Dale pleasantly. "Yes? . . . I am very sorry to trouble you, but I called you up to inquire if you were aware that your rubies, and among
