"Anything else, Master Jim ?" "No; that's all, Jason.

Don't sit up for me--you may go to bed now." "Thank you, sir," said the old man.
Jimmie Dale went upstairs, opened the door of his own particular den on the right of the landing, stepped inside, closed the door, switched on the light--and Jimmie Dale's debonair nonchalance dropped from him as a mask instantly--and it was another Jimmie Dale--the professional Jimmie Dale.
Quick now in every action, he swung aside the portiere that curtained off the squat, barrel-shaped safe in the little alcove, opened the safe, took out that curious leather girdle with its kit of burglar's tools, added to it a flashlight and an automatic revolver, closed the safe--and passed into his dressing room.

Here, he proceeded to divest himself rapidly of his evening clothes, selecting in their stead a suit of dark tweed.

He heard Jason come up the stairs, pass along the hall, and mount the second flight to his own quarters; and presently came the sound of an automobile without.

The dressing room fronted on the Drive--Jimmie Dale looked out.