He scarcely seemed to breathe until, with a little sigh of relief, he stood inside his den on the first floor, with the door shut behind him.
"I must speak to Jason about being a little more watchful," muttered Jimmie Dale facetiously.

"Here's all my property at the mercy of--Larry the Bat!" An instant he stood by the door, looking about him--in the bright moonlight streaming in through the side windows the room's appointments stood out in soft shadows, the huge davenport, the great, luxurious easy-chairs, an easel with a half-finished canvas, as he had left it; the big, flat-topped, rosewood desk, the open fireplace--and then, his steps silent on the thick velvet rug under foot, he walked quickly to the desk.
Yes, there it was--the letter.

He placed it hurriedly in his pocket--the moonlight was not strong enough to read by, and he dared not turn on the lights.
And now money--funds.

In the alcove behind the portiere, Jimmie Dale dropped on his knees before the squat, barrel-shaped safe, and opened it.

He reached inside, took out a package of banknotes, placed the bills in his pocket--and hesitated a moment.