It was a fair presumption that he would have an hour to the good on the Weasel.
The sill was little more than a couple of feet from the ground, and, from a crouched position on his knees below the window, Jimmie Dale raised himself slowly and peered guardedly inside.

The room was empty.
He listened a moment--the black silk mask was on his face again--and with a quick, agile, silent spring he was in the room.
And then, in the centre of the room, Jimmie Dale stood motionless, staring around him, an expression, ironical, sardonic, creeping into his face.

THE ROBBERY HAD ALREADY BEEN COMMITTED! At the lower end of the room everything was in confusion; the door of a safe swung wide, the drawers of a desk had been wrenched out, even a liqueur stand, on which were well-filled decanters, had been broken open, and the contents of safe and desk, the thief's discards as it were, littered the floor in all directions.
For an instant Jimmie Dale, his eyes narrowed ominously, surveyed the scene; then, with a sort of professional instinct aroused, he stepped forward to examine the safe--and suddenly darted behind the desk instead.

Steps sounded in the hall.

The door opened--a voice reached him: "The master said I was to shut the windows, and I haven't dast to go in.
And he'll be back with the police in a minute now.