"A flat--three stories--Moyne lives on ground floor." Jimmie Dale leaned against the vestibule door--there was a faint click--a little steel instrument was withdrawn from the lock--and Jimmie Dale stepped into the hall, where a gas jet, turned down, burned dimly.
The door of the ground-floor apartment was at his right, Jimmie Dale reached up and turned off the light.

Again those slim, tapering, wonderfully sensitive fingers worked with the little steel instrument, this time in the lock of the apartment door--again there was that almost inaudible click--and then cautiously, inch by inch, the door opened under his hand.

He peered inside--down a hallway lighted, if it could be called lighted at all, by a subdued glow from two open doors that gave upon it--peered intently, listening intently, as he drew a black silk mask from his pocket and slipped it over his face.

And then, silent as a shadow in his movements, the door left just ajar behind him, he stole down the carpeted hallway.
Opposite the first of the open doorways Jimmie Dale paused--a curiously hard expression creeping over his face, his lips beginning to droop ominously downward at the corners.

It was a little sitting room, cheaply but tastefully furnished, and a young woman, Bookkeeper Bob's wife evidently, and evidently sitting up for her husband, had fallen sound asleep in a chair, her head pillowed on her arms that were outstretched across the table.