telephone directory is NOT the key," said Miss Erith, pushing it aside. A few moments were sufficient to convince them that the key did not lie within any of the trade catalogues either.
"Have you searched very carefully?" she asked.
"There's not another book in the bally shop."
"Well, then, Lauffer must have it in his apartment upstairs."
"Which apartment is it?"
"The fourth floor. His name is under a bell on a brass plate in the entry. I noticed it when I came in." She turned off the electric light; they went to the door, reconnoitred cautiously, saw nobody on the avenue. However, a tramcar was passing, and they waited; then Vaux flashed his torch on the bell-plate.
Under the bell marked "Fourth Floor" was engraved Herman Lauffer's name.
"You know," remonstrated Vaux, "we have no warrant for this sort of thing, and it means serious trouble if we're caught."
"I know it. But what other way is there?" she inquired naively. "You allowed me only twenty-four hours, and I WON'T back out!"
"What procedure do you propose now?" he asked, grimly amused, and beginning to feel rather reckless himself, and enjoying the feeling. "What do you wish to do?" he repeated. "I'm game."
"I have an automatic pistol," she remarked seriously, tapping her fur-coat pocket, "—and a pair of handcuffs—the sort that open and lock when you strike a man on the wrist with them. You know the kind?"
"Surely. You mean to commit assault and robbery in the first degree upon the body of the aforesaid Herman?"
"I-is that it?" she faltered.
"It is."
She hesitated:
"That is rather dreadful, isn't it?"
"Somewhat. It involves almost anything short of life imprisonment.
But I don't mind."
"We couldn't get a search-warrant, could we?"
"We have found nothing, so far, in that cipher letter to encourage us in applying for any such warrant," he said cruelly.
"Wouldn't the excuse that Lauffer is an enemy alien and not registered aid us in securing a warrant?" she insisted.
"He is not an alien. I investigated that after you left this afternoon. His parents were German but he was born in Chicago. However, he is a Hun, all right—I don't doubt that…. What do you propose to do now?"
She looked at him appealingly:
"Won't you allow me more than twenty-four hours?"
"I'm sorry."
"Why won't you?"
"Because I can't dawdle over this affair."
The girl smiled at him in her attractive, resolute way:
"Unless we find that book we can't decipher this letter. The letter comes from Mexico,—from that German-infested Republic. It is written to a man of German parentage and it is written in cipher. The names of Luxburg, Caillaux, Bolo, Bernstorff are still fresh in our minds. Every day brings us word of some new attempt at sabotage in the United States. Isn't there ANY way, Mr. Vaux, for us to secure the key to this cipher letter?"
"Not unless we go up and knock this man Lauffer on the head. Do you want to try it?"
"Couldn't we knock rather gently on his head?"
Vaux stifled a laugh. The girl was so pretty, the risk so tremendous, the entire proceeding so utterly outrageous that a delightful sense of exhilaration possessed him.
"Where's that gun?" he said.
She drew it out and handed it to him.
"Is it loaded?"
"Yes."
"Where are the handcuffs?"
She fished out the nickel-plated bracelets and he pocketed his torch. A pleasant thrill passed through the rather ethereal anatomy of Mr. Vaux.
"All right," he said briskly. "Here's hoping for adjoining cells!"
To jimmy the glass door was the swiftly cautious work of a moment or two. Then the dark stairs rose in front of them and Vaux took the lead. It was as cold as the pole in there, but Vaux's blood was racing now. And alas! the photograph of Arethusa was in his desk at the office!
On the third floor he flashed his torch through an empty corridor and played it smartly over every closed door. On the fourth floor he took his torch in his left hand, his pistol in his right.
"The door to the apartment is open!" she whispered.
It was. A lamp on a table inside was still burning. They had a glimpse of a cheap carpet on the floor, cheap and gaudy furniture. Vaux extinguished and pocketed his torch, then, pistol lifted, he stepped noiselessly into the front room.
It seemed to be a sort of sitting-room, and was in disorder; cushions from a lounge lay about the floor; several books were scattered near them; an upholstered chair had been ripped open and disembowelled, and its excelsior stuffing strewn broadcast.
"This place looks as though it had been robbed!" whispered Vaux.
"What the deuce do you suppose has happened?"
They moved cautiously to the connecting-door of the room in the rear. The lamplight partly illuminated it, revealing it as a bedroom.
Bedclothes trailed to the floor, which also was littered with dingy masculine apparel flung about at random. Pockets of trousers and of coats had been turned inside out, in what apparently had been a hasty and frantic search.
The remainder of the room was in disorder, too; underwear had been pulled from dresser and bureau; the built-in wardrobe doors swung ajar and the clothing lay scattered about, every pocket turned inside out.
"For heaven's sake," muttered Vaux, "what do you suppose this means?"
"Look!" she whispered, clutching his arm and pointing to the fireplace at their feet.
On the white-tiled hearth in front of the unlighted gas-logs lay the stump of a cigar.
From it curled a thin thread of smoke.
They stared at the smoking stub on the hearth, gazed fearfully around the dimly lighted bedroom, and peered into the dark dining-room beyond.
Suddenly Miss Erith's hand tightened on his sleeve.
"Hark!" she motioned.
He heard it, too—a scuffling noise of heavy feet behind a closed door somewhere beyond the darkened dining-room.
"There's somebody in the kitchenette!" she whispered.
Vaux produced his pistol; they stole forward into the dining-room; halted by the table.
"Flash that door," he said in a low voice.
Her electric
