the left ascent. She halted before the great bronze doors that barred the salon whose breadths, and widths, and heights he had admired. The light appeared stronger now. He could see her plainly as she moved forward with one white hand held outward, eagerly, yet cautiously.
It touched and seemed to caress the first great door. The door swung open, and again, to his surprise, there was a light in the dome of the great salon, as if to guard it from violation. It was high up in the center roof whose gilded figures seemed watching them. But it was brighter than the outer one through the gantlet of whose rays they had so hurriedly passed. High overhead though it was, it made everything distinct; the great solemn salon; the marvelous frescoes; the Corinthian pillars at the sides; the dull pattern of the tiled and sweeping floors; the cabinets containing the valued and prized collections of his sole kinsman and—off to the side—that one which held the Crusader's Casket of gold. For but an instant she hesitated, and then with soft and hurrying feet urged him into haste that was almost a run as if a fairy had led him into a dance toward some long-sought goal. He hurried with her across the broad, tiled space, their noiseless feet in unison. He anticipated, with a sympathetic shock, her disappointment when she must learn that the cabinet was locked. He hadn't thought of that till now. He resolved that if necessary he would seize the thing and carry it away, or, if it proved too heavy, kick and break the glass with his stockinged feet. But to his surprise the door yielded.
“Uncle Lem must have forgotten, for once, to lock it!” he thought with a great thankfulness as she pulled it open, released him, bent forward, and then reached for the golden box that lay plainly exposed. She clutched it to her breast and turned toward him with sparkling, triumphant eyes. She reminded him, somehow, of a picture of Joan of Arc, the Maid of Orleans, that he once had seen; only this maid was there by his side, palpitating, looking even more boyish than the picture of the original Joan who, as he recalled, was clad in shining armor rather than in youthful knee breeches. She turned to escape and he paused long enough to close the door of the cabinet, and then ran after her.
It was not until they reached the foot of the stairs that he thought he heard a sound in some remote part of the house, the sound of heavy footsteps. He seized her arm and together they stood, breathlessly listening. There was a momentary silence, and then again the undoubted trudging of boot-clad feet across stone floors. The girl stood as if petrified with doubt and anxiety, and he became from that moment the leader in their strange enterprise.
“Come quickly!” he whispered, and urged her toward the door that was still ajar, the door through which they must pass. They hastened through and then, as if all the good fortune that had thus far accompanied them had been lost, from somewhere through the wide spaces of halls and the narrow passageways below a sudden draft raced along, the door slipped from his fingers and closed with a resounding bang. But even through its thickness they heard those clumping steps, as if suddenly suspicious and alert, racing down the broad stairs.
“Run! Run!” he muttered sharply as he seized her arm and with the other hand extended and guiding him by the feeling of the walls, urged her with him. They raced downward. Once he tripped and nothing but that same sailorlike training of hand and foot saved them from a fall. The heavy steps behind were in hot pursuit. He saw the dim square of light made by the open window, lifted her bodily and almost threw her through it. In almost the same moment he had scaled it and dropped into the waiting gondola just as two hands seized his wrist and strove to hold him prisoner. The man inside the palace was shouting a wild alarm and crying for help. Jimmy braced his knee against the wall, gave a mighty thrust, and felt the hands slipping. They lost their hold and he dropped into the gondola. Pietro, calling upon his patron saints, thrust the gondola off just as a man's head appeared in the opening of the window shouting for the police.
Then as the gondola was urged into way they heard him call as if to some one who had joined him, “Robbers! We have been robbed! Run you to the telephone and notify the guard. And you, Paolo, come with me to the water gate!”
The water gate could not have been far off. It must certainly have been accessible, for even as Pietro swung the gondola to make the turn of the bend they saw behind them a flashing light, dimly made out an-
