The lovely face of the first Elaine Duchard looked down at him!
With trembling fingers he whipped a knife from his pocket. Looked about for a chair to stand on—
"It ain't smart to work a room without fixin' the door first," the burglar had said. "You feel lots better if you know nobody ain't gonna stumble in on you unexpected."
Ten seconds later Mark had wedged a straight-back chair under the knob of the only door leading into the rest of the house.
Turning, he hurried back to the Jerbette painting. With swift, deft slashes he cut it from its frame. Started to roll it up.
"Ah! A visitor!"
The trespasser whirled as if he had been stabbed. He stumbled from the chair on which he stood. As he did so, the brilliant beam of a five-cell flashlight hit him square in the face like a physical blow. It blinded him. Left him helpless.
"No doubt this is just a social call. Too bad that the police will call it breaking and entering with larcenous intent!"
It was the oily, mocking voice of Adrian Vance, and it came from the French window through which Mark had entered.