The peculiar thing about this was that Norton was entertaining the same thought at the same time: what earthly chance had he?
In the second-story window of the house over the way there was a worried man. But when his glasses brought in range the true contents of the box he laughed sardonically. "This watching is getting my goat. I smell a rat every time I see a shadow." He wiped the lenses of his opera glasses and proceeded to roll a cigarette.
When the countess and Norton went away Jones stole quietly up to Florence's room and threw up the curtain. Two round points of light flashed from the watcher's window, but the saturnine smile on Jones' lips was not observed. He went to the door, opened it cautiously, a hand to his ear. Then he closed the door, turned back the rug and removed a section of the flooring. Out of this cavity he raised a box. There was lettering on the lid; in fact, the name of its owner, Stanley Hargreave. Jones replaced the flooring, tucked the box under his arm and made his exit.
The man lounging in the shadow heard a faint whistle. It was the signal agreed upon. The man Felton ran across the street and boldly rang the bell. It was only then that Florence missed the ever present butler. She hesitated, then sent Susan to the door.
"I must see Mr. Jones upon vitally important business."
"He has gone out," said Susan, and very sensibly closed the door before Felton's foot succeeded in getting inside.
It was time to act. He ran around to the rear. The ladder convinced him that Jones had tricked him. He was wild with rage. He was over the wall in an instant. Away down the back street his eye discovered his man in full flight. He gave chase. As he came to the first corner he was nearly knocked over by a man coming the other way.
"Who are you bumping into?" growled Felton.
"Not so fast, Felton!"
"Who the devil are you?"