“You haven't introduced your friend,” said Montague.

“Oh, excuse me,” said Bates. “Mr. Rodney, one of our office-men.”

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“And now tell me about it,” said Montague, taking a seat.

“It's the conference,” said Bates. “We got a tip about it an hour or so ago. They meet in the room underneath us.”

“What of it?” asked Montague.

“We want to find out what's going on,” said Bates.

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“But how?”

“Through the window. We've got a rope here.” And Bates pointed toward the suitcase.

Montague stared at him, dumfounded. “A rope!” he gasped. “You are going to let him down from the window?”

“Sure thing,” said Bates; “it's a rear window, and quite safe.”

“But for Heaven's sake, man!” gasped the other, “suppose the rope breaks?”

“Oh, it won't break,” was the reply; “we've got the right sort of rope.”

“But how will you ever get him up again?” Montague exclaimed.

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“That's all right,” said Bates; “he can climb up, or else we can let him down to the ground. We've got rope enough.”

“But suppose he loses his grip! Suppose—”

“That's all right,” said Bates, easily. “You leave that to Rodney. He's nimble—he began life as a steeple-jack. That's why I picked him.”

Rodney grinned. “I'll take my chances,” he said.