E reached the top. There, The Spider had informed him, there was a space four feet wide upon which a man dare not set foot unless he wished to alarm Bertram Blaine. John Warwick balanced himself against the balustrade, vaulted, and struck the floor of the upper hallway some distance beyond the danger zone.
There he stopped again, listening, his automatic in his right and his electric torch in his left again. Not the slightest sound reached his ears to indicate that Bertram Blaine had received a warning and was on guard.
He flashed the torch for an instant and looked down the long hall. Then, the torch extinguished, he went forward slowly, careful to touch neither wall, feeling his way, stopping every few feet to listen. He was remembering the instructions the supercriminal had given him. It was a ticklish business, this, working in a house whose owner had protected himself with numerous devices, especially when so much depended upon success.
Finally he came to a door almost at the end of the hall, and on the right side. Warwick flashed his torch again, in such manner that the light would not stream through the keyhole. There, outside the door, he waited for several minutes longer, until he was sure that his presence was not suspected.
He grasped the knob of the door and turned it softly, pressed the door inward. It was unlocked, as The Spider's information had said it was always. Warwick opened it an inch at a time, half fearing that a hinge would squeak, When it was opened enough he slipped into the room and began closing the door as slowly and as softly as he had opened it.
Now he stood against the wall listening intently. He never had been in this room before, and it was so dark that he could see nothing, yet, thanks to the information the supercriminal's people had acquired, he had a mental picture of the chamber.
From an alcove came the regular, deep breathing of a sleeper. Warwick stepped back to a corner and pressed the button of his torch. The light flashed around the room quickly, and Warwick noted where the articles of furniture were placed, and located the light switch. He moved silently toward the latter.
He returned the torch to his pocket now, grasped the automatic firmly, and reached for the light switch with his left hand. He turned it, and the room and alcove were flooded with light. At the same instant Warwick whirled to face the bed in the alcove, bringing his automatic up.
Bertram Blaine was sound asleep. His face was turned to the wall. He breathed deeply, regularly, after the manner of a healthy man. Warwick watched and waited.
Blaine was a man of about fifty-five, he judged, a man who always had known prosperity and had lived well. He was a giant in body, and was known to possess an active and keen mind.
Warwick sat down in a chair a dozen feet from the side of the bed, faced the sleeper, held his weapon in readiness—and waited. After a time the consciousness of the lights burning seemed to arouse Bertram Blaine. His breathing became irregular, he stirred, and presently he sat up and whirled around, an expression of amazement on his face, gasping when he saw the masked man sitting in the middle of the room.
“Hands up!” Warwick ordered in a hoarse voice. “Don't try any of your tricks on me!”
Blaine's hands went above his head as he blinked sleepily at John Warwick. His first astonishment at an end, his eyes narrowed, the flush died from his face, and Warwick knew that he had to deal with a dangerous man.
“Lower one hand, throw off the covers. Then sit on the edge of the bed!” Warwick commanded.
Blaine obeyed him, never taking his eyes off the two slits in Warwick's mask, through which his eyes glittered. He tossed the covers aside, swung around so that his feet were on the floor, and put his hands above his head again,
Warwick got up and moved toward the wall.
“Into that chair!” he ordered.
Bertram Blaine left the bed and went to the chair Warwick had vacated, and sat down.
“Lower your hands and put them in your lap,” Warwick said. “That is much better. I don't think you'll be very dangerous there.”
Warwick walked around him and sat down on the bed himself, watching Blaine closely. And now Bertram Blaine spoke for the first time since being aroused, spoke in a deep, rich voice that held nothing of fear in its tone.
“What's the meaning of this?” he demanded.
“What do you think?” Warwick asked. He was speaking in disguised tones.
“Robbery, I suppose,” Blaine said. “Well, you can't get away with it! You're in the house—but you're not out yet!”
“Don't let that worry you,” said Warwick. “I got in without setting off any of your silly alarms, didn't I?”