We were thoroughly familiar with the plan of the house. We ran directly into Mr. Van Tassel's study, and through it into his bedroom. Every detail of that picture is bitten on my memory—the luxurious old fashioned room; the heavy carved bedstead, covers neatly turned down, awaiting its occupant; Dickerman crying and wringing his hands together; Crider beating on a further door with a small, heavy chair. The legs of the chair had broken off. Crider's face was crimson with his efforts, and his dress coat had split right down the back.
As we entered, the door went in. There was a bathroom beyond. I saw immediately that the window was open and the screen raised. A narrow window, but wide enough to admit the body of a man.