You don’t mind his door being locked. You know your business; you have three ways of opening it. You go out and down the hall to a small room where the Chinese bed maker keeps his brooms, buckets, mops, and other things, and get a small parcel of delicate instruments you keep planted there. You go back to your room and wait till, say, four o’clock, when everything is dead and all the guests are in and abed. Then you go around into the fat man’s hall, put out the light, and go to work on his door.

You go about the opening of his door confidently, and with a sure touch. You know he is sleeping, you can hear his gusty breathing from where you stand outside. Now you have it unlocked, you open it, step in, and close it. The chair is still in place by the window. Your ear follows his regular breathing. You don’t creep around this room as you did in the gambler’s. You walk over to the chair, step upon it lightly, put one hand up against the roller, and pull the curtain down with the other. It makes a little noise. Your back is to the sleeper, but your ear tells you he is safe. When the curtain is about halfway down, your fingers touch the roll of bills, another little pull and you have it.