Eleven o'clock.

It was getting late--TOO late! Stangeist was likely to be back at any moment.

The flashlight, in Jimmie Dale's hand now, circled the room with its little round white ray, lingering an instant in a queer, inquisitive sort of way here and there on this object and that--and went out.

Jimmie Dale nodded--the flat desk in the centre of the floor, the safe in the corner by the rear wall, the position of everything in the room, even to the chairs, was photographed on his mind.
He stepped from the portieres to the safe, and the flashlight played again--this time reflecting back from the glistening nickelled knobs.
Jimmie Dale's lips tightened.

It was a small safe, almost ludicrously small; but to such height as the art of safe design had been carried, that design was embodied in the one before him.
"Type K-four-two-eight-Colby," muttered Jimmie Dale.