"A nasty little beggar--and it's eleven o'clock now! I'd use 'soup' for once, if it weren't that it would put Stangeist wise, and give him a chance to make his get-away before the district attorney got the nippers on the four of them." The light went out.

Jimmie Dale dropped to his knees; and, while his left hand passed swiftly, tentatively over dials and handle, he rubbed the fingers of his right hand rapidly to and fro over the carpet.
Wonderful finger tips were those of Jimmie Dale, sensitive to an abnormal degree; and now, tingling with the friction, the nerves throbbing at the skin surface, they closed in a light, delicate touch upon the knob of the dial--and Jimmie Dale's ear pressed close against the face of the safe.
Time passed.

The silence grew heavy--seemed to palpitate through the room.

Then a deep breath, half like a sigh, half like a fluttering sob as of a strong man taxed to the uttermost of his endurance, came from Jimmie Dale, and his left hand swept away the sweat beads that had spurted to his forehead.
"Eight--thirteen--twenty-two," whispered Jimmie Dale.
There was a click, a low metallic thud as the bolts slid back, and the door swung open.
And now the flashlight again, searching the mechanism of the inner door--then darkness once more.
Five minutes, ten minutes went by.

The clock struck again--and the single stroke seemed to boom out through the house in a weird, raucous, threatening note, and seemed to linger, throbbing in the air.
The inner door was open--the flashlight's ray was flooding a nest of pigeonholes and little drawers.