Not a sound, save the quick, dull rasp of the ratchet--like the distant gnawing of a mouse! Jimmie Dale worked fast--another hole went through the face of the old-fashioned safe--and then suddenly he straightened up to listen, every faculty tense, alert, and strained, his body thrown a little forward.

WHAT WAS THAT! From the alleyway leading from the street without, through which he himself had come, sounded the stealthy crunch of feet.

Motionless in the utter darkness, Jimmie Dale listened--there was a scraping noise in the rear--someone was climbing the fence that he had climbed! In an instant the tools in Jimmie Dale's hands disappeared into their respective pockets beneath his vest--and the sensitive fingers shot to the dial on the safe.
"Too bad," muttered Jimmie Dale plaintively to himself.

"I could have made such an artistic job of it--I swear I could have cut Carruthers' profile in the hole in less than no time--to open it like this is really taking the poor old thing at a disadvantage." He was on his knees now, one ear close to the dial, listening as the tumblers fell, while the delicate fingers spun the knob unerringly--the other ear strained toward the rear of the premises.
Came a footstep--a ray of light--a stumble--nearer--the newcomer was inside the place now, and must have found out that the back door had been tampered with.

Nearer came the steps--still nearer--and then the safe door swung open under Jimmie Dale's hand, and Jimmie Dale, that he might not be caught like a rat in a trap, darted from the office--but he had delayed a little too long.
From around the cluttered piles of junk and miscellany swept the light--full on Jimmie Dale.