Undoubtedly mother lode. Enormously rich. Put
the screws on at once. THURL."
Under the mask, Jimmie Dale's lips twitched.
"I think, Markel, you miserable hound," said he softly, "that God will
forgive me for depriving you of a share of the profits. Two hundred and
ten thousand, I think it was, you said the sparklers cost." A curious
little sound came from Jimmie Dale's lips--like a chuckle.
Jimmie Dale tossed the telegram back on the desk, moved on behind the
desk, opened the door of the closet that had been metamorphosed into
a vault--and the white light travelled slowly, searchingly, critically
over the shining black-enamelled steel, the nickelled knobs, and dials
of a safe that confronted him.
Jimmie Dale nodded at it--familiarly, grimly.
"It's number one-four-three-two-one, all right," he murmured. "And one
of the best we ever made. Pretty tough. But I've done it before. Say,
half an hour of gentle persuasion. It would be too bad to crack it with
'soup'--besides, that's crude--Carruthers would never forgive the Gray
Seal for that!"
The light went out--blackness fell. Jimmie Dale's slim, sensitive
fingers closed on the dial's knob, his head touched the steel front of
the safe as he pressed his ear against it for the tumblers' fall.
And then silence. It seemed to grow heavier, that silence, with
each second--to palpitate through the quiet house--to grow pregnant,
premonitory of dread, of fear--it seemed to throb in long undulations,
and the stillness grew LOUD.
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