"
There was a short, raucous guffaw from The Mope.
Stangeist turned a drawn face toward the man, stared at him, and
stared in a miserable way at the other two in turn. He licked his lips
again--none was in a better position than himself to know that there
would be neither scruples nor hesitancy to interfere with carrying out
the threat.
"Suppose," he said, trying to keep his voice steady, "suppose I open the
safe--what then--afterward?"
"We ain't got the safe open yet," countered Clarie Deane
uncompromisingly. "An' we ain't got no more time ter fool over it,
either. You get a move on before I counts five, or The Mope an' Ike ties
you up! One--"
Stangeist staggered to his feet, wiped the blood out of his eyes for the
second time, and, with lips working, went unsteadily across the room to
the safe.
He knelt before it, and began to manipulate the dial; while the others
crowded around behind him. The Mope was fingering his revolver again
club fashion. Australian Ike's elbow just grazed the portieres, and
Jimmie Dale flattened himself against the window, holding his breath--a
smile on his lips that was mirthless, deadly, cold. The end was not far
off now; and then--WHAT?
Stangeist had the outer door of the safe open now--and now the inner
door swung back. He reached in his hand to the pigeonhole, drew out the
envelope--and with a sudden, wild cry, reeled to his feet.
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