“Take plenty of time. Keep cool. Don’t make a sound.”
—The Advice of Big Slim.
FOR a moment Kenyon literally held his breath. There was no movement, though his ears were strained to catch any sound.
“Whoever it is,” he thought, “they are standing, listening, the same as I am.”
With the greatest possible caution he drew back a step; the soft felt creepers prevented any noise and he exercised the greatest care that there should be no rustling of his clothing. He had retreated three or four steps when he touched the opposite wall; and as he stood listening he caught the creaking of the door once more, as though the unknown had opened it wider. Then there came a faint fall of footsteps, gentle and guarded; and through the thick darkness came the trembling whisper:
“Who’s there?”
Kenyon made no sound. There was a silence; then he heard a deep, long-drawn sigh—the sigh of one who has been waiting and listening. Then the whisper came once more—a woman’s voice.
“I’m sure I saw a light—just for an instant.”
Then something passed Kenyon. It was within a foot of him as it went by; but he could not detect even its lineaments, so impenetrable was the darkness. The footsteps were slow, cautious, and soft. His skin prickled for a moment as the nervous dread of the unknown was communicated to himself. Then the sounds died away at the other end of the hall.
“It is Anna!” Kenyon told himself this positively. “And when I suspected a rival enterprise I was correct.”
He slipped quietly within the room from which the unseen woman had just emerged. The curtains had been tightly drawn and the apartment was as inky as the hall. He feared to flash the torch, thinking that it might throw a reflection through the doorway.
“It might not be the office after all,” thought Kenyon. “If it is not I’ll have gotten myself into a devil of a mess.”
In taking the next step his hand touched a hard, polished surface; moving farther it came upon a clutter of papers, an ink-stand, pen-rack and other clerical requisites.
“A desk,” muttered the adventurer. “And a good sized, flat-top desk, at that. This is the apartment I’m after.”
Suddenly from the doorway came a sharp, crackling sound. Instantly Kenyon sank down behind the desk. Someone had scratched a match, but it had missed fire. At the second attempt it flared redly, however; Kenyon could not see who held it, for he feared to raise his head above the level of the desk. Then the nature of the flame changed and it grew steadier; footsteps sounded upon the thickly carpeted floor. They were gentle footsteps.
“Anna once more!” thought Kenyon.
He changed his position soundlessly, his ears telling upon what side of the desk the girl was about to pass. His situation was a most fortunate one. He was between the desk and the wall farthest from the door. The entire room was before him. Cautiously he lifted his head, as he felt sure, judging from the direction in which she was going, that she would not see him.
Over the flat top of the desk he caught sight of the cloaked figure of a girl. Her back was turned toward him, and a hood was drawn over her head. And she was bending over the combination lock of a gleaming safe of formidable appearance.
She had lighted a candle and this she now stood upon the top while she knelt before the safe. Round and round she turned the knob, pausing now and then to think. But each effort was without result; and finally she leaned her head forward upon her hands.
“Crying,” thought Kenyon. “Well, my dear Anna, that will not do any good. And if you have no better trick to play than trying to guess the combination, you might just as well go back to your little white bed.”
For a moment the girl remained in this position; then she arose and moved toward the door. As she reached it, she blew the candle out, and once more blackness hung over the office.
Kenyon remained as he was for some time. When he felt assured that the girl had gone for good, he arose, crossed the room and softly closed the door. Again the tiny torch flashed. Then he found the switch and turned on the lights. The key was fortunately in the door and this he turned, leaving it in the lock to fill up the hole.
The whole appearance of Kenyon had changed; his movements were quick and pantherish, and not one of them was wasted; his eyes gleamed through the holes of his mask, as he swept the apartment. Then he laughed.
“How lucky! Farbush has been thoughtful enough to put in running water. Oh, after all, there is nothing like modern plumbing.”
From his pocket he produced a small generator of shining brass; this he placed upon a table. Then he drew out several sections of a tube of the same metal, which he joined snugly together. From a breast pocket he took a rubber bag partly filled with calcium carbide, which he poured into the generator.
This having been done, he threw off his overcoat and approached the safe.
“Newest pattern, as far as my information goes,” he said calmly. “But it’s all the same to the acetylene flame.”
He tried the knob in order to make sure that the safe was locked. He had once heard of the absurd oversight of a cracksman who had spent hours drilling into a safe that was open, and had no desire to repeat the performance.
“But this one is tight enough,” he declared.
He took a rug from the floor, folded it neatly, and placed it before the safe door. Then he carried the generator to a small washstand at one side of the office, and ran a quantity of water into it. Almost instantly the choking flames of the acetylene gas assailed his nostrils.
“Whew!” he ejaculated, turning his head away; “if there is a more awful stench in the world than this, I’ve never encountered it.”
Quickly he ignited the evil-smelling gas, and screwed the blowpipe to the generator. Then he knelt upon the rug, placed the pipe to his lips and blew through it steadily. A darting, intense flame leaped forth, like a finger of light; this Kenyon directed toward a point just above the combination knob. The varnish disappeared like magic, and the steel of the safe melted like solder before the fierce point of flame.
“It works well,” said Kenyon, pausing in his blowing to inspect critically the small hole burned through the massive door. “At this rate I won’t be long on the job.”
Once more he placed his lips to the blowpipe, and once more the needle of light bored its way into the steel. Larger and larger grew the hole in the safe; and at last Kenyon found it wide enough to insert his hand and arm. Placing the generator upon the floor he reached in and began manipulating the tumblers of the lock. Then he threw the door wide, and sat back upon his heels with an exclamation of satisfaction.
“The inner door is easy enough,” he said, as he extinguished the generator. “Big Slim’s master-key should have no trouble in opening it—but what’s this?” He bent forward. “Why, it’s the key itself, ready to my hand.”
He inserted the big key, turned it, and the inner door opened. Before him were a great number of pigeon-holes and small drawers, all filled with documents of various hues and sizes.
The adventurer gazed at these, appalled.
“And I don’t know what I’m looking for!” he thought. “This really promises to be a worse job than opening the safe.”
However, he resolutely set to work examining the contents. By good fortune, all the packets were labelled plainly, so that he was not forced to open any.
“It’s a saving of time and my feelings,” thought the cracksman. “I have no desire to investigate Mr. Farbush’s affairs any farther than they concern me.”
Paper after paper, packet after packet, passed through his hands, but still no sign of anything that had the slightest interest to him.
“And yet, how can I be sure of that?” he asked himself. “I never felt so helpless and incompetent to deal with a situation in my life. This,” and he turned a heavy envelope over in his hands, “might be exactly the thing I’m searching for; but how am I to know one way or the other?”
The envelope was large, made of stout manila paper and sealed with two huge splotches of black wax. Across the face of it was written in a large, running hand:
ESTATE OF STEPHEN AUSTIN.
“This might be it,” thought Kenyon; and he shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “And when I come to think of it, somehow, it seems to me that this name is familiar to me. It is just as though—by George, yes! It is just as though I had heard it on the night of my adventure in Selden’s Square.”
He looked at the envelope, swift eagerness in his eyes.
“I’ll chance it,” he muttered. He was about to tear it open when suddenly a small white hand darted over his shoulder and snatched it from his grasp. He turned with a startled exclamation and caught a glimpse of a dark, cloaked figure; but at the same instant the lights were switched off. As he sprang up, he heard the door thrown open, and heedless of the darkness he darted toward it. Soft feet were running on the stairs.
Kenyon paused and leaned against the door frame.
“Gone,” said he, “and in another moment she’ll probably have the house in an uproar.”
The words had no sooner left his lips than there came a muffled scream from the hall below. Kenyon leaped to the stair rail and bent over, listening. Then the lights below were switched on, flooding the stairway and hall; to Kenyon’s amazement he saw Griscom Forrester and Anna standing pale-faced and startled at the foot of the stairs; while confronting them with blazing eyes and a revolver in his hand was Farbush.