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Updated: May 26, 2025
Yes, here it was; a door that opened on the rear of the library, evidently. She listened again. There was no sound save the silence, that seemed to grow loud now, and palpitate, and make great noises. And now, in spite of herself, her breath was coming in quick, hard little catches, and the flashlight's ray, that she sent around her, wavered and was not steady.
He rose from his chair, stepped across the room to the foot of the bed and like a man dazed, his flashlight playing on the boots, his automatic flung forward in his hand, he stood staring downward, following his flashlight's ray with his eyes. Was he mad! Was his brain now playing him some hideous trick!
"Only this tunnel can't go on much farther, or we'll be in the middle of the picnic Hey! Scotty, take a look!" Ahead in the tunnel was a box, and on the box was metal that reflected the flashlight's beam. In a second the boys stood over it. Rick's heart pounded rapidly. Here was the proof. Here was Missing Fact Number One. Here was verification of at least part of their speculation.
Recklessly he pressed the flashlight's button; and swung the muffled bar of light in every direction. In his other hand he leveled the pistol he had drawn. This time the shaded ray revealed to him not only his bag, but, vaguely, the Thing that held it.
The man swung sharply around, the prison pallor of his face a pitiful, deathlike colour in the flashlight's rays. "Who are you?" he asked thickly. "A friend perhaps if you can open that safe," Jimmie Dale answered. A puzzled look crept into Birdie's eyes. "W-what do you mean?" he stammered. "I mean that I want the proof that you are straight," Jimmie Dale said softly.
Hesitantly, following the flashlight's directing ray, covered by Jimmie Dale's automatic, Meighan, muttering, made his way across the room, and crouched down behind the back of a large lounging chair. Jimmie Dale leaned nonchalantly against the jamb of the door, the flashlight holding a bead upon the chair.
It was the library. Her eyes widened a little. At her left, over against the wall, the mangled door of a safe stood wide open, and the floor for a radius of yards around was littered with papers and documents. The flashlight's ray lifted, and she followed it with her eyes as it made the circuit of the walls.
The light sound of his body touching ground reached the man. Reasoning that the sweep of his own arm had somehow knocked the bag off the porch, he ventured off the edge of the veranda and flashed a swathed ray of his pocket light along the ground in search of it. The flashlight's lens was cleverly muffled; in a way to give forth but a single subdued finger of illumination.
A flashlight's ray shot out and, with a twisted smile propped now on his left elbow to give free play to his revolver arm, Jimmie Dale followed the white spot eagerly with his eyes.
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.
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