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Updated: May 26, 2025
Now, rising in agitation and repentance, my hand pressed by chance upon the flashlight's button. A beam of light poured across the darkness. What did I see, starting out of the black gloom? A spirit or a woman? Were those a woman's draperies or part of the night fog that showed mere swirl upon swirl of pale gray twisting in the path of light?
Scotty turned on his light. They found their shirts, then went back to survey what they had accomplished. One glance told them it wasn't much. They had cleaned out the passage up to the main slide, and that was all. They looked at each other in the flashlight's glow. "Got any earth-moving equipment in your pocket?" Rick asked wryly. "Not a dragline or a clamshell," Scotty said.
The ray shot out there was a cry from Jimmie Dale and like a man distraught he reeled to his feet and like a man distraught stared at the upturned face, ghastly white under the flashlight's glare. It was the Pippin. The wig of grizzled hair that he had unconsciously been holding dropped from Jimmie Dale's hand, and his hand went upward to his temple. Was he mad!
Tense, every faculty now on the alert, his head turned in a strained, attentive attitude, Jimmie Dale threw on the flashlight's tiny switch, took that intimate and thin metal case from his pocket, extracted a diamond-shaped, gray paper seal with the little tweezers, moistened the adhesive side, and stuck it in the centre of the white cardboard-box cover, then tore the edges of the cardboard down until the whole was just small enough to slip into his pocket.
Feeble was the flashlight's shrouded ray, too feeble to outline against the night the small dark body behind the shining brown bag. But that same ray caught and reflected back to the incredulous beholder two splashes of pale fire; glints from a pair of deep-set collie-eyes. As the bag disappeared, the eerie fire-points were gone. The thief all but dropped his flashlight.
'Ah' tense, low, that deep intake of the breath again. The inner door swung wide; the flashlight's ray leaped, dazzling white, into the interior, and, on the lower shelf, upon a flat, narrow, black tin box the cash-box. In an instant, Jimmie Dale had picked it up. It was not locked, and he lifted the cover.
Five minutes, perhaps a little more, went by and then the inner door was open, and the flashlight's ray was flooding the interior of the safe. A queer little sound, half of astonishment, half of disappointment, issued from Jimmie Dale's lips.
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