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"It's not the servants, they wouldn't dare to " Stangeist's words ended in a gulp. He was staring into the muzzle of a heavy-calibered revolver that Clarie Deane had jerked up from under the desk. "You sit down, or I'll blow your block off!" said Clarie Deane, with a sudden leer. It happened then almost before Jimmie Dale could grasp the details; before even Clarie Deane himself could interfere.
It might possibly be that, even if he were successful in what was before him to-night, the authors of the Roessle murder would never be known. That confession of Stangeist's was written prior to what had happened that afternoon, and there would be no mention, naturally, of Roessle.
This was Stangeist's house he could just make out the building as it loomed up a shadowy, irregular shape, perhaps two hundred yards back from the fence. The house was quite dark, not a light showed in any window.
The door burst open, two men rushed in and one, with a bound, flung himself at Stangeist. The man's hand, grasping a clubbed revolver, rose in the air, descended on Stangeist's head and Stangeist went down in a limp heap, crashed into the chair, and slid from the chair with a thud to the floor. There was an oath from Clarie Deane.
The window it was the window of Stangeist's private sanctum, according to the plan in her letter was securely locked. Jimmie Dale's hands went into his pocket and the black silk mask was slipped over his face. He listened intently then a little steel instrument began to gnaw like a rat. A minute passed two of them. Again Jimmie Dale listened.
The blood was running down Stangeist's face. He wiped it away from his eyes. "It's not here," he said innocently. "It's in my box in the safety-deposit vaults." "Aw," blurted out Australian Ike, pushing suddenly forward, "youse can't work dat crawl on " "Cut it out, Ike!" snapped Clarie Dane. "I'm runnin' this! So it's in the vaults, eh?" He shoved his face toward Stangeist's.
Fear and avarice had both probably played their part; fear of the man who would with such consummate nerve fling his life into the balance to turn the tables upon them, while he jeered at them; avarice that prompted them to get what they could out of Stangeist's brains and leadership, and to be satisfied with what they COULD get since they could get no more! Satisfied? Jimmie Dale shook his head.
His hands were on his knees, hidden by the desk. "There's more'n twenty there," he said sullenly and drew a match across the under edge of the desk with a long, crackling noise. Stangeist's face lost its suavity, a snarl curled his lips; but, about to reply, he sprang suddenly to his feet instead, his head turned sharply toward the door. "What's that!" he said hoarsely.
The key was rattling in the front door now they were in the hall he could hear Stangeist's voice there came a dull glow from the hallway, following the click of an electric-light switch. The outer door of the safe swung shut, the bolts slid into place, the dial whirled under Jimmie Dale's fingers. It was only a step to the portieres, the open window and escape.
Jimmie Dale replaced the flashlight in his pocket, took out the thin, metal case, opened it, and with the tiny pair of tweezers that likewise nestled there, lifted out one of the gray, diamond-shaped paper seals. There was no question but that, once under arrest, Stangeist's effects would be immediately and thoroughly searched by the authorities! Jimmie Dale's smile from quizzical became ironic.
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