true," said Steener in a tense monotone, as though speaking to himself. "It's true. I—I was afraid there——"
"Let's go!" Stranway cut in sharply, a sudden anxiety sweeping over him to get this part of the night's business through and done with. The other impressed him with little confidence as a companion to depend upon in a pinch or a tight hole where nerve and coolness were the first requisites. As a matter of fact, the man appeared to be badly frightened already.
"Yes; let's go!" echoed Steener uneasily. "It's just around the corner. Let's go, and—and get the business over."
He started forward, and Stranway fell into step beside him. A moment later they had entered a large building; and while Steener fumbled with a key at the door of a suite of ground-floor offices at the left of the entrance, Stranway, with a quick glance, appraised his surroundings. A single incandescent lighted up a short corridor dimly, and disclosed a rotunda beyond with its semi-circular rows of metal elevator doors—but that was all. Both corridor and rotunda were empty.
Steener opened the door softly; and, as Stranway, following the other, stepped over the threshold, he could just faintly decipher a part of the firm's name, "—— K. Poindexter," upon the frosted-glass panels. Steener closed the door noiselessly behind them, and, with a muttered caution to keep close and not stumble over anything, led the way forward.
It was very dark. Stranway could scarcely make out the form of his guide in front of him. Numerous objects, desks presumably, discernible only by a deeper shade of black than the surroundings, were on every hand. They were evidently in the large general office of the firm.
Presently Stranway heard Steener open another door. And then he felt Steener's hand pluck at his arm in an agitated way.
"We're here." Steener's voice was unsteady. "This is Mr. Poindexter's private office. We're—we're here."
"Yes; all right!" snapped Stranway. His environment, the purpose that had brought him here, and most of all Steener's panicky state of nerves, had begun to have a creepy, uncomfortable effect upon him. "Yes; all right!" he snapped again. "Don't lose your grip! Where's the stock and the proxy?"
"In the safe—in Mr. Poindexter's private safe." Steener was chattering now. "Here, you take this!" He thrust an electric flashlight into Stranway's hand. "I—I brought it because we wouldn't dare turn on a light which might show from the outside. Here, come this way." He caught Stranway's arm again and pulled him across the room. "Now—now switch it on."
A round white ray of light stole from between Stranway's fingers, and played upon the nickelled knob and dial of a small safe. Steener got down on his knees and began to work at the combination; but again and again, as he turned the knob, his hand, trembling violently, kept over-running the numbers. The minutes passed, two, three, four of them—abortively—and with each one the tension grew.
Stranway could hear his own heart-beats now. It was getting him, this black shape kneeling there, fingers knocking agitatedly against the rim of the dial. It seemed to introduce something sinister into the silence itself.
Steener brushed his hand across his forehead with a helpless gesture.
"I—I can't get it," he said thickly. "You—you try. I'll give you the combination."
Impatient, contemptuous of the other, but angry also at his own sense of uneasiness, Stranway in turn dropped to his knees before the safe as Steener edged away to make room for him. And then, still holding the flashlight himself, the fingers of Stranway's right hand closed on the knob.
"Go on!" he breathed.
"Yes, give me a chance," said Steener heavily. "Now, one turn to the left, then to forty-five."
"One left—forty-five." The dial spun under Stranway's quick, sure fingers. "Go on."
"Two to the right, then eleven." Steener was mopping at his brow with his hand.
Again the dial spun.
"Two right—eleven," repeated Stranway quickly. "Go on, man—go on!"
"One turn to the—my God, listen!" Steener grasped suddenly, frenziedly, at Stranway's arm. "Put out the light! Put out the light!" he choked. "Listen!"
In an instant the light was out, and Stranway was on his feet. He felt the blood ebb from his face. Tense, strained and rigid, he stood for a moment listening. Silence—-heavy, throbbing, palpitating! There was nothing else.
A gasp came from Steener—like a moan of relief.
"It's nothing—thank God, it's nothing! I—I thought I heard something. I—I ain't used to this sort of thing."
"I'm not a professional safe-tapper myself!" Stranway flung out viciously. "For heaven's sake, keep your nerve!" He dropped to his knees again, and once more the white beam of light played on the dial. "Two right—eleven," he prompted sharply. "What's next?"
"One turn to the left, then to thirty-six, and throw to the lock," directed Steener huskily.
"Yes," said Stranway tersely.
There was a slight metallic thud as the handle operated the bolts, then the heavy door swung silently back, and the flashlight in Stranway's hand bored into the interior of the safe.
Steener bent forward quickly, opened a drawer, extracted two folded papers, and stepped back.
"I've got them," he panted. "I've got them. Shut the safe again, and lock it."
Stranway closed the door, shot the bolts into place with a twist of the handle, gave a twirl to the dial, and stood up.
"The money!" muttered Steener hungrily. "Give me the money now."
"Let me see the documents," Stranway countered bluntly.
"Yes, yes; here, here—come here to the desk," said Steener eagerly.
The light in Stranway's hand followed the other's movements, and rested on a massive, flat-topped rosewood desk. Steener laid the papers upon it. Stranway's steps were noiseless, deadened by the thick rug that covered the floor, as he stepped to the desk, picked up the papers and began to examine them.
The first was a certificate for twenty-five shares of the stock of the West County Tool and Machine Company made out to one Frederick H. Longley. He turned it over quickly. The stereotyped form of transfer on the back was signed by Longley and duly witnessed—but the space for the transferee's name was left blank. The other was a proxy for the stock made out in like form. Both were in accordance with Charlebois' instructions. He folded the documents and slipped them into his pocket.
"The money! The money!" reiterated Steener wildly, holding out his hand. "The money!"
Stranway, without a word, tossed the envelope containing the banknotes upon the desk.
Steener clutched at it fiercely, pulled out the notes and began to count them, whispering eagerly to himself, his fingers shaking.
Grim-faced, Stranway held the light and watched him. A bill fluttered to the floor from the fumbling hands. Stranway stooped, picked it up, and thrust it again into Steener's fingers; then he leaned forward suddenly and caught the other's hand.
Steener jumped back nervously, as though he had
