There was a
flat-topped desk here, a swivel chair, an armchair, a rather good
drawing or two on the walls, and a soft yielding carpet underfoot.
Thorold was far too clever to overdo anything--it was simply
businesslike, with an air of modest success about it.
Jimmie Dale appropriated the swivel chair behind the desk. Half an hour
from the time he had left the tenement! He should not have long to wait,
for he had used up nearly, if not quite, all of that time already, and
the thief would certainly have every incentive to be punctual. He laid
his flashlight, turned on, upon the desk, and, taking his automatic from
his pocket, examined it. There were still two cartridges remaining in
the magazine. He slipped the weapon into the side pocket of his coat,
and began to sort over the papers and letters he had taken from Thorold.
He opened one--a letter--glanced at its contents--and nodded. It was the
one to which the Tocsin had referred. He returned the others to his
pocket, began to read the one in his hand and suddenly, leaning forward,
snapped out his light. _Was that a step coming up the stairs?_
He listened now intently. Yes, it was coming nearer.
Pages:
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99